Postcolonial Lit, Vital to Our Modern Age

Homi Bhabha, theorist, Postcolonial Studies

Monday

I’m using today’s post to sort through some of the material in a postcolonial course I’m teaching at the University of Ljubljana. The course aims to introduce the students to works by authors from the former British colonies, along with various theories that help unlock them.

Amongst the works are Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and Chimamanda Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus (Nigeria); Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children and Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things (India); Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony (although the colonizer in this case is the United States); and either Black Leopard, Red Wolf or  A Brief History of Seven Killings (Jamaica’s Marlon James). We will also be looking at authors with hybrid nationalities, such as Anglo-Jamaican Zadie Smith (Playtime); Anglo-Pakistani Hanif Kureishi (The Buddha of Suburbia); Indian-Canadian Rohinton Mistry; Indian American Kiran Desai (The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny); and Scottish-Sudanese Leila Aboulela (Elsewhere Home). 

As I teach the course, I wish I could revise my postcolonialism chapter in Better Living through Literature. Focused as it is on Frantz Fanon, it omits any mention of Edward Said or Homi Bhabha, who are critical to understanding the dynamics at play.

It’s not that Fanon doesn’t deserve a chapter. Regarded as the father of Postcolonial Studies, Fanon showed how literature helped the colonizers justify conquest, with them more or less saying, “We’re superior because we have Shakespeare/ Racine/ Goethe.” Literature couldn’t carry out the conquest all on its own, of course. One needs guns for that. But hard power requires soft power to ensure acceptance of its rule.

To fight back, Fanon called upon native authors to create new national literatures, what he called “literature of combat.” Novels especially would prove invaluable allies to resistance movements. 

It’s important to note that works of combat need not be overtly political to accomplish such aims. As Achebe wrote about his own groundbreaking novels,

This is my answer to those who say that a writer should be writing about contemporary issues–about politics in 1964, about city life, about the last coup d’etat. Of course, these are legitimate themes for the writer but as far as I am concerned the fundamental theme must first be disposed of. This theme–put quite simply–is that African peoples did not hear of culture for the first time from Europeans, that their societies were not mindless but frequently had a philosophy of great depth and value and beauty, that they had poetry and, above all, they had dignity. It is this dignity that many African peoples all but lost in the colonial period, and it is this dignity that they must now regain. The worst thing that can happen to any people is the loss of their dignity and self-respect. The writer’s duty is to help them regain it by showing them in human terms what happened to them, what they lost. 

Then, as he does so often in Things Fall Apart, Achebe turns to his folk origins:

There is a saying in Ibo that a man who can’t tell where the rain began to beat him cannot know where he dried his body. The writer can tell the people where the rain began to beat them. After all the novelist’s duty is not to beat this morning’s headline in topicality, it is to explore in depth the human condition. In Africa he cannot perform this task unless he has a proper sense of history.

Following up on Fanon’s cultural observations almost two decades later, Said pointed out how literary caricatures of “the Orient” helped European powers rationalize their colonial takeovers. Because “Orientals” were depicted as irrational, depraved, fallen, childlike, and altogether “different” (my class examined Rider Haggard’s She, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and Rudyard Kipling’s “The White Man’s Burden”), Europeans could perceive themselves as rational, virtuous, mature,  and “normal.” As Marlow in Heart of Darkness notes, colonialism needed a noble idea to justify smash and grab exploitation, and various authors helped provide it with that idea.

While Fanon and Said were important in setting the groundwork for colonial studies, Indian scholar Homi Bhabha helps us understand what has emerged since the former colonies have broken free. Although cultures may seem distinct, they are never set in stone but rather continually evolve as they interact. (Culture is like clay and is continually being “enunciated,” Bhabha writes.) This was true in the time of colonization and it’s even more true now.

For instance, the sense of what it means to be British has been changing as the empire has written back (to borrow Rushdie’s useful phrase). Increasingly, traditional Brits have found themselves framed by narratives originating elsewhere. Nor has the experience been entirely virtual as West Indians, South Asians, and Sub-Saharan Africans move to the island.

In their interactions, no one remains the same. This new “hybridity” (Bhabha’s term) is being captured by extraordinary new works of literature. Bhabha calls what emerges “the Third Space,” which is the in-between space where culture and identity are negotiated.

In some ways, the class I am teaching functions as a third space. Of the eight students, two are Slovenian, two Macedonian, two Serbian, one Belgian, and one Austrian (these last two from the European Union’s Erasmus exchange program). In the fiction they have chosen to write about, we see two generational takes on Nigerian independence (Achebe and Adichie); Aboulela, Kureishi, Andrea Levy, and Ishiguro wrestling with their Scottish-Soudanese, Anglo-Pakistani, Anglo-Jamaican, and Anglo-Japanese identities respectively; and Afrikaner Coetzee exploring white identity in post-apartheid South African. Some of my students have their own hybrid identities, which makes the works particularly relevant.

Two of Bhabha’s concepts that are proving particularly useful are mimicry and ambivalence. The colonizers expect the colonized to become western—to mimic white behavior—only to find it disturbing when they do. They may feel ambivalent that the differences are not as great as they thought (as Marlow does in Heart of Darkness) or over the fact that they are simultaneously exploitative and nurturing (or at least see themselves as nurturing).

For their part, colonized or previously colonized subjects may mimic the colonizers for a number of reasons, whether to survive, to mock, or to join. Some really want to leave behind old identities. 

I’ve written about how, in the United States, immigrants sometimes want to “become white,” thereby joining the upper echelon of America’s (unofficial) racial caste system. That’s one way of understanding “Latinos for Trump” and “Muslims for Trump.” Many who voted for DJT in 2024, however, swung back heavily to the Democrats in 2026 when they discovered that white nationalists were rejecting their attempts to fit in. To cite one egregious example, a Texas candidate posted a photo of Indian-American students, some wearing cowboy hats, celebrating a University of Texas football comeback, along with the observation,

Like bodycams exposed criminals, social media is exposing how many Americans have been displaced by foreigners. It’s everywhere and far worse than any of us could imagine.

In a follow-up post he wrote, 

I heard UT graduation this year looked like this. I didn’t believe it. The problem is now obviously far worse than anyone imagined.

In short, the politician was horrified by what he saw as mimicry, even though the students thought they were just like every other student. Thanks in part to Latino votes, he was soundly trounced in the election.

Debates over who is authentic and who is alien cause conflict everywhere, often stirred up by autocratic demagogues tapping into racial and ethnic resentment. Postcolonial literature provides an invaluable service by capturing individuals in their full complexity while the forces of history swirl around them. My students, meanwhile, are not only fulfilling an academic assignment but figuring out how to find their way in an increasingly confusing global community.

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Divine Wisdom and Dante’s Beatrice

Dante Gabriel Rossetti: Beata Beatrix, ca 1864-70.

Sunday

Episcopal churches can choose to read today the gorgeous depiction of Wisdom from The Book of Wisdom (or Book of Solomon). Personified as a woman, the figure is merged with Beatrice in Dante’s Divine Comedy, conducting him from Purgatorio to Paradiso. Here’s the passage:

Wisdom is radiant and unfading,
and she is easily discerned by those who love her,
and is found by those who seek her.
She hastens to make herself known to those who desire her.
One who rises early to seek her will have no difficulty,
for she will be found sitting at the gate.
To fix one’s thought on her is perfect understanding,
and one who is vigilant on her account will soon be free from care,
because she goes about seeking those worthy of her,
and she graciously appears to them in their paths,
and meets them in every thought. (Wisdom 6:12–16)

For an extended account of how a young woman that Dante met only once became his muse, I recommend Darrell Falconburg’s essay at Voegelin View Apparently the poet’s brief encounter with the young woman, who died at 24, pushed him so study philosophy. As he explains,

I quickly determined that Philosophy, who was the lady of these authors, sciences, and books, was a great thing. I imagined her fashioned as a gentle lady, and I could not imagine her in any attitude except one of compassion, so that the part of my mind that perceives truth gazed on her so willingly that I could barely turn away from her. I began to go where she was truly revealed, namely to the schools of the religious orders and to the disputations held by the philosophers, so that in a short period of time, perhaps some thirty months, I began to feel her sweetness so much that the love of her dispelled and destroyed every other thought.

In Divine Comedy it is Beatrice, at the behest of the Virgin Mary, who instructs Virgil to seek out Dante and lead him through Inferno and Purgatorio. As a pre-Christian, Virgil can’t take Dante further so Beatrice leads Dante into and through the various levels of Paradise. Dante first encounters her in the Garden of Eden atop Purgatorio:

With eyes upon the everlasting wheels
    Stood Beatrice all intent, and I, on her
    Fixing my vision from above removed,

Such at her aspect inwardly became
    As Glaucus, tasting of the herb that made him
    Peer of the other gods beneath the sea.

To represent transhumanise in words
    Impossible were…

Through those eyes, he is able to ascend into Paradiso:

And as an arrow that upon the mark
    Strikes ere the bowstring quiet hath become,
    So did we speed into the second realm.

My Lady there so joyful I beheld,
    As into the brightness of that heaven she entered,
    More luminous thereat the planet grew;

And if the star itself was changed and smiled,
    What became I, who by my nature am
    Exceeding mutable in every guise!

As, in a fish-pond which is pure and tranquil,
    The fishes draw to that which from without
    Comes in such fashion that their food they deem it;

So I beheld more than a thousand splendors
    Drawing towards us, and in each was heard:
    “Lo, this is she who shall increase our love.”

Dante is not yet at the stage where he can look directly at Paradise, requiring Beatrice’s mediation. With his eyes focused on her, his affection “from every other longing was released”:

And the Lady who to God was leading me
    Said: “Change thy thought; consider that I am
    Near unto Him who every wrong disburdens.”

Unto the loving accents of my comfort
    I turned me round, and then what love I saw
    Within those holy eyes I here relinquish;

Not only that my language I distrust,
    But that my mind cannot return so far
    Above itself, unless another guide it.

Thus much upon that point can I repeat,
    That, her again beholding, my affection
    From every other longing was released.

While the eternal pleasure, which direct
    Rayed upon Beatrice, from her fair face
    Contented me with its reflected aspect,

Conquering me with the radiance of a smile,
    She said to me, “Turn thee about and listen;
    Not in mine eyes alone is Paradise.”

Because, through Beatrice, he finally cleanses his heart—the process he has been undergoing ever since being lost in a dark wood—he is finally able to gaze upon the Virgin Mary and the Holy Trinity.

Or as today’s reading puts it:

Wisdom is radiant and unfading,
and she is easily discerned by those who love her,
and is found by those who seek her.

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A Teenager Pinned and Wriggling on the Wall

Patrick Heron, T.S. Eliot

Friday Memories of Books That Shook My World

I recall exactly where I was when I first encountered T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” At Sewanee Military Academy we sat for lunch at tables with an officer and a faculty member. I was a first-year student, still shocked by the drills and how we sat at attention before we were allowed to eat. Suddenly, however, I overheard the officer and the teacher, who taught senior English, talking excitedly about a poem.

I can’t remember if they were exchanging the line about the evening being spread out “like a patient etherized upon a table” or the line about the women who “come and go,/ Talking of Michelangelo.” In any event, I sensed I was in the presence of elegance and sophistication. I wanted to be part of a community that had such discussions.

Why would I, at 14, be captivated by a poem about someone undergoing a midlife crisis? After all, much in the poem eluded me. For instance,

–What’s up with restless nights in one-night cheap hotels (I know now)?
–What’s the big thing he wants to get off his chest and why does it somehow involve lonely men in shirt-sleeves?
–What’s all this talk about peaches, men’s hair styles, and trousers (rolled, flannel)?

I also didn’t relate to the high society in which Prufrock moves. The women in my life didn’t wear floor-length gowns, stretch out languorously on couches, and have arms that were braceleted and white and bare (but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!).

I did know, however, what it was like to lie etherized upon a table (when I had my tonsils out) and so picked up the grogginess he is observing.

I knew about second guessing oneself constantly.

While I knew Eliot is overstating things when he asks, “Do I dare disturb the universe,” in one’s teens one simultaneously feels utterly insignificant (a pair of ragged claws) and the center of everyone’s attention. At that age, you feel that people’s eye pin you to the wall, leaving you wriggling.

“They will say…,” Prufrock says repeatedly, and the teenage you figures that of course everyone is talking about you.

Also at that age, you know how hard it is to say “exactly what I mean” and how impossible it is to be understood. (“That is not what I meant at all;/ That is not it, at all.”) The people around you, you sense, are snickering, even though you are too young for the Eternal Footman to have gotten into the act quite yet.

In short, people are constantly bringing your head in on a platter, even though you have tried to stay in the shadows.

Although you may be a bit obtuse and somewhat of a fool, however, deep down you have beautiful longings. It’s comforting that both you and Prufrock know that, somewhere out there, mermaids are singing. For a moment you hear them. 

Then reality comes crashing in and you drown.

Except that you don’t entirely because you’re a teenager and the world is always renewing itself. You’re also constantly being surprised by, for instance, a conversation that reveals a new poetic world. While I understood that Eliot sees those Michelangelo-quoting women as snobs without substance, I wanted someone out there with whom I too could converse about high culture. I mocked and envied at the same time.

One other recollection. When I was a senior the teacher (another one by then) started analyzing the Simon and Garfunkel song “The Dangling Conversation.” When he got to the line, “And we sit and drink our coffee,” I piped up, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”

Genuinely pissed, he looked at me and burst out, “Bates, why are you so damn smart?!” I had no idea what had irritated him until I realized he was using the song to ease us into “Prufrock.” To set us up for the women talking of Michelangelo, he was preparing to point out the stanza,

And you read your Emily Dickinson
And I my Robert Frost
And we note our places with bookmarkers
That measure what we’ve lost

In short, I had ruined his lesson.

But not the urgency of the poem, which had the potential to impact people our age. Despite Prufrock being a slightly balding middle-aged guy who feels his life is a failure, his anxieties were our anxieties. Add to that its wonderful rhythms, its conversational tone, and its punchy lines, and the poem seems perfect for angst-ridden teens.

Previous Posts of Books That Shook My World
Tell-Tale Heart Terrified Me as a Teen (Oct. 30, 2026)
Why I Hated Catcher in the Rye (But Not Any More) (Oct. 23, 2026) 
The Iliad Saved My Freshman Year (Oct. 16, 2026) 
At 12 I Fell in Love with Taming of the Shrew (Oct. 9, 2026) 
Alice Captured My Childhood Anxieties (Oct. 2, 2026)
How Tintin Gave Shape to My Sense of Wonder (Sept. 25, 2026)
E. Nesbit’s Formative Moral Influence on My Life (Sept. 18, 2026)
Lord of the Rings: Trudging up Mount Doom with Frodo (Aug. 28, 2026)
The Silver Chair and a Childhood Love (Aug. 21, 2026)
My Childhood Encounter with Wind in the Willows April 14, 2026)

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Dems Pierced Trump’s Bubble (Described in As You Like It)

Duke Senior in As You Like It (Royal Shakespeare Company)

Thursday

At the same time that Americans were waking up and going to the polls, I was teaching Shakespeare’s As You Like It, in which Duke Senior at one point warns politicians about losing touch with reality. DJT’s hold on reality has always been tenuous, but even by his low standards he’s been slipping recently. Who else would boast, “We’re making a freaking fortune”—“we” being himself and the oil companies–while Americans see diesel prices skyrocket? No wonder the GOP got shellacked.

Duke Senior, like the Democrats for six of the past ten years, has been living in the wilderness. His dukedom has been usurped by his brother, and one wonders whether he himself missed critical signals. Did flattering counselors enable a bubble? Maybe that’s why the Forest of Arden, with its flesh-shrinking coldness, seems so bracing to him. He’s finally able to see reality for what it is:

Duke Senior: Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
‘This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.’
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life exempt from public haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in everything.
I would not change it.

DJT has buried himself in “painted pomp”—some of the home décor he apparently does himself—and retains counselors who tell him whatever he wants to hear. The “churlish chiding of the winter’s wind” is for other people.

Democrats, who for years have been experiencing the political versions of icy fangs, used these hard times to recruit superior candidates and hone their message. They surveyed the grim landscape and concluded that it was like a precious jewel in the head of an ugly and venomous toad. Making good use of past reversals, they found “tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones and good in everything.”

On the other hand, Republican candidates accustomed to having their Congressional seats handed to them by the MAGA faithful were often unprepared to fight. Such was the case in my Tennessee House district, in which a candidate who attended our tiny No Kings Day rallies has a .2 percent lead over 16-year incumbent Scott Desjarlais (280 votes). 99% of the vote has been counted.

Although Victoria Broderick spent only $87,405.47 on her campaign (which meant no television ads), she may pull it out.  

Resilient candidates exclaim, with Duke Senior, “Sweet are the uses of adversity.” 

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Dawning Hope in America

Albert Bierstadt, Sunrise

Wednesday

As I’m currently in Slovenia, Americans were still going to the polls last night when I went to bed. Before I fell asleep, the magnificent final passage from Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon came to mind. In it two former friends struggle for the soul of the Black community, just as America today is struggling for its own soul.

Guitar has become obsessed with his hatred for whites, so much so that he has joined a Black terrorist group that kills an innocent white for every Black that whites kill. Milkman, by contrast, is finding meaning in a roots quest. Formerly aimless, the privileged son of a successful businessman now knows that love trumps hate and is preparing to live his life accordingly.

In this final showdown that has elements of magical realism, he draws on stories of slaves who flew back to Africa. Guitar has a gun as the two stand on opposing cliff ledges, but Milkman doesn’t hesitate as he launches himself into an uncertain future:

Milkman stopped waving and narrowed his eyes. He could just make out Guitar’s head and shoulders in the dark. “You want my life?” Milkman was not shouting now. “You need it? Here.” Without wiping away the tears, taking a deep breath, or even bending his knees—he leaped. As fleet and bright as a lodestar he wheeled toward Guitar and it did not matter which one of them would give up his ghost in the killing arms of his brother. For now he knew what Shalimar knew: If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.

America is currently being ravaged by a white hatred that is just as toxic as Black hatred. But hatred doesn’t allow you to fly.

As I write this at 5:30 Wednesday morning, the Democrats are set to retake both the Senate and the House. Trump, of course, is still president, which means we are entering unknown territory. Voters, however, are rejecting a politics of hate and divisiveness as they tap into the best of the American promise. Our 250th anniversary may become an occasion for renewal rather than mourning.

I conclude, therefore, with another powerful novelistic ending, this one from Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony. Tayo has fought off the forces of hate in his own Laguna Pueblo community by, like Milkman, tapping into his people’s rich heritage. The novel ends with a prayer:

Whirling darkness
started its journey
with its witchery
and
its witchery has returned upon it.

Its witchery
has returned
into its belly.

Its own witchery 
has returned
all around it.

Whirling darkness
has come back on itself.
It keeps all its witchery
to itself.

It doesn’t open its eyes
with its witchery.

It has stiffened
with the effects of its own witchery.

It is dead for now.
It is dead for now.
It is dead for now.
It is dead for now.

And then the final invocation:

Sunrise, 
Accept this offering,
Sunrise.

The sun is just rising over Ljubljana and touching the snow-covered Alps that one can see from the city center. Hope rises with it.

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Freedom: A Strong Seed Planted in Great Need

Tuesday

Freedom is on the ballot in the United States today as Americans decide whether or not to send Trump’s GOP enablers back to Congress. Fearful of Democratic senators and representatives that would hold him accountable, DJT has been ratcheting up racist rhetoric to levels I haven’t seen since I was a child in the segregated south.

After losing the 1958 gubernatorial race to the virulent racist Jim Patterson, Alabama demagogue George Wallace vowed that he would never be “out n****ered again,” and he never was. Now we are seeing comparable vitriol directed against Egyptian-American Abdul El-Sayed in Michigan while Trump ordered the Department of “Justice” to raid Minnesota Rep. Ihlan Omar’s house. As far as I can tell, no one in the GOP has condemned either the rhetoric or the raid.

I therefore turn to an American poet who understood deeply the value of freedom. “Freedom is a strong seed planted in a great need,” Langston Hughes tells us.

Freedom
By Langston Hughes

Freedom will not come
Today, this year
            Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.

I have as much right
As the other fellow has
            To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.

I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I’m dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread.
            Freedom
            Is a strong seed
            Planted
            In a great need.
            I live here, too.
            I want my freedom
            Just as you. 

Compromising with DJT has not brought freedom, and fearing him definitely hasn’t. People of color live here and want their freedom too. We’ll know soon how strong a seed America has planted.

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Tagore: Be a Free Person, Not a Puppet

Ancient Greek terracotta puppet dolls, 5th–4th century BC

Monday

After years of autocratic regimes being on the rise, there are some glimmers of hope. Few reversals have been as stunning as the student-led protest that recently brought down Serbian strongman Aleksandar Vučić. My two Serbian students were ecstatic, although one of them missed last week’s classes after contracting a cold when she traveled to Serbia to vote. I told her that a cold was a small price to pay for having participated in history-making change.

Americans can also take heart from what happened in Hungary earlier this year and in Brazil more recently. And while genocidal Bibi Netanyahu continues to cling to power in Israel, the surprising success of the two Arab parties is presenting Israeli liberals the opportunity to radically change Israeli politics by allying with non-Jews. We’ll see if they take it.

A couple of weeks ago I shared a puppet poem to dramatize how Trump is dancing to Vladimir Putin’s manipulation. In “Freedom,” the great Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore applies the puppet image to all those who mindlessly move to the wires of “the master of the show”:

Freedom from the insult of dwelling in a puppet’s world,
where movements are started through brainless wires,
repeated through mindless habits,
where figures wait with patience and obedience for the 
master of show,
to be stirred into a mimicry of life.

“Mimicry of life” brings to mind Christopher Armitage’s “zombie democracies,” which are countries “that continue to vote, even though the elections themselves have ceased working.” (He includes Russia, Belarus, Venezuela, Turkey, and–until recently—Hungary on that list.) Such mimicry could also take the form of Yeats’s “passionate intensity,” where hatred is ginned up against (in 2026 America) trans people, immigrants, and above all Muslims. With the help of the money that American billionaires are pouring into the elections, the MAGA faithful, who have been waiting with “patience and obedience” for Trump to deliver on his promises, are once again being stirred. We’ll know soon if America can free itself from that “insult.” 

Those who take freedom for granted would do well to read the passage where Tagore mentions freeing ourselves from the shackles of slumber. (Perhaps he echoes here William Blake’s “mind-forg’d manacles.”) When we fasten ourselves to “night’s stillness,” we come to mistrust “the star that speaks of truth’s adventurous paths.”

An exciting and more egalitarian future beckons if we can heed the call. We need not passively surrender to “blind uncertain winds,” fatalistically calling them “the anarchy of destiny.” Tagore describes the helmsman in that scenario as “rigid and cold as death.” 

One wonders, in this nautical analogy, whether Tagore is echoing Tennyson’s “Ulysses,” where the speaker speaks of that “untravell’d world whose margin fades/ For ever and forever when I move.” While the future is uncertain—”It may be that the gulfs will wash us down”—we must exercise our freedom to imagine (and “to strive, to seek, to find”) a better world:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho’ much is taken, much abides…

In his book On Freedom, authoritarianism expert Timothy Snyder distinguishes between “freedom from” and “freedom to,” saying that true freedom is “the freedom to thrive, to take risks for futures we choose by working together.” Such freedom, he explains, “is the value that makes all other values possible.”

While Tagore uses the phrase “freedom from” throughout his poem, his mention of the beckoning future and “truth’s adventurous paths” shows us his goal. When Americans vote in 2026, they should be guided less by freedom from Trumpism and more by freedom for an egalitarian and diverse society where all are respected and honored.

Freedom
By Rabindranath Tagore

Freedom from fear is the freedom
I claim for you my motherland!
Freedom from the burden of the ages, bending your head,
breaking your back, blinding your eyes to the beckoning
call of the future;
Freedom from the shackles of slumber wherewith
you fasten yourself in night’s stillness,
mistrusting the star that speaks of truth’s adventurous paths;
freedom from the anarchy of destiny
whole sails are weakly yielded to the blind uncertain winds,
and the helm to a hand ever rigid and cold as death.
Freedom from the insult of dwelling in a puppet’s world,
where movements are started through brainless wires,
repeated through mindless habits,
where figures wait with patience and obedience for the 
master of show,
to be stirred into a mimicry of life.

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Oliver: I Went Close to Death and Did Not Die

Maruyama Ōkyo, Wild Good on Waves

Sunday – All Souls’ Day

Today is a national holiday for Slovenians, a time to gather the family and visit and tend to the graves of members who have passed. It’s a powerful way of balancing grief with the reassurance that life continues. 

I borrow the image of balancing from Mary Oliver’s poem “Heavy.” “It’s not the weight you carry,” she reports a friend telling her, “but how you carry it.” Whether one is carrying books, bricks, or grief, it’s 

all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.

Carrying takes practice so Oliver practices. She learns to laugh again, and she lingers

to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled—

This is what Jesus means by heaven on earth. Oliver is lifted up by images of fragility balanced with powerful natural forces, the last pairing being love and death:

roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

Notice the question mark at the end, where she leaves it open whether love in fact belongs with the other two. This is the only stanza with five lines, which means that the poem ends not with her love but with the silence of the departed. She is unnerved by the fact that she cannot yet speak with complete assurance.

Before I share the poem, here’s one last thought. In a lecture on Beowulf to Slovenian students this past week, I noted how Beowulf (as I read his confrontation with Grendel’s Mother) walks up to her lake of grief and plunges in. Not all characters in the poem can do this, and we are told that a deer pursued by hounds would rather be torn apart on the shore than enter those waters. King Hrethel, to cite a human instance, retreats to his bed when he loses his eldest son and never gets up again. Like Oliver, he thinks that he “could not/ go any closer to grief/ without dying.”

It takes courage to face up to the heart’s anguish, the kind (here we get Oliver’s own image of being torn apart) that Daniel exhibits in the lions’ den. During her own grieving she learns, as Beowulf does, that she will not be ravaged upon close contact.

“Surely God/ had his hand in this,” she thinks before adding, “as well as friends.” She has Daniel, and Beowulf, when battling dragon depression, has Wiglaf. Overcoming the dragon leads to a shining moment:

[Wiglaf] saw too a standard, entirely of gold,
hanging high over the hoard, 
a masterpiece of filigree; it glowed with light…

As is characteristic with Oliver, her own luminescent vision involves images from nature: a rose and wild geese.

And underlying it all, she hopes and prays, is love.

Heavy
By Mary Oliver

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
“It is not the weight you carry

but how you carry it—
books, bricks, grief—
it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.”
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled—
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

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Tell-Tale Heart Terrified Me as a Teen

Fritz Eichenberg, “The Tell-Tale Heart”

Friday Memories of Books That Shook My World

As tomorrow is Halloween, I share one of my most frightening encounters with a horror story. Although I was a teenager when I first read Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart,” to this day I vividly remember vibrating with terror. It didn’t help that I read it after midnight in my attic room.

Never before had I had such a visceral encounter with story. I was especially haunted by the narrator’s fascination with the old man’s eye.

I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

On the night of the murder, sensing that someone is in the room, the victim has his eye open so that the narrator’s lantern falls directly upon it:

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until, at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open — wide, wide open — and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

I also remember being struck by the narrator’s claim to be rational throughout the story:

True! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

He continues to insist this until the end, when his façade finally breaks and he reveals to the police his rising hysteria, along with the murder.

Why did this particular horror story stand out, surpassing “The Cask of Amontillado.” (A teacher had entertained us with a very effective performance of “Amontillado” but it was nothing like this.) Reading it in bed after midnight accounted for some of the horror, but I think there was more to my response. 

Being raised in a professor’s family meant that rationality was our m.o. We were products of the Enlightenment, and as Michel Foucault points out (in Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason), Enlightenment thinkers had a particular problem with madness. Philosophy was to have no truck with it, and, unlike officials in earlier ages, authorities separated madness out from society and locked it up. “You’re not being rational” was a reproof that had some weight with me.

The obsession with the eye, the most rational of the senses, therefore makes sense. The narrator feels that the old man’s eye can penetrate his calm exterior, for all his daytime smiling and “calling him by name in a hearty tone.” He senses that the old man can perceive an inner madness that he himself doesn’t want to admit is there. He must shut that eye forever.

Poe is famous for planting his feet on both sides of the rationality/madness divide. On the one hand, with Dupin he invented the soft-boiled detective, forerunner of Holmes and Poirot, whose powers of “ratiocination” astound the police. On the other hand, there are the incursions into insanity that Poe is famous for, with “The Black Cat” and “Amontillado” joining “Tell-Tale.” In “Murders of the Rue Morgue” the two sides come together, with Dupin pitted against the animality of an orangutan. 

Part of my fascination, then, may have been with the irrational part of myself that I was denying. I remember a few years later being struck, while reading Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy for a college ethics class, by philosopher Schopenhauer’s image of a sailor trusting in his “frail barque.” Meanwhile, he sits “in the midst of a stormy sea, unbounded in every direction, rising and falling with howling mountainous waves.” As an Apollonian he thinks he can sit there calmly, but Dionysus threatens to overwhelm him utterly. I thought I should be Apollo, even though I sensed Dionysian forces at work.

The ending of “Tell-Tale Heart” functioned as a wake-up call. The police were the quiet world around me, which I mistook for reality, but inside I could sense another dynamic:

[T]he noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled.

Perhaps the ending of the story worked as an acknowledgement that I was not as much in rational control of my life as I thought I was supposed to be:

Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no! They heard! — they suspected! — they knew! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again! — hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! —

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

I’ve detected the same dynamic in my response to wolf man stories, with the Lon Chaney, Jr. Wolf Man being my first horror film and Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining being the scariest film I have ever seen. While I was pretty sure that I would never grab an axe and go after my kids, there were times in my parenting life when I was close to losing it.

Who knows what darkness lies beneath a rational exterior? (Answer: Poe knows.)

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