2002 MLA
Globalization and the Image II: The Global Image
Kurt Koenigsberger
Case Western Reserve University
Globalizing the Image: W. B. Yeats - Leo Africanus - Amin Maalouf
Do not cite without permission of the author.
A pair of unusual twentieth-century literary collaborations claims my
attention here, linked by a ghostly figure who lived and wrote some 400
years before either of his collaborators. In each of these cases, the
collaborative endeavor has at its center a question of identity, and in
these pages I will be tracing such questions along what Susan Stanford
Friedman has described as the "geopolitical axis" of identity,
a spatial dimension of difference that "inflects or mediates any
given cultural identity or praxis" (109). The first collaboration
I take up here is that between W. B. Yeats and Leo Africanus in Yeats's
prose manuscript titled simply "Leo Africanus," the beginnings
of which date from around 1915. The heavily revised manuscript takes the
form of an exchange of letters between the twentieth-century poet and
the early sixteenth-century figure of Leo Africanus, in which the latter
asks Yeats to write to him "as if to Africa" and responds to
the poet's concerns about writing, spirituality, and identity. The second
collaboration takes place between Leo Africanus and Amin Maalouf, who
in 1986 published a fictional autobiography of Leo in French (translated
into English in 1988). Maalouf gives voice to Leo Africanus in the form
of an autodiegetic narrative, though Leo Africanus himself composed a
first-person narrative of his travels in A Geographical Historie of
Africa (trans. John Pory in 1600).
In neither of these collaborative projects does Leo Africanus actually
put pen to paper, rendering his agency in these writing projects ghostly.
In Yeats's "Leo Africanus," the authority and legitimacy of
Leo as Yeats's interlocutor are precisely at stake in the discussion,
despite the fact that it is Leo's voice (channeled through a psychic medium)
that commands Yeats to write in the first place. At the end of the manuscript,
Yeats concludes, "I am not convinced that in this letter there is
one sentence that has come from beyond my own imagination" (38);
insofar as Leo has helped him, he determines, it is merely to "arrange"
his thoughts. In his final words, Yeats decides that while Leo "cannot
write & speak [he] can always listen" to the poet (39). That
Yeats denies the legitimacy of the lengthy letters attributed to Leo in
the manuscript works to achieve two effects: it shores up Yeats's position
as author, and relegates Leo to the realm of images appropriable by the
poet. It is no accident that critics have been interested in the manuscript
almost exclusively to the extent that it offers insight into the genesis
of Yeats's theory of the mask as antiself developed in "Ego Dominus
Tuus," in Per Amica Silentia Lunae, and ultimately in A
Vision. After all, the rhetorical parting shot of the dialogue leaves
the author alone to claim his own primacy as composer of the conversation
and as theorist of matters of spiritual and imaginative significance.
Yeats's position might indeed seem simply a matter of common sense - who
else could have written these words, after all? It is worth remembering,
however, that the voice of Leo initiates the conversation, and the manuscript
begins by treating the figure of Leo as though he has a real, instrumental
agency in the exchange: "If you Africanus, can materialize, or half
materialize a body & at some point of space . . . move & speak,
& carry solid objects, we have the same evidence, for a separate mind,
that I have for my own mind" (25). The text ends, however, by celebrating
Yeats's imagination, the imagistic plenitude of which Leo himself appears
to become a part: with some regret, Leo points out at the close of his
last letter that "your mind has grown curiously, so full [of] shining
images of all kinds, that you have become almost incapable of hearing
& seeing us" (37). When Yeats determines that finally Leo's "mission
was to create solitude" (39) for the poet, Leo can be understood
to suffer from the sort of attenuation marked in Yeats's poem "Byzantium,"
in which "an image, man or shade" becomes "Shade more than
man, more image than a shade," while Yeats becomes the solitary author
both of "Leo Africanus" as text and of Leo Africanus as image.
By contrast, Amin Maalouf, whose recent work represents a plea for cosmopolitanism
and the acceptance of the multiple allegiances of contemporary identities,
renders this attenuated image of Leo more robust by recuperating his voice
in the novel Leo Africanus. The collaboration between Maalouf and
Leo finds the novelist returning to A Geographical Historie of Africa
and to its attendant historical contexts in order to cultivate a sense
of Leo's most intimate speech and thought. In this sense, Leo serves as
a kind of ghost-writer of the narrative that bears his name, and Maalouf's
turn to Leo's writing and history in fact challenges Yeats's occlusion
of Leo's contribution to the earlier join production. Maalouf's novel
has Yeats's work distinctly in mind, taking as its epigraph a line from
the "Leo Africanus" manuscript, and the collaboration between
Maalouf and Leo Africanus, in which the former builds upon the writing
and life narrative of the latter, accomplishes several things in relation
to that earlier dialogue. In the first place it counters the notion that
Leo "cannot write & speak," allowing Leo to tell his story
comprehensively, and ranging across the closing years of the fifteenth
century and his ancestral home in Granada to the 1520s and North Africa.
In the second place, Maalouf reclaims Leo from the shadowland of Yeats's
world repository of images, the Spiritus Mundi. From this inward and arcane
sink of images, Maalouf calls up Leo Africanus and makes his image one
that crosses political and cultural borders. The line from Yeats's manuscript
on which Maalouf settles for his epigraph is a significant one in this
respect: "Yet do not doubt that I was also Leo Africanus the traveller."
If Leo appears as a figure out of Spiritus Mundi in Yeats's manuscript,
his is an image accessible to the world; but Maalouf turns Leo into an
image of global movement - of border crossing, cosmopolitanism, and itinerant
translocality. The difference between these two pieces of collaborative
writing, in other words, might be described as a struggle over Leo as
a global image: where Yeats fixes Leo within an aesthetic system, Maalouf
holds him up as a model for global traveling cultures that crosscut cultural
and imperial boundaries.
The traveler's identity of the ghostly Leo Africanus opens up questions
of global territoriality not only in Maalouf's novel, but in Yeats's poetry.
For where Yeats tends to turn inward, toward transhistorical repositories
of world images, Leo moves outward as he traverses geopolitical boundaries
and diverse sociocultural landscapes. In light of Maalouf's reinvestment
of the figure of Leo with a historical and geopolitical voice, it becomes
possible to see in Yeats's manuscript the images of Leo Africanus and
his Africa haunting the spaces between Yeats's rootedness - the territoriality
of his poetry - and his route-work, the countervailing imagistic tendency
that, for instance, finds central figures in his poetry slouching toward
Bethlehem, sailing to Byzantium, or flying over Europe ("The Second
Coming"; "Sailing to Byzantium"; "An Irish Airman
Foresees His Death"). Yeats's "Leo Africanus" manuscript
treats the historical Leo - variously slave trader and slave, explorer
and colonial cartographer, colonized and hybridized subject, world-traveler
and provincial African - as an emanation of Spiritus Mundi, or world-spirit,
but simultaneously enframes Leo within a Western territorial tropography.
I suggest that the persistence of the alien image of Leo - his very haunting
of Yeats - heralds a deterritorialized global as a cultural emergent arising
within the interstices - and in excess - of the older empires through
Leo's nomadic "route work," a kind of work about which Yeats
remains ambivalent, but which Maalouf has embraced in his most recent
writing (see On Identity).
* * *
Yeats's encounter with Leo and Africa begins in the realm of Yeats's private
investigations - that is, in the arcane world of spiritualism to which,
Edward Said claims, Yeats has recourse to escape or resolve the tensions
between his Irish nationalism and his allegiance to English cultural heritage
(80). Yeats met with Africa in the figure of Leo Africanus, the sixteenth-century
North African poet, commercial traveler, and explorer, who communicated
with Yeats for about a decade through mediums and then through automatic
writing. In notes to a séance held on May 3, 1909, Yeats records
the voice of Leo Africanus saying to him, "I am trying to control
- I have been to you before (Africa name)" (qtd. Adams and Harper
3), and subsequently Yeats recalled that "fifteen or twenty years
earlier" a "shade" "had whispered very faintly at
my ear words which I had thought to be 'Leonora Arguite' but the medium
declared them to be 'Leonora your guide'" ("Leo Africanus"
24). When Leo - now clearly a masculine figure - turned up again at a
sitting on May 9, 1912, Yeats was convinced that Leo Africanus was his
spiritual guide, and he speculated that "It is possible that Leo
may turn out to be a symbolic being. Leo, the constellation, the house
of the sun" ("Report of Séance" 20). On July 22,
1915, through the automatic writing of one Miss Scatcherd, Leo Africanus
enjoined Yeats to write the series of letters that comprise the manuscript
that Yeats calls simply "Leo Africanus." Yeats records the encounter
with Leo and the latter's request in his notes as follows:
[Leo] was drawn to me because in life he had been all undoubting impulse,
all that his
name and Africa might suggest symbolically for his biography was both
symbolical and
actual. I was doubting, conscientious and timid. His contrary and by association
with me
would be made not one but two perfected natures. He asked me to write
him a letter
addressed to him as if to Africa giving all my doubts about spiritual
things and then to
write a reply as from him to me. He would control me in that reply so
that it would be
really from him. (qtd. Adams and Harper 13)
The "timid" and "doubting" poet is asked to write
"as if to Africa," where Africa is both the symbolic avatar
and literal embodiment of "undoubting impulse." Yeats took up
Leo's charge with relish and composed the dialogue sometime in 1915, after
which time Leo continued to appear to Yeats sporadically until late 1917,
when George Yeats began her automatic writing just after the Yeatses'
marriage. Leo also turned up in George Yeats's writing, although as a
hostile "frustrator" rather than a sympathetic "guide,"
until March 20, 1919, when he disappeared for good following the birth
of Anne Yeats.
Fascinated by the prospect of having a spiritual double, Yeats began research
into the history of his guide, and discovered that Leo Africanus (also
known as Johannes Leo) lived between 1494 and 1552 and was most famous
as the author of the voluminous Geographical Historie of Africa.
Leo was born in Granada into a noble Moorish family that soon found itself
exiled to North Africa. Leo traveled widely in Africa as an explorer and
commercial trader before being captured by pirates and given as a slave
to Pope Leo X. The Pope discovered his merit as a scholar and therefore
awarded him a pension, simultaneously converting him to Christianity and
giving the African his own names, Johannes and Leo. The new convert Leo
Africanus wrote poems and A Geographical Historie of Africa while
at the papal court, but before his death he returned to Africa, renounced
Christianity, and assumed his Arabic name once again.
For the late Victorians, Leo Africanus's work in his Geographical Historie
of Africa seemed to lend support to Britain's imperial project, mapping
out the landscape and cultural practices of the continent, and the rise
in demand for the Renaissance text was great enough for the Hakluyt Society
in 1896 to issue a reprint of the English translation made in 1600 of
A Geographical Historie of Africa. Even before this reprint, though,
Leo Africanus was sufficiently well-known to the Victorians to figure
in the press as a popular image. In the Christmas 1890 number of Punch,
in a fold-out section titled "Punch Among the Planets," a cartoon
of Leo Africanus occupies the position of the constellation Leo. In this
anti-imperialist cartoon by Harry Furniss, a dark-skinned, leonine Leo
Africanus appears in imperial military dress, carrying in one hand a folded
tent labeled "Barnum," and in the other a sack labeled "Profit."
Under one arm a large tome is wedged - a Bible or perhaps a copy of A
Geographical Historie of Africa. A tag is affixed to Leo's tail, reading
"LATEST ADDITION TO THE MODISH MENAGERIE," and Leo's knees seem
to buckle under the weight of his burdens. The imperial uniform suggests
Leo's complicity with the imperial project, but the tag that marks his
status as the "latest addition to the modish menagerie" also
points to his and Africa's domination by the entrepreneurial imperialism
that he unwittingly served by mapping Africa's cultural geography. If
Leo Africanus in Furniss's cartoon is supposed to be the paradigmatic
protoimperialist, paving the way for Barnum's menagerie and for colonial
profit alike, these spoils of imperialism also represent Leo's and Africa's
burden. Leo the African becomes the "latest addition to the modish
menagerie" in the same way he became a novel kind of slave at Leo
X's court. Well before Yeats's odd acquaintance with Leo Africanus, the
figure of the fifteenth-century wanderer was rendered as an image of ambivalence
toward a form of imperial globality.
It is unlikely that Yeats knew or remembered this Punch cartoon, however,
for he saw no irony in repeatedly associating Leo Africanus with "Leo,
the constellation, the house of the sun," and the manuscript illustrates
"a method of creating a mental image" by the example of a paper
game, in which "at the head let us say might correspond to the sun
& so have a lions head to represent it, while this might be a mans
body & so on," thereby unwittingly recapitulating Punch's satiric
cartoon (37). What is more, at first Yeats found that "plainly Leo
Africanus a geographer & traveller is for me no likely guide"
(23). After discovering that his spiritual counterpart was a poet, however,
Yeats seems to have accepted the naturalness of having Leo for his guide.
Yeats owned a copy of the original Elizabethan translation of A Geographical
Historie of Africa (the manuscript makes clear that he read it as
well), through which he became aware of the kinds of ambivalence in Leo's
relationship to Africa that are expressed in Furniss's cartoon. At the
end of the first book of Leo's Geographical Historie, for example,
Leo compares himself to a "wily bird" called Amphibia
that "could live as well with the fishes of the sea, as with the
fowles of the aire." He concludes that "Out of this fable I
will inferre no other morall, but that all men doe most affect that place,
where they finde least damage and inconvenience. For mine own part, when
I heare the Africans evill spoken of, I wil affirme my selfe to be one
of Granada: and when I perceive the nation of Granada to be discommended,
then will I professe my selfe to be an African." In this kind of
ambivalence Yeats certainly found additional evidence that Leo was an
unusually apposite figure to serve as his spiritual "double"
- early in his career, for instance, James Joyce denounced the "treacherous
instinct of adaptability" Yeats evinced in his role as aesthete ("Day
of the Rabblement" 71).
No less "amphibious" than Leo Africanus, Yeats nevertheless
frequently identified with positions through which he found much "damage
and inconvenience": Yeats's antagonism towards the English and towards
Ireland's subjection to Britain was always complicated by his pride in
his Anglo-Irishness. Yeats's ambivalence resulted in what he called his
"Anglo-Irish solitude, a solitude I have made for myself, an outlawed
solitude," and leads Seamus Deane to detect in Yeats's work traces
of a "colonialist mentality" at the same time that Declan Kiberd
and Edward Said hold up Yeats as a model of the decolonizing intellectual.
The amenability of Yeats's thought and writing to divergent contexts of
colonial complicity and decolonizing potential suggests the sort of colonial
entrapment that Harry Furniss's cartoon of Leo Africanus dramatizes, and
that serves as the mark of the "amphibian": the ambivalently
native writer whose work serves as an implicit apology (or invitation)
for colonialism finds himself caught up in the machinery of imperialism.
Yeats's "amphibiousness," resenting the English in Ireland yet
celebrating the products of that occupation as a distinctly Anglo-Irish
tradition, is perhaps best expressed in his poetry by the detachment of
"An Irish Airman Foresees his Death" (1919): "Those that
I fight I do not hate, / Those that I guard I do not love; / My country
is Kiltartan Cross" (3-5). Yeats's ambivalence about racial and political
identities finds resolution here primarily through an expression of identification
with a real Irish landscape, just as Leo's ambivalence about his Africanness
appears to be resolved by Africa, the object of his geographical study
itself, with which he is subsequently identified. Edward Said argues that
decolonizing artists reinvent cartographies of homeland and are "quite
literally grounded," and Yeats's insistence upon identification with
a concrete landscape is a point to which I will return momentarily (79).
Though Yeats and his spiritual guide Leo Africanus shared a number of
qualities and circumstances, the two soon diverge within the manuscript
called "Leo Africanus." The injunction Yeats answers in his
manuscript is, we recall, "Write as if to Africa giving all my doubts
about spiritual things," and we also recall that Leo Africanus is
identified with Africa, an Africa that Yeats says is "both symbolical
and actual." Yeats's response to Leo's command, surprisingly enough,
is to call into question both his interlocutor and the injunction itself.
"How can I feel certain of your identity[?]" Yeats asks (22).
"Are you not perhaps becoming a second Leo Africanus a shadow upon
the wall, a strong echo[?]" (27). In answer to this challenge, Leo
asserts,
We [spirits] are the unconscious as you say . . . . Yet do not doubt
that I was also Leo
Africanus the traveller, for . . . I can still remember the sand, &
many Arab cities . . . .
[There is] no proof [that such] a faculty can be carried from one mind
to another like a
number or a geometrical form. (38)
Yeats replies to Leo's attempt to convince him with a statement of profound
doubt: "I am not convinced that in this letter there is one sentence
that has come from beyond my own imagination. . . . I think there is no
thought that has not occurred to me in some form or other for many years
passed; if you have influenced me it has been less[,] to arrange my thoughts"
(38-39).
The pages in which Leo Africanus attempts to answer Yeats's doubts clarify
to a degree what Africa suggests "symbolically" and "actually"
to Yeats. Symbolically, Leo as Africa appears as a product of Spiritus
Mundi, repository of world images, as Yeats called it, and Africa is to
this extent one of Yeats's others. In actual terms, Leo asserts that he
and Africa exist as discrete entities. But when Yeats comes to respond
in his own voice, what Leo and Africa "actually" suggest becomes
subordinate to what they suggest "symbolically": "I am
not convinced that in this letter there is one sentence that has come
from beyond my own imagination." In effect, Yeats answers the command,
"Write as if to Africa," by asserting that everything that Leo
and Africa represent already exists wholly within his own imagination.
Though Leo maintains that his actual existence is sovereign, arguing that
the African memory cannot be transferred to another mind like a geometric
form, Yeats asserts that his encounter with Africa serves less to modify
his thoughts than to arrange them, as a geometric form might.
The fundamental "arrangement" of thought that Yeats takes away
from his encounter with Leo and Africa assumes the "geometrical form"
of a center consolidating its power from the periphery, and what Joyce
calls Yeats's "treacherous adaptability" comes to look more
like what Richard Ellmann describes as Yeats's drive to incorporate through
"eminent domain" - the annexation of the aesthetic systems of
others (3). For Yeats it seems not to matter whether one believes in the
African other to whom one writes, since Africa enables one to become more
conscious of one's own power and to organize that power more efficiently.
This is an imperious rhetorical move on Yeats's part, but the arrangement
of thought apparently made available to Yeats by Africa is also an imperial
one, for the spatial trope of center annexing its peripheral other invokes
the terms through which imperial capitals expressed their dominion. And
yet because Yeats tends to identify with real landscapes in his ambivalence
and doubt, because Yeats throughout his career insisted upon the real
geographical specificity of Ireland, and because, as Donald Davie and
others have noted, a concrete geography fundamentally grounds Yeats's
poetry, Yeats logically cannot when asked to write "as if to Africa"
answer simply by asserting that Africa exists only in his head.
Instead, alongside Yeats's imperious arrogation of all that Leo and Africa
signify, we should bear in mind Yeats's apparent imaginative refusal in
his encounter with Leo, a correlative of his suppression of Leo's voice.
If, as Yeats asserts in his essay called "Swedenborg, Mediums, and
the Desolate Places," one must keep simultaneously in mind both what
one believes and what causes one to doubt, then beside the imperial geometry
of the consolidating center we should keep in mind the haunting difference
that peripheral Africa and the traveling Leo represent in relation to
that center. It is precisely this difference that Maalouf champions in
his novel by emphasizing Leo as a model for what James Clifford calls
"traveling cultures," a notion that emphasizes the "translocal"
as a cultural dominant and reorients our thinking away from "relations
of dwelling" and toward "relations of travel" (Clifford
7, 22). It is significant, then, that Maalouf does not present Leo Africanus
as a dweller or representative of Africa, as Yeats does, but rather renders
him in perpetual motion. Here the key metaphor is the flux of the sea,
rather than the territoriality of Yeats's "eminent domain":
in Maalouf's book, Leo observes that "God did not ordain that my
destiny should be written completely in a single book, but that it should
unfold, wave after wave, to the rhythm of the seas. At each crossing,
destiny jettisoned the ballast of one future to endow me with another;
on each new shore, it attached to my name the name of a homeland left
behind" (81).
Even those territorial spaces of dwelling - villages and cities - Leo
encounters in Maalouf's novel are shaped fundamentally by traveling cultures:
as one tribal spokesman says to Leo,"We alone are privileged: we
see passing through our villages the people of Fez, of Numidia, of the
land of the Blacks, merchants, notables, students or ulama; they each
bring us a piece of gold, or a garment, a book to read or copy, or perhaps
only a story, an anecdote, a word; thus, with the passing of the caravans
we accumulate riches and knowledge in the shelter of these inaccessible
mountains which we share with the eagles, the crows and the lions, our
companions in dignity" (Leo Africanus 156-57). The city or
village thus appears as neither a central nor a peripheral space but as
a node in a network that traverses geopolitical and sociocultural frontiers,
and it is the translocal movement and interimperial travel along this
network that Leo Africanus's narrative is designed to illustrate. Maalouf's
novel concludes with the following imperatives: "When men's minds
seem narrow to you, tell yourself that the land of God is broad; broad
His hands and broad His heart. Never hesitate to go far away, beyond all
seas, all frontiers, all countries, all beliefs" (360). Maalouf's
conclusion renders the image of Leo Africanus not only cosmopolitan, but
one that works against the territorial rhetoric that characterizes Yeats's
narrative.
* * *
Yeats's writing forms part of larger movements in aesthetic modernism
that arose in the period that Roland Robertson characterizes as globalization's
"crucial take-off period," the half-century running from 1870
to 1925 (52). The "Leo Africanus" manuscript falls broadly within
formalist definitions of modernism, insofar as Yeats cultivates a prose
style that resists the transparency of enlightenment discourses: "I
am be[ing] careful to keep my [style] broken, & even abrupt believing
that I could but keep myself sensitive to influence by avoiding those
trains of argument & deduction which run on railway tracks" (39).
To this extent, both the modernism of which Yeats's writing generally
forms a part and the processes of cultural globalization can be understood
to rise from within the world empires that also reached their fullest
extent in the period. Under this reading, a new sense of globality as
a cultural emergent in many ways appears congruent with the trajectories
of these empires, and from within the British Empire's metropolitan center,
of course, imperial aspirations were often elided with a global totality.
Immanuel Wallerstein's "structural positions in a world-economy"
- core, periphery, and semi-periphery - recapitulate the metaphorics of
empire as a Copernican galaxy, with the imperial satellite territories
orbiting Britain as the central star.
We would be mistaken, however, to think of such central points in an imperial
or global constellation as simply radiant, however. For while global expansion
generates a centrifugal movement from a particular center, like Yeats's
exercise of "eminent domain" it also concentrates capital and
political and cultural power in discrete points. Yet the enrichment of
these global nodes in this way also renders them, in Ian Baucom's phrase,
"the scenes of the haunting return of difference" (162), a difference
both temporal and spatial. Inasmuch as the global arises within the interstices
and in ambivalent excess of these empires, it reflects such peripatetic
hauntings and returns of difference as Leo Africanus - the man of the
world and the global image - represents in Yeats's manuscript. It is a
significant consequence of Amin Maalouf's collaboration with Leo Africanus
that we can see both the assertion of the imperial sovereignty of the
modernist author in Yeats's collaboration with Leo, and the way in which
Leo's ghostly presence in the manuscript marks the opening of deterritorialized
networks traversed by translocal and interimperial figures such as Leo
Africanus the traveler, explorer, and nomad.
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