Nigerian author Chinua Achebe, who died in 2013, wrote stories that offer students from all disciplines valuable insights about the world they want to fix one day. EPA/Frank May
By Melissa
Tandiwe Myambo
The
real world is often overwhelmingly complicated. Literature can help. This is
true at universities too: courses in comparative literature offer students new
insights into their chosen disciplines by unlocking new, varied perspectives.
How
can those studying political science truly grasp the terror of living under a
dictator? Perhaps by reading Mario Vargas Llosa’s The Feast of the Goat, a magnificent historical novel about the tyrannical Trujillo
regime in the Dominican Republic. Students who read it are unlikely to forget
the dizzying Cold War political intrigues that led the US to first support
Trujillo and then implement sanctions against him.
In
area studies, students must learn about the politics of postcolonial government.
Chinua Achebe’s 1966 novel, A Man of the People, explores how rapidly post-independence revolutionary zeal can
turn venal as the corrupt, greedy postcolonial elite seizes the reins of power
from the colonizer only to further strangle the majority.
I
would suggest that teaching these and other subjects - history, economics,
sociology, geography and many others - can only be enhanced by including
novels, short stories and artistic feature films. Students will also benefit
from learning the methods of critical reading that are inherent to literary
study. In this article I will explore why this is the case, focusing largely on
the important but contested field of international development studies.
Why
development is about more than economics
International
development studies cries out for a literary component precisely because it is
such an ideological and normative subject. “Development” is itself a term that
should demand ideological evaluation. It is more than economics. This is made
clear by the UN’s Millennium
and Sustainable
Development Goals. These reiterate that “development” also focuses on cultural
change, such as gender equity through empowering women and girls.
But
the syllabus of almost any international development studies course contains a
heavy dose of development economists: Amartya Sen, Joseph Stiglitz, Jeffrey
Sachs. Or, if the professor is slightly more left-leaning, there will be works
by anthropologists like James Ferguson and Arturo Escobar or brilliant
political science professor Timothy Mitchell. Why only these? This is an area
in which books in the humanities and arts are pertinent, yet one never sees a
postcolonial novel on these syllabi.
It
is frankly criminal. Development was constituted as a field of study and area of practice during the years of decolonization after World
War II. This was the very same time period which spawned the birth of what is
today called postcolonial literature. But international development studies courses seldom broach the
fundamental question of what is truly meant by development. Developing to what?
For whose benefit? Under whose aegis? This question, however, is interrogated
in a vast body of excellent fiction.
I
have prescribed Nuruddin Farah’s 1993 novel, Gifts
- inspired by Marcel Mauss’ classic ethnography The Gift - to my students. When
development aid from powerful countries is donated to impoverished 1980s
Somalia, a fine line is walked by both the West which “gives” and the Somalis
who “receive.” The book is a long meditation on the tightrope act that teeters
between donation and domination. Certainly my students learned more about how
it really feels to be the recipient of donor aid from this novel than any of
our social science readings, which were mostly written from the donors' point
of view.
Exploring
different points of view
This
isn’t to suggest that such novels are stand-ins for “native informants”, who are perceived to be experts about a culture, race or place
simply because they belong to it. Quite the contrary. They should be read as
literature, which literary critics like Mikhail Bakhtin
describe as a jumble of competing viewpoints depending on language that always
struggles to convey actual truth.
Point
of view might be an easier concept for students to grasp at first than Bakhtin’s
theory. It is a basic narrative technique that is explored in Literary
Criticism 101 because it can change the way a story is told or perceived. In
the rich 2006 film Bamako the
people of Mali put the World Bank on trial to determine why their poisoned
“gift” of development aid has left the country with such a debilitating debt burden.
From
the World Bank’s perspective, development might mean one thing but for those
“beneficiaries,” it means something quite different. Art has the power to
convey that point of view with visceral impact. Isn’t this essential for
international development students who aim to help the “other” to “develop”?
Room
for myriad insights
The
end state of “development,” which is implied but hardly ever explicitly theorized
in international development studies, is “modernity” and becoming “modern”.
This is a subject on which literature and literary theory can offer myriad
insights.
Zakes
Mda’s wonderful 2005 novel Heart of Redness depicts the tale of a contemporary
village in post-apartheid South Africa. Here, two groups of villagers hold
radically different positions on what development means to them. Does it mean
street lamps and a casino resort that will bring tourists? Or maintaining a
more “traditional,” environmentally-sustainable lifestyle albeit with some “modern”
amenities? The villagers’ differing positions are also informed by their
different views on their history of colonization.
History
is, of course, essential for understanding any subject. For this reason I’ve
not restricted myself to postcolonial literature only in teaching my classes. Robinson Crusoe, first published in 1719, is an excellent novel for introducing the
study of British imperialism which is a prerequisite for understanding our
contemporary global cultural economy.
Pushing
for positive change
In
our globalizing world, the stakes could not be higher. Many of our students
will end up making policy, allocating aid, driving the global economy. They will
change the world. Literature and humanistic thinking enable them to change it
for the better.
Fulbright-Nehru
Scholar, Research Associate, Centre for Indian Studies, Wits University,
University of California, Los Angeles
IT
WAS a dark autumn night. The old banker was walking up and down his study and
remembering how, fifteen years before, he had given a party one autumn evening.
There had been many clever men there, and there had been interesting
conversations. Among other things they had talked of capital punishment. The
majority of the guests, among whom were many journalists and intellectual men,
disapproved of the death penalty. They considered that form of punishment out
of date, immoral, and unsuitable for Christian States. In the opinion of some
of them the death penalty ought to be replaced everywhere by imprisonment for
life.
"I
don't agree with you," said their host the banker. "I have not tried
either the death penalty or imprisonment for life, but if one may judge Ã
priori, the death penalty is more moral and more humane than imprisonment
for life. Capital punishment kills a man at once, but lifelong imprisonment
kills him slowly. Which executioner is the more humane, he who kills you in a
few minutes or he who drags the life out of you in the course of many
years?"
"Both
are equally immoral," observed one of the guests, "for they both have
the same object -- to take away life. The State is not God. It has not the
right to take away what it cannot restore when it wants to."
Among
the guests was a young lawyer, a young man of five-and-twenty. When he was
asked his opinion, he said:
"The
death sentence and the life sentence are equally immoral, but if I had to
choose between the death penalty and imprisonment for life, I would certainly
choose the second. To live anyhow is better than not at all."
A
lively discussion arose. The banker, who was younger and more nervous in those
days, was suddenly carried away by excitement; he struck the table with his
fist and shouted at the young man:
"It's
not true! I'll bet you two millions you wouldn't stay in solitary confinement
for five years."
"If
you mean that in earnest," said the young man, "I'll take the bet,
but I would stay not five but fifteen years."
"Fifteen?
Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two millions!"
"Agreed!
You stake your millions and I stake my freedom!" said the young man.
And
this wild, senseless bet was carried out! The banker, spoilt and frivolous,
with millions beyond his reckoning, was delighted at the bet. At supper he made
fun of the young man, and said:
"Think
better of it, young man, while there is still time. To me two millions are a
trifle, but you are losing three or four of the best years of your life. I say
three or four, because you won't stay longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy
man, that voluntary confinement is a great deal harder to bear than compulsory.
The thought that you have the right to step out in liberty at any moment will
poison your whole existence in prison. I am sorry for you."
And
now the banker, walking to and fro, remembered all this, and asked himself:
"What was the object of that bet? What is the good of that man's losing
fifteen years of his life and my throwing away two millions? Can it prove that
the death penalty is better or worse than imprisonment for life? No, no. It was
all nonsensical and meaningless. On my part it was the caprice of a pampered
man, and on his part simple greed for money. . . ."
Then
he remembered what followed that evening. It was decided that the young man
should spend the years of his captivity under the strictest supervision in one
of the lodges in the banker's garden. It was agreed that for fifteen years he
should not be free to cross the threshold of the lodge, to see human beings, to
hear the human voice, or to receive letters and newspapers. He was allowed to
have a musical instrument and books, and was allowed to write letters, to drink
wine, and to smoke. By the terms of the agreement, the only relations he could
have with the outer world were by a little window made purposely for that
object. He might have anything he wanted -- books, music, wine, and so on -- in
any quantity he desired by writing an order, but could only receive them
through the window. The agreement provided for every detail and every trifle
that would make his imprisonment strictly solitary, and bound the young man to
stay there exactly fifteen years, beginning from twelve o'clock of
November 14, 1870, and ending at twelve o'clock of November 14, 1885. The slightest
attempt on his part to break the conditions, if only two minutes before the
end, released the banker from the obligation to pay him two millions.
For
the first year of his confinement, as far as one could judge from his brief
notes, the prisoner suffered severely from loneliness and depression. The
sounds of the piano could be heard continually day and night from his lodge. He
refused wine and tobacco. Wine, he wrote, excites the desires, and desires are
the worst foes of the prisoner; and besides, nothing could be more dreary than
drinking good wine and seeing no one. And tobacco spoilt the air of his room.
In the first year the books he sent for were principally of a light character;
novels with a complicated love plot, sensational and fantastic stories, and so
on.
In
the second year the piano was silent in the lodge, and the prisoner asked only
for the classics. In the fifth year music was audible again, and the prisoner
asked for wine. Those who watched him through the window said that all that year
he spent doing nothing but eating and drinking and lying on his bed, frequently
yawning and angrily talking to himself. He did not read books. Sometimes at
night he would sit down to write; he would spend hours writing, and in the
morning tear up all that he had written. More than once he could be heard
crying.
In
the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began zealously studying
languages, philosophy, and history. He threw himself eagerly into these studies
-- so much so that the banker had enough to do to get him the books he ordered.
In the course of four years some six hundred volumes were procured at his
request. It was during this period that the banker received the following
letter from his prisoner:
"My
dear Jailer, I write you these lines in six languages. Show them to people who
know the languages. Let them read them. If they find not one mistake I implore
you to fire a shot in the garden. That shot will show me that my efforts have
not been thrown away. The geniuses of all ages and of all lands speak different
languages, but the same flame burns in them all. Oh, if you only knew what
unearthly happiness my soul feels now from being able to understand them!"
The prisoner's desire was fulfilled. The banker ordered two shots to be fired
in the garden.
Then
after the tenth year, the prisoner sat immovably at the table and read nothing
but the Gospel. It seemed strange to the banker that a man who in four years
had mastered six hundred learned volumes should waste nearly a year over one
thin book easy of comprehension. Theology and histories of religion followed
the Gospels.
In
the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an immense quantity of
books quite indiscriminately. At one time he was busy with the natural
sciences, then he would ask for Byron or Shakespeare. There were notes in which he demanded at
the same time books on chemistry, and a manual of medicine, and a novel, and
some treatise on philosophy or theology. His reading suggested a man swimming
in the sea among the wreckage of his ship, and trying to save his life by
greedily clutching first at one spar and then at another.
II
The
old banker remembered all this, and thought:
"To-morrow
at twelve o'clock he will regain his freedom. By our agreement I ought to pay
him two millions. If I do pay him, it is all over with me: I shall be utterly
ruined."
Fifteen
years before, his millions had been beyond his reckoning; now he was afraid to
ask himself which were greater, his debts or his assets. Desperate gambling on
the Stock Exchange, wild speculation and the excitability which he could not
get over even in advancing years, had by degrees led to the decline of his
fortune and the proud, fearless, self-confident millionaire had become a banker
of middling rank, trembling at every rise and fall in his investments.
"Cursed bet!" muttered the old man, clutching his head in despair
"Why didn't the man die? He is only forty now. He will take my last penny
from me, he will marry, will enjoy life, will gamble on the Exchange; while I shall
look at him with envy like a beggar, and hear from him every day the same
sentence: 'I am indebted to you for the happiness of my life, let me help you!'
No, it is too much! The one means of being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace
is the death of that man!"
It
struck three o'clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep in the house and
nothing could be heard outside but the rustling of the chilled trees. Trying to
make no noise, he took from a fireproof safe the key of the door which had not
been opened for fifteen years, put on his overcoat, and went out of the house.
It
was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp cutting wind was
racing about the garden, howling and giving the trees no rest. The banker
strained his eyes, but could see neither the earth nor the white statues, nor
the lodge, nor the trees. Going to the spot where the lodge stood, he twice
called the watchman. No answer followed. Evidently the watchman had sought
shelter from the weather, and was now asleep somewhere either in the kitchen or
in the greenhouse.
"If
I had the pluck to carry out my intention," thought the old man,
"Suspicion would fall first upon the watchman."
He
felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into the entry of the
lodge. Then he groped his way into a little passage and lighted a match. There
was not a soul there. There was a bedstead with no bedding on it, and in the
corner there was a dark cast-iron stove. The seals on the door leading to the
prisoner's rooms were intact.
When
the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, peeped through the
little window. A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner's room. He was
sitting at the table. Nothing could be seen but his back, the hair on his head,
and his hands. Open books were lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and
on the carpet near the table.
Five
minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years' imprisonment
had taught him to sit still. The banker tapped at the window with his finger,
and the prisoner made no movement whatever in response. Then the banker
cautiously broke the seals off the door and put the key in the keyhole. The
rusty lock gave a grating sound and the door creaked. The banker expected to hear
at once footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but three minutes passed and it
was as quiet as ever in the room. He made up his mind to go in.
At
the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. He was a
skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a
woman's and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow with an earthy tint in it, his
cheeks were hollow, his back long and narrow, and the hand on which his shaggy
head was propped was so thin and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it.
His hair was already streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated,
aged-looking face, no one would have believed that he was only forty. He was
asleep. . . . In front of his bowed head there lay on the table a sheet of
paper on which there was something written in fine handwriting.
"Poor
creature!" thought the banker, "he is asleep and most likely dreaming
of the millions. And I have only to take this half-dead man, throw him on the
bed, stifle him a little with the pillow, and the most conscientious expert
would find no sign of a violent death. But let us first read what he has
written here. . . ."
The
banker took the page from the table and read as follows:
"To-morrow
at twelve o'clock I regain my freedom and the right to associate with other
men, but before I leave this room and see the sunshine, I think it necessary to
say a few words to you. With a clear conscience I tell you, as before God, who
beholds me, that I despise freedom and life and health, and all that in your
books is called the good things of the world.
"For
fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true I have not
seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have
sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved
women. . . . Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets
and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful
tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks
of Elburz and Mont
Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at
evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson.
I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the
storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have
heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I
have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of
God. . . . In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed
miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole
kingdoms. . . .
"Your
books have given me wisdom. All that the unresting thought of man has created
in the ages is compressed into a small compass in my brain. I know that I am
wiser than all of you.
"And
I despise your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of this world. It is
all worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like a mirage. You may be
proud, wise, and fine, but death will wipe you off the face of the earth as
though you were no more than mice burrowing under the floor, and your
posterity, your history, your immortal geniuses will burn or freeze together
with the earthly globe.
"You
have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have taken lies for truth,
and hideousness for beauty. You would marvel if, owing to strange events of
some sorts, frogs and lizards suddenly grew on apple and orange trees instead
of fruit, or if roses began to smell like a sweating horse; so I marvel at you
who exchange heaven for earth. I don't want to understand you.
"To
prove to you in action how I despise all that you live by, I renounce the two
millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise and which now I despise. To
deprive myself of the right to the money I shall go out from here five hours
before the time fixed, and so break the compact. . . ."
When
the banker had read this he laid the page on the table, kissed the strange man
on the head, and went out of the lodge, weeping. At no other time, even when he
had lost heavily on the Stock Exchange, had he felt so great a contempt for
himself. When he got home he lay on his bed, but his tears and emotion kept him
for hours from sleeping.
Next
morning the watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told him they had seen the man
who lived in the lodge climb out of the window into the garden, go to the gate,
and disappear. The banker went at once with the servants to the lodge and made
sure of the flight of his prisoner. To avoid arousing unnecessary talk, he took
from the table the writing in which the millions were renounced, and when he
got home locked it up in the fireproof safe.
NOTES
Byron: George Gordon, Lord
Byron (1788-1824) English romantic poet
Shakespeare: William
Shakespeare (1564-1616) great English playwright and poet
peaks of Elburz: Elbrus,
located in Russia, is the highest mountain in Europe
Mont Blanc: highest peak in
the Alps
Russian
writer Anton Chekhov is recognized
as a master of the modern short story and a leading playwright of the late 19th
and early 20th centuries.
