Fetishization, in this sense, largely means the attribution of manifold characteristics to the region that do not strictly fall within the realms of physicality, politics, culture, demographics, and related elements, ephemeral and intangible values that add “hidden” significance to the land.2 The nature of this hidden significance is fundamentally unstable. Louis Rubin, for example, has written that the characters of Ulysses need not be merely in Dublin, but of Dublin, a process that he describes as “like building a bridge, or creating a platform that will reach out from a recognizable substantial place into what until then has been empty air” (Place in American Fiction,
2 The term “fetishization” has a long critical history, but its most pervasive modern usages likely stem from Marxism (commodity-fetishism) and psychoanalysis (paraphilia). In this chapter, I am primarily using the term in a Marxist sense, in that fetishization leads naturally to a reification of the region (that is, treatment of the object—the region—as if it were a subject). Freudian fetishism bears resonances for my study as well, but as it relies upon a stable role for the unfetishized sex-act (that is, reproduction), it has less correlates in regionalism; it is difficult to denote precisely what a similarly static role for the region might be.
19). Joyce’s locale is undeniably real, yet it is comprised of more than its streets, buildings, and bridges. It bears some indelible and intangible stamp that makes it, in Rubin’s phrase, “not only geography and history” but “a way of looking at the world”
(17). Rubin’s wording, insofar as it suggests that regionalism is not only a mundane set of criteria, but something else in addition, is a common rhetorical move among regionalist critics. In the same volume of essays, Weatherby and Core suggest that “place is not mere setting in the sense of a static background but an essential constituent in what Andrew Lytle deems enveloping action” (11, emphasis mine). Similarly, George Garrett finds in the writing of Southern regionalists in particular “something else to offer,”
something “beyond the ritual celebration of the flora and fauna” (Place in American Fiction 45). It is this “something else,” with all of its nebulous baggage, that many mid- twentieth century critics were likely attempting to access when they attributed human agency to geographical locations in works such as Ulysses, marking Dublin as a character in Joyce’s narrative. Leigh Anne Duck has linked the critical tendency to fetishize place with the accompanying tendency to anthropomorphize place, stating that “those who want to speak of place as a character” are likely wanting to prove that “place is not merely a matter of ‘background’ or ‘setting’—that it is in some sense an active presence in a literary work” (South to a New Place 48).
Duck’s commentary on the “character” of place intersects strongly with the vanguard of regionalist criticism, in which it is easy to detect a bifurcation of regionalist typologies: a purely “descriptive” mode of addressing the region opposed to a
“symbolic,” or fetishized, methodology. Though it is difficult to pinpoint the tenor of this symbolism, it is clear that it offers something that “mere” description lacks.
Likewise, Peter Nicholls has made a distinction between Pound’s conception of representations of the world as “something static, which might be felt to ‘contain’ and perhaps immobilise the mind” and those that signify “something ‘beyond themselves’”
(Locations of Literary Modernism 163). In theory and criticism, this division has often been framed as the opposition between place and “space,” place and “background,” place and “setting,” or place and any number of other bland, unvarnished nouns; Arnold Hoffman writes: “it is only when scene is identified with place that the full powers of the literary imagination are challenged and used” (Place in American Fiction 4). “Place”
here is space with value added, or rather, space represented in such a way to inspire
“imagination.”3 As I have already suggested, “place,” in its association in the minds of many critics with regionalism, comes across as something of an anachronism, largely due to what Harry Harootunian calls “the increasing contemporary turn toward space and the resulting strategies of this move based on the elucidation of spatial categories” (“Space- Time” 23). If space is contemporary, globalized, and static, place is obsolete, localized, and indeterminate, the “proper” bailiwick of regionalism traditionally conceived.
This argument continues to enjoy some measure of critical popularity, as evidenced by Barbara Ladd’s recent dolorous observation in PMLA that Southern studies had yet to eschew completely the much-reviled category of place in favor of a
3 Nonwithstanding the importance of imaginative spatiality, these categories are not exclusive; it is not essential that a given area be unanimously designated “space” or
“place” in the same sense as the immutability and exclusivity of Mircea Eliade’s “sacred”
and “profane” spaces act to “obtain a fixed point and hence to acquire orientation in the chaos of homogeneity, to ‘found the world’ and to live in a real sense” in terms of ordered human civilizations (The Sacred and the Profane, 23). Rather, “place” and
“space,” being discursively created, act to delineate and texture broad, subjective interpretive zones.
wholehearted embrace of space.4 So the place/space argument may not be as fossilized as its critical heritage might suggest. Édouard Glissant, for instance, who has been (rightly) praised for granting critics in the Caribbean, the South, and elsewhere new ways of theorizing and assessing spatial and intercultural relationships, has denoted a division between ecological envisionings of the land that are “conceived of as a by-product” of
“sacred” ideas of territorial possession and belonging, and similar yet opposite ecological inclinations that criticize such mysticism and thus “act as politics” (Poetics of Relation 146). Though Glissant’s proclamation bears myriad resonances, some of which I will treat later in this chapter, we can take account, even at a cursory examination, of the fact that there are two means of relating to the land in his statement: one that denies any essentializing, mystified connection and another that promotes the same. Glissant’s rhetoric bears more than a passing relationship to the “place/space” dichotomy. In Poetics of Relation, the region appears as a crucial site for post-diaspora, globalized identity formation, yet this presentist perspective draws on much older critical discourses.
Glissant’s invocation of old place/space debates is even stronger in his Caribbean Discourse (published in French in 1981; first English translation 1989) in which he notes, in language that should now be familiar, that in postcolonial discourses that attempt to reclaim lost identities, “the relationship with the land,” especially when the community is alienated from the land by external forces, “becomes so fundamental… that landscape in the work stops being merely decorative or supportive and emerges as a full character.
4 Though Ladd suggests in “Literary Studies: The Southern U.S., 2005,” that “space”
may be a more profitable interpretive mode than its counterpart vis-à-vis Southern studies, she also conceded, at a conference in 2000, that “‘place,’ unlike ‘space,’ situates, and it does so richly and diversely. It locates things in regions whose most complete expression is neither geometric nor cartographic” (Faulkner in the 21st Century, 201).
Describing the landscape is not enough” (105). Again, Glissant is describing a postmodern, postcolonial Caribbean in which the concept of regional belonging is inextricable from complex racial and political dilemmas, yet in doing so he reproduces the language of the vanguard of regionalist criticism. Perhaps drawing on Glissant’s assertions, George Handley and Elizabeth DeLoughray, in Caribbean Literature and the Environment (2005), have claimed that, as opposed to North American landscapes that ecocritics view as “devoid of human history and labor,” Caribbean locales bear indelible marks of “colonization and forced relocation,” forcing their beholders to ponder “what might be considered a natural landscape” (2). Again, in a surprisingly contemporary text, we see the delineation of two distinct conceptions of the region: one that privileges essential and fundamental intangibles, and one that excludes the same.
I have, perhaps inadvertently, shifted the above discussion of “place” and “space”
to incorporate the third term “region,” to which I will primarily refer in the remainder of this work. My justification for this terminology is at heart simple: while “place” and
“space” suggest a mystified / demystified binarism, “region” would seem simultaneously to implicate both place and space, both a static area or volume and a more labile, less sharply delineated “atmosphere.” The region is thus a space of différance, neither one nor the other, and yet both, its meaning perpetually deferred.
Yet, as with Derrida’s term, the disadvantage of “region” is its inherent and imminent spiral into indefinability. The Oxford English Dictionary places the earliest uses of the term in the 14th century, and notes that its etymology shows affiliations with
“regere,” “to rule,” which also gives rise to “regent” and related terms, suggesting the
region as a governed area, separated from similar areas by monarchical allegiances. 5 However, as we shall see presently, with more widespread and nuanced modern conceptions of the nation-state comes the fundamental precept of the region as itself constituting a part of a kingdom or rulership. In fact, the OED notes that “regionalism,”
arising in the late 19th century, specifically denotes “the theory or practice of regional rather than central systems of administration,” establishing a basic opposition between
“national” and “regional” allegiances. Yet, when the region is conceptually separated from the nation, the term becomes progressively fuzzier; the OED defines it as “a more or less defined portion of the earth's surface.” This denotation is not, in itself, adequate to the task of assessing the region; Australia, for example, is a clearly defined portion of the earth’s surface, yet it contains distinct environmental and cultural “regions” within its borders.6 On the other hand, Northern Ireland is not a geographically distinct section of the earth’s surface but has rigid and distinct juridical and cultural boundaries. Even from a basic definition, then, arise major and seemingly irreconcilable questions: where are the borders of the region? What sort of borders are they, and who defines them? There are at least as many exceptions as adherences to any tentative rules we might advance.
Robert Jackson calls the region “maddeningly difficult to define in critical terms”
and correspondingly states that “‘regionalism’ defies generic labeling and requires a distinct approach” (Seeking the Region 5). Likely acting as a catalyst to Jackson’s frustration is the implied relativism of the region. One of the side effects of Anderson’s
5 http://www.oed.com/, Vanderbilt Library proxy accession date 17 March 2009.
6 It may be, with the increasing emphasis on the instability of coastlines ushered in by chaos theory and “island” studies, that in fact this example is not as stable as it seems.
However, as I have noted in my introduction, even if fractal curves inscribe lines of infinite length, they enclose regions of finite area, suitable to be defined and juxtaposed with other hybridized areas.
Imagined Communities (1983) was a fundamental destabilization of definitive geographic boundaries for the nation, and much of this discourse has bled over into regionalism.
Stan Smith has stated that nationhood is not a “natural” construction but “a work of artifice, for the nation has to be ideologically ‘uttered’ to be validated,” and it is likely that the region obeys similar laws—it does not exist until “uttered,” or conceived as a site for the exercise of the imagination (Locations of Literary Modernism 123).7 Yet, in regionalist fiction in particular, we see an assertion of the importance of spatial locations insofar as they are juxtaposed with other locations, the resonances of particular hills, valleys, or even city neighborhoods.8 I would like to suggest here that the ontological characteristics of the region obey rules roughly akin to those governing linguistic signs;
though its relationship to its signified elements (populations, areas) is highly relativistic, even arbitrary, it defines itself both positively, as consisting of a certain set of geographical and ideological (as opposed to linguistically morphological and phonetic) elements, and negatively, as lacking or rejecting elements that define other regions. 9
Linguistics, at least since Saussure, has been fond of denoting a privative opposition (that is, something defined by its possession of what something else lacks) as
7 Welty, innocuously enough, has also noted the importance of the utterance in forming regional identity, wondering whether part of the “magic” of a particular place lies “in the name of the place—since that is what we gave it?” (“Place in Fiction” 119).
8 This is perhaps most evident in Caribbean literature, where the subjective values attached to each region are distinct by virtue of their very static geographic boundaries (the shores of the island). However, geographical separation is essential for much Southern literature as well. See, for example, Faulkner’s description of Beat Four at the beginning of Intruder in the Dust, or Toni Cade Bambara’s portrait of the disjunction between South Atlanta and the city proper in Those Bones are Not My Child (1999).
9 For more on spatial ideologies, see Erik Bulson’s Novels, Maps, Modernity (2007), in which the author argues that all representations of space in fiction are ideological inasmuch as they are “influenced by the culture, history, economy, and politics of a particular time and place, they reflect ways of seeing the world” (11).
central to the formation of discrete phonemes. Saussure defined, in Course in General Linguistics (1916), a language as “a system of interdependent terms in which the value of each term results solely from the simultaneous presence of the others,” and phonemes themselves as characterized by “not… their own positive quality but simply by the fact that they are distinct. Phonemes are above all else opposing, relative, and negative entities” (114, 119). The same could be said of the ontological formation of the region.
For example, the region of “the South,” as many recent critics have labored to explain, has different boundaries depending on whom you ask, yet it must necessarily incorporate a set of unique elements (a plantation economy, a proliferation of Waffle Houses) and exclude other elements (early industrialization, hockey). Thus, the region exists both as what it is (the South is the South) and what it is not (the South is not the Midwest). As Richard Gray writes, regions enjoy a “mutually determining, reciprocally defining relationship. The South is what the North is not, just as the North is what the South is not” (South to a New Place xvii). This is still not a static definition of the region any more than structural linguistics adumbrates a static definition of the sign. However, if the region is, as I have suggested, reciprocally defined, it must comprise a quantity of definitive, distinctive characteristics that separate it from other regions, dialogically created as those characteristics may be.10 The work of literary regionalism is simply to represent these traits as fundamentally mystified.
Here I must note an important caveat. Though the region may absorb mystical valences, for the most part it grants them only a local habitation, not a name; the region is not the abode of spirits, at least not visible ones. William Cronon has suggested, in
10 Or, as I will state again in this work, the region relies on the globe, just as the globe relies on the region.
Wordsworth’s wilderness poems, themes “akin” to those of “the Old Testament prophets as they conversed with their wrathful God”; this I do not argue, but I would like to underscore Cronon’s qualifying “akin” by suggesting that, even if the Romantics and later poets found these themes, they were similar, not equivalent, to the tangible manifestations of divinity in holy doctrine (Uncommon Ground 74).11 The same seems to also be the case with more recent regionalist poetry, including but not limited to Derek Walcott’s meditations on St. Lucian landscapes. Walcott has suggested, in reference to these settings, that their innate spirituality is more deistic than sectarian. “Nobody can go by the Pitons,” he stated in an interview with George Handley, “and not be really moved by the power they emanate. The same thing would be true of any other sacred location that has become cherished for some vibration it gives off” (Caribbean Literature and the Environment 128).12 Walcott’s statement is a prime example of the mystical qualities commonly attributed to particular regions; though universal, they are nonetheless nonsectarian, a sort of egalitarian “vibration,” forceful, yet invisible and immeasurable.
Like Faulkner’s peculiar light in August, to say that regional mysticism moves in mysterious ways vastly underestimates the phenomenon.13 Walcott’s vibration and
11 Cronon sets foot on well-trodden ground as regards the Romantics in this passage; see M.H. Abrams, Natural Supernaturalism: Tradition and Revolution in Romantic Literature, 1973.
12 The Pitons are the two volcanic spires that dominate the north and south ends of St.
Lucia. They hold immense symbolic significance for Walcott’s poetry, and great spiritual significance for native religion.
13 Much of this unspecified spirituality can be traced to early American rhetorics of what Sacvan Bercovitch calls “outmoded, quasi-biblical forms” that lent “a system of sacred- secular symbols” to a populace increasingly “intent on progress” (Rites of Assent 34-35).
Bercovitch notes a distinct split between medieval Catholicism’s tendency to grant
“sacred places” direct Biblical relevances (such as Canaan) and post-Reformation insistences upon exactly the opposite, advancing the idea that “the only Canaan in this
Faulkner’s illumination are exemplars of what I will refer to here as secularized regional mysticism, the presence of uncoded symbolic properties in a metaphysical landscape.
Such properties in regionalist literature generally take the form of truncation and elongation of space, romanticization of landscapes and valorization of the lives of those who populate them, and the projection of human, superhuman, or subhuman characteristics onto the region. Thus I arrive at the basic definition of regionalism on which the remainder of these theses will depend: that which sanctifies without naming.
In formulating the theses to come, I will largely be discussing the U.S. South as my fetishized region par example, and a few qualifying remarks on this decision may be in order, as the South is, like any region, immensely slippery and seemingly subjective.
Part of my reasoning in making this choice has to do with the Southern region’s troubled relationship with U.S. nationalism, which I shall return to in greater depth later in this chapter. In addition, the scope and extent of the South’s repeated insistence upon fetishized generalisms as constitutive parts of its identity also make it an ideal subject.
Michael Kreyling has noted that “students and critics of southern literature” have been vigorously “schooled” in the belief that their subject “is not invented by our discussions of it but rather is revealed by a constant southern identity” (ix). This contention, against which Kreyling fulminates in Inventing Southern Literature (1998), is both “one of the perennial claims of the South and its literature,” compromising a fundamental truism in the work of Louis Rubin, Cleanth Brooks, and other writers of the Agrarian school of criticism, and an implicit privileging of the epistemological category of “southern identity” (xi). If this identity is necessarily immutable (as in Rubin’s writing especially),
world was the kingdom within” (ibid, 76-77). This secularization of “sacred places”
certainly played a key role in shaping the eventual nebulousness of regional mysticisms.