Unsteadily Marching on the U.S. South Motion E-Book

AAVV

• Herausgeber: Publicacions de la Universitat de València
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Serie: Biblioteca Javier Coy d'Estudis Nord-Americans
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 605

Beschreibung

This collection includes a rich variety of approaches to Southerners' complex understandings of change and developments reflected in the literature, history, and culture of this distinctive region. Contributors from both sides of the Atlantic address introspective journeys of literary pilgrimage, shed new light on the history of the civil rights movement as well as its reflection in literature, analyse transactions from literature to film, trace religious pilgrimages in both history and film, and follow a host of authors and literary figures on their journeys through the South or their forced or voluntary flight from it, in search of other places where they might find refuge or where they might sow the seeds of a new beginning.

Leseprobe

UNSTEADILY MARCHING ON

THE U.S. SOUTH IN MOTION

Biblioteca Javier Coy d’estudis nord-americans

http://www.uv.es/bibjcoy

DirectoraCarme Manuel

UNSTEADILY MARCHING ON

THE U.S. SOUTH IN MOTION

Constante González Groba, ed.

Biblioteca Javier Coy d’estudis nord-americansUniversitat de València

Unsteadily Marching On: The U.S. South in Motion

©Ed. Constante González Groba

La preparación y publicación de este libro

han sido posibles gracias a la financiación

del MINECO (proyecto FFI2010-17061)

1ª edición de 2013

Reservados todos los derechos

Prohibida su reproducción total o parcial

ISBN: 978-84-9134-148-2

Imagen de la portada: Sophia de Vera Höltz

Diseño de la cubierta: Celso Hernández de la Figuera

Publicacions de la Universitat de València

http://puv.uv.es

[email protected]

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Constante González Groba

I. INWARD JOURNEYS

Mister M, Mister I, Mister SSI

Bill Lazenbatt

From Space to Self: Will Barrett’s Travels in Walker Percy’s

The Last Gentleman Gérald Préher

Leaving New York: The Post-9/11 South in Reynolds Price and Jay McInerney

Thomas Ærvold Bjerre

II. ON THE ROAD AGAIN WITH CORMAC McCARTHY

Cormac McCarthy and the Craftsman Hero

Robert Brinkmeyer, Jr.

The Moveable South: Plantation Memory in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road

John T. Matthews

“Man delights not me”: Blood Meridian and the Apocalypse

Jan Nordby Gretlund

Suffer Little Children: McCarthy’s Lazarillos and the Ordeal of Mobility in the Southern Canon

Jacques Pothier

III. MOVING ACROSS GENRES: LITERATURE AND FILM

Jason as Cajun Saint: The Sound and the Fury on Film

M. Thomas Inge

A Culinary Journey across the Color Line: Foodways and Race in Southern Literature and Motion Pictures

Urzsula Niewiadomska-Flis

Elvis Culture(d), or How the South Got Democratized

Beata Zawadka

IV. MARCHING AS A POLITICAL STATEMENT: THE CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT

Gone to Washington: Mobilizing the 1968 Poor People’s Campaign

Elizabeth Hayes Turner

Progressive White Catholics in the South and Civil Rights, 1945-1970

Mark Newman

Turning South Again: Conjuring Mississippi’s Freedom Summer in Sans Souci, Trinidad

Sharon Monteith

The Intersections of History and Fiction in Thulani Davis’s 1959

Youli Theodosiadou

V. RELIGIOUS PEREGRINATIONS

From the Old South to the New: The Tansformation of Southern Religion

David Goldfield

The Hard Road to Salvation: Southern Fundamentalism in Peter Taylor’s “The Hand of Emmagene”

Ineke Bockting

VI. INROADS AND OUTROADS

Once Upon a Doctor’s Life: Abraham Verghese’s Coming of Age in East Tennessee in the Era of AIDS

Nahem Yousaf

The Haitian Connection and the Burden of Southern History in Connie May Fowler’s Sugar Cage

Suzanne W. Jones

A Fast Journey from the Slow South: Mobility and Identity in Chris Offutt’s The Good Brother

Marcel Arbeit

Transcending Southern Borders – Writing Home from Europe

Waldemar Zacharasiewicz

African Americans Moving from the South to the Non-South (1916-1918)

Valeria Gennaro Lerda

Contributors

Acknowledgments

The biennial conference of the Southern Studies Forum, “Southern Destinations / The South in Motion,” could not have taken place without the generous financial support of the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation (reference FFI2011-13439-E). The conference was organized by the research group LITCULUSA which is funded by the University of Santiago. Special thanks go to the cultural section of the US Embassy in Madrid for their generous financial assistance that made possible the presence of Bobbie Ann Mason.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Noel Polk,who showed us the way.

Introduction

Constante González Groba

This volume presents a selection of papers from the biennial conference of the Southern Studies Forum, held at the University of Santiago de Compostela in September 2011. It seemed a good idea to all the members of the executive board to choose motion and travel as the conference theme, a theme broad enough to allow different paths of approach for both historians and literary critics. Santiago is, after all, one of the most famous places in the world for the ars peregrinandi. Known for El Camino, The Way, Santiago is the final destination of different routes for pilgrims to approach by foot, by bicycle or on horse, a journey of outer and inner exploration in search of answers to the most profound mysteries of existence. The reasons for the pilgrimage can be secular or religious, and each one finds his or her own motivations in anguished soliloquies along the way or in dialogue with fellow travelers. Thus, Santiago is for many a destination which represents a new beginning, a soil in which to sow the seeds for regeneration. Santiago is also the capital of Galicia, a traditionally poor region that for centuries has seen many of its sons and daughters migrate to other parts of Spain, as well as to other countries and continents, in search of a better life.

One of the stereotypical features of the US South has always been its supposed nostalgia for the Old Order and its resistance to the national narrative of historical progress, but it is change that constitutes life, and the South has always been moving and changing, though in its own distinctive way. In a piece published in the New York Times on April 29, 2007, the Appalachian writer Lee Smith lamented the arrival of change in the town of Hillsborough, North Carolina, where she resides “in an old house on the main street.” It is still very much of a rural place, “but things have been changing ever since the Old South turned into the Sun Belt and, even more so, since Money magazine wrote up our area last year as one of the five best places in America to live.” The piece expresses concern over the threat of progress to the traditional, family-owned businesses and the vibrant life in the streets where everybody knows each other, as well as the difficulty of creating a sense of belongingness for everybody, “especially everybody in the big new suburbs outside town.” But if such changes in our liquid, postmodern society are unstoppable, and risk destabilizing our identity, it is no less true that places have always changed, all places, that inherent to the passage of time is the process of constant change. Smith does not seem to see the irony implicit in the fact that the “authenticity” touted by the town’s mayor is the product of the superimposition of different layers of development corresponding to successive phases in the town’s history; the romanticized “authenticity” derives precisely from the place’s “strong heritage—from Occaneechi Native American roots to its Revolutionary and Civil War history, to the jazz singers, mill workers and farmers of the last century” (“The South”). The identity of every place, even the one we call “home,” is always to some degree provisional, and is continuously being produced, and the past was never more static than the present. The irreparable loss of traditions associated with a central relation to the land forces people to seek new definitions of fundamental concepts such as home, community, and family.

A principal concern for southern literature, perhaps for all literatures, has always been the nature of time and how change affects the individual. The conflict between tradition and change provided the writers of the Southern Renascence with some of their recurrent images and made southern literature famous for its preoccupation with the nature of the passage of time and the way social change affects the individual. Southern literature abounds in characters whose resistance to change makes them grotesque and self-destructive, like Hightower in Faulkner’s Light in August, and Hazel Motes in Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood, which traces the reverse Pilgrim’s Progress of a fanatical exsoldier toward his goal of a Church Without Christ. In many works the central conflict is that between changers and preservers, with the preservers sometimes seen in a positive light – like Mrs. Johnson and Maggie in Alice Walker’s “Everyday Use” – because they defend an empowering family tradition and continuity; at other times they are denounced for their intolerance, such as in the case of the ladies of the Missionary Society in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird who staunchly defend the racism and sexism of their society. Some individuals and societies are more prone to the movement and change that brings a sense of heightened awareness of the world than others that prefer the connectedness and the security of the familiar. In nature too some animals are constantly walking, running or flying, whereas others have to hibernate or stay close to their lairs in order to survive. The tendency to move and the tendency to rest often coexist in the same individual or society, and both are not only necessary but also complementary, as are the doing that accelerates our existence and the being that applies the brakes when necessary. Bobbie Ann Mason, who participated in our conference, has repeatedly written about the dilemmas of people who confront drastic and rapid change in the postmodern South, about the dichotomy between those who are born to run and take advantage of the greater possibilities provided by a changed culture, and those who stick to their old ways and put blinders on to protect themselves from outside influences. Whereas in stories of the 1980s like “Residents and Transients” and “Love Life” Mason clearly advocates transience and the roaming disposition, and tends to identify the “call of the hearth” with stasis and death, in some of the stories of her third collection, Zigzagging down a Wild Trail (2001), she is much more ambivalent. Significantly, this ambivalence coincides with her own move back to rural Kentucky from the Northeast in the spring of 1990, and her concomitant discovery that it is when you return that you discover and know for the first time where you came from, that the place where you belong is where you know who you are. The Mason who in the 1980s preferred the straight lines of those who go away from home into the world, resorted in the late 1990s to one of the favorite symbols of the conservative Nathaniel Hawthorne—the spiral, which fuses the opposites of roaming and a center. In her memoir Clear Springs (1999) she writes: “But I always knew where my center was—here, on this land. This is my parents’ greatest gift—this rootedness, this grounding. It is what has let me roam. I’ve been like a hawk on a gyre, flying off, ranging as fast as I can—yet always spiraling back, securely tethered to home” (280). In her memoir Mason returns to the dilemma between the two types of wild cat populations that had provided the dominant metaphor for her characters’ ambivalence about their roots in her first story collection Shiloh (1982):

For a long time, I’ve been preoccupied with why some folks stay and some stray. I read about a scientific study of cats in the wild. It had been assumed that cats who established a territory, or home base, were the successful ones, while those who remained roamers were the losers. The study uncovered evidence that the transients, not the residents, might be the more resourceful cats, accepting greater risks and more varied opportunities for prey and mates. It was almost as though they were exercising imagination. It’s an old question—the call of the hearth or the call of the wild? Should I stay or should I go? Who is better off, those who traipse around or those who spend decades in the same spot, growing roots? (280)

She is no longer sure, and gives an answer to which Nathaniel Hawthorne would subscribe wholeheartedly and which rejects the exclusive logic of either/or in favor of an inclusive one of both/and: “The way I see it, a clever cat prowls but calls home occasionally. The answer is the mingling of sunlight and shadow; it’s ambiguity, not either-or. The best journeys spiral up and around [...]. In the Zen journey, when you return, you know for the first time where you came from” (280-81).

A central concern of literature has always been that of journeys, the journey being a most basic narrative action. Indeed, literature and travel have always been inseparable, so much so that writing is itself movement; it is a journey on which the writer embarks toward a destination as uncertain as it is fascinating. Who does not remember metaphors that equate life with travel and speak about the individual’s life on earth as a journey? The first section of this book is about narratives that deal with journeys that code the passage through life of characters that are either in flight from or in search of themselves, or both. Our journey begins on the Mississippi, the river that was once the commercial artery of the nation and which continues to carry new blood and renewed energies to American fiction. In his wide-ranging essay, Bill Lazenbatt takes us on a most eventful and varied journey down the river that has such a permanent significance in the history and literature of the South, through representative texts of Mark Twain, William Faulkner, Richard Ford and Lee Smith. Making use of Judith Butler’s notion of the performative and repetitive quality of gender definition, Lazenbatt explores the minds of several male voyagers on the Mississippi “to enquire into the extent to which their river experiences help to clarify or consolidate their gender definition and sense of masculinity.” Huck Finn’s rafting to selfdiscovery takes him to a manhood that goes far beyond physical prowess into serious moral dimensions. As Lazenbatt argues, in Twain’s novel the journey concludes with Huck leaving “his early social subservience behind and shoulder[ing] in its place a sense of morally brave masculinity.” Lazenbatt also addresses the ambiguities of gender definition and the questioning of masculinity in the “Wild Palms” narrative which are counterbalanced, in Faulkner’s The Wild Palms, by the display of active, assertive maleness of the convict protagonist of “Old Man,” who comes full circle after the river, itself known as “Old Man,” tests his manhood.

Lazenbatt also considers Richard Ford’s A Piece of My Heart, in which there are similarities to Huckleberry Finn and The Wild Palms, and in which the protagonist searches for renewal in the Mississippi by whose power the appropriately named Newel is tested and rebaptized into confident manhood. In a most interesting coda, Lazenbatt turns to the women in connection with the “masculine” river in Lee Smith’s The Last Girls, which trespasses on “male territory” (the Mississippi has traditionally been considered to be masculine) with unconvincing results. In his opinion, the voyage “lacks any real sense of the river as a significant presence, as it is in the male fiction discussed.” The river exerts no worthwhile influence on the women’s lives, serving only as a reminder of their early raft trip which they are commemorating aboard a tourist riverboat. Lee Smith may reflect accurately what Lazenbatt terms “the commercialism and consumerism of the contemporary and synthetic Mississippi experience,” but all the mythical force of the river god is irretrievably gone.

One of the South’s most famous fictional “pilgrims” is Will Barrett, the protagonist of Walker Percy’s The Last Gentleman, a novel which keenly explores the individual psyche. In his essay, Gérald Préher traces Barrett’s journey in space (North to South) and time (from the present to the family past), a personal journey that in some respects parallels the journeys of a region which is experiencing the beginnings of the civil rights movement. Percy’s characters are plagued by an intense awareness of their dislocation in a world from which they feel permanently estranged. Barrett has set out on a perilous journey to selfhood and needs to understand the voices of his past in order to gain access to the present, and he is not ready to face the world until he thinks he understands himself. In a novel that tests the idea that the South provides the only remedy to the modern malaise, Will Barrett reluctantly faces the hidden past – what Préher calls “the heart of his father’s darkness” – in the attic of his former house, where the past and the present overlap. As Préher aptly concludes, “The aim of the pilgrimage is to bring [Will Barrett] salvation, and the one who cannot feel the change would be – to use Percy’s expression – forever ‘lost in the cosmos.’”

Thomas Bjerre’s paper focuses on the presence of the South in the genre of 9/11 fiction. While most of the novels about 9/11 have focused only on New York, two novels have used the South in a significant way. Reynolds Price’s The Good Priest’s Son (2005) and Jay McInerney’s The Good Life (2006) contrast frenetic traumatized cosmopolitan New York with a laid-back South still unspoiled by modernity. In both novels the traumatized protagonists find liberation from the chaos of the wounded metropolis in the tranquility of the small-town South, where they temporarily escape the 21st century. Bjerre maintains that while these two novels are realistic depictions of the aftermath of 9/11, their view of the South appears to perpetuate the stereotypes that have always trivialized the region; that, if the modern world is falling apart, the South is fortunately not a part of it.

Undoubtedly the dominant living southern writer, Cormac McCarthy is famous for his opening of new paths in southern fiction after moving west to create masterpieces of the western, and for his creation of heavily burdened travelers that quest for meaning in a violent and dark world. Consequently he attracts the attention of scholars interested in literary movements as well as in the physical and mental displacements of his characters. In the first essay of section II, Robert Brinkmeyer sees McCarthy’s vision of craft and making as possibilities for redemption at the center of a dark and disintegrating world. Following Edward-Lucie Smith’s definition of craft as a calling requiring special skill and knowledge, and the simultaneous engagement of thinking and making, Brinkmeyer argues that the commitment and dedication of the craftsman to his calling, characterized by meaningful work, stands as an important creative antidote to the destructive power and greed that dominate history. In the constancy and continuity of craft knowledge, Brinkmeyer sees a valuable alternative to the ceaseless wanderings of many of the drifters that abound in McCarthy’s fiction. With their quiet heroism, the old-style craftsmen—stonemasons, blacksmiths, doctors—carry a hope, dignity and honor that offer heroic resistance to the “unmakers,” the craftsmen of destruction such as the judge in Blood Meridian and Chigurh in No Country for Old Men, who destroy people and dismantle fundamental principles and structures of society. Brinkmeyer defines the quiet craftsmen who show compassion and carry the fire of creation as “those [McCarthy’s heroes] who keep their humanity alive and pass it along to others, holding back, at least for a while, the darkness of the coming days.”

John Matthews elaborates on the connections of McCarthy’s 21st-century post-apocalyptic novel The Road with the Old South. In their precarious journey, father and son come across a “once grand house” that is unmistakably a dilapidated plantation mansion, where “chattel slaves had once trod those boards bearing food and drink on silver trays,” now turned into a place where people are imprisoned to be cannibalized. Expelled from their confortable 21st century American lifestyle, father and son run into a totally unexpected and forgotten foundation of their country’s well-being. As Matthews notes, “The mansion signifies the open secret that terror made America: the scene evokes a palimpsest of plantation mutilation and murder—the middle passage; slaveholding’s cannibalization of laboring bodies; post-emancipation lynching; and eerie suggestions of their modern avatars: penitentiaries, ‘deathcamps,’ post-9/11 torture sites.” Matthews elaborates on three interesting hypotheses about the presence of plantation colonialism in McCarthy’s novels, which he describes as “debris fields of North American history.” The first is that McCarthy’s fiction—mostly set in Appalachia and the Southwest, two areas in which there were practically no plantation economies—suggests the extent to which the whole of the South was tainted by the “original sin” of the nation’s dependence on slaveholding agriculture. The second hypothesis is that the spreading of the plantation economy across the land “required forms of representation for the subjugation of nature and native that McCarthy’s prose seeks to counter.” The third holds that in The Road the author might be suggesting that the American nation’s origins in colonial violence have a lot to do with some permanent, catastrophic ruin.

In his essay, Jan Gretlund engages in a strenuous journey through McCarthy’s new American classic, Blood Meridian, and successfully pursues the traces of Freud, Katherine Anne Porter, Shakespeare, T. S. Eliot, John “the Divine,” Milton, Swinburne and D. H. Lawrence. Gretlund explores McCarthy’s inversions of the journeys of those other “noteworthy travelers upon that midnight plain.” Freud compared the relation between a rider and his horse to that between the ego and the id and, as Gretlund argues, “In Blood Meridian we may well question whether the minds, the egos of the pale riders, are in control of their not so pale passions and energy, or if their ids take control and decide where they go and what they do.” Gretlund relates the darkness that prevails in McCarthy’s masterpiece to that described in T. S. Eliot’s “East Coker,” which in turn alludes to Milton’s Samson Agonistes and Tennyson’s “In Memoriam.” In the works of both McCarthy and Katherine Anne Porter, humans are portrayed as God’s fools, ignorant victims, but also foolish because of their foolish and grotesque actions. In neither Porter’s Ship of Fools nor Blood Meridian are there any likeable characters, no warm, lovable human beings. There is evil everywhere in our lives, no hope of human possibility, no redemptive religious faith, and both Porter and McCarthy repudiate the romanticization and idealization of the southern past. McCarthy concurs with Shakespeare and Porter that the quintessence of man is his inhumanity to man, in a world ruled by war. Gretlund also traces interesting parallels between Blood Meridian’s emphasis on the awaiting apocalypse and the passage of the opening of the seven seals in the Book of Revelation, a book that equally delights in depicting slaughter and mayhem. D. H. Lawrence, who also uses the image of the pale horse, pale rider, as well as a similar tone to that of Blood Meridian, is for Gretlund perhaps the most obvious and the most overlooked influence on McCarthy. Gretlund concludes that, in the tradition of Mark Twain’s best work, “McCarthy shows us the history of mankind without a romantic veil. When he perseveres in presenting us with an overload of man’s inhumanity to man, the novelist does so because his conviction is that we need to be made aware of the inhumanity in ourselves, constantly and endlessly.”

In an essay which sheds light on the ordeal of mobility in southern literature and culture, Jacques Pothier deals with the tension between the home and the road, staying and going, with going as the only available option to dispossessed picaros, the questing “kids” that abound in southern literature. In Cormac MacCarthy’s The Road, where we find the child with his father, in a world irrevocably deprived of human values, the pattern of the picaresque is reduced to its bare essentials, and in this novel McCarthy continues a pattern present in his earlier novels, in which young people “ride on,” preferably south, as do the two protagonists of All the Pretty Horses, John Grady Cole and Lacey Rawlings, who “took the road South such road as it was,” as if they were later-day versions of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. What they encounter in Mexico is, according to Pothier, a Hispanic South which “is made the museum of what is left of the West. It is a South whose alien, exotic quality is underlined by the use of the Spanish language in retranscribed dialogue.”

Section III straddles questions of both literature and film. The South has long been one of the main sources of inspiration for the Hollywood film industry. Motion pictures are eloquent cultural texts to read not only about how southerners conceive of themselves and their region, but also how the rest of America perceives and portrays the southern imaginary. In his analysis of a little-known film adaptation of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, directed by Martin Ritt in 1959, Thomas Inge discusses the difficulties of translating to the screen one of the greatest 20th-century American novels, one which has no plot as such and is told by multiple narrators. Producer Terry Wald took it as an intriguing challenge and tried hard to translate the spirit and essence of the original in visual terms, with results that were less than satisfactory. Wald placed Caddy’s rebellion and the life of her unhappy daughter Miss Quentin at the center, with Miss Quentin as the film narrator; Faulkner’s story of family tragedy, incest and dissolution ended up as an ordinary, though odd, love story, in which Quentin’s suicide is concealed and Caddy is made to return home, thus rendering Faulkner’s darling female rebel into a southern belle like Blanche Dubois, and redirecting the plot towards conventional romance. The Hollywood star system imposed Yul Brynner to fill the role of Jason Compson, and in view of his accented English and his Russian/Swiss/Mongolian appearance, the screen writer made him a Cajun from Louisiana. The result was a movie suggested by the novel, rather than an adaptation of Faulkner’s masterpiece. With movie adaptations, the question is not faithfulness to the original but if the film is good on its own merits. According to Inge, “This one fails on both counts” but “it remains a peculiar film with its own sense of failing grace.”

In her essay, Urzsula Niewiadomska-Flis takes us on a luscious culinary journey across the color line, examining along the way the intricate connections between food and race in literary and filmic texts as representative as The Last Gentleman, Driving Miss Daisy, Passion Fish, Can’t Quit You, Baby and Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café. Niewiadomska-Flis analyzes different spaces and contact zones connected to the discourse of food and domesticity, spaces which become the site of complex negotiations of race and gender. The pantry, the kitchen, the dining room or the diner all help southerners in their attempts to fathom themselves and the racial other. Food production and consumption can highlight racial divisions and also heal them through the reconciliatory potential of food, which overturns hierarchical relationships, as we see in Passion Fish and Can’t Quit You, Baby. In the texts analyzed by Niewiadomska-Flis food preparation and consumption allow characters to re-consider or go beyond pre-conceived notions of a racist system which is transcended through personal involvement and connection. Through food the domestic acquires a crucial political dimension, and in Fried Green Tomatoes two women who exhibit unconventional sexual practices challenge political and economic hierarchies by controlling their access to food.

Beata Zawadka in her contribution dives into the notion of “Elvis culture” and its significance for the South and its identity, as well as for American democracy and culture more broadly. Zawadka draws on the view held by Erica Doss and others that “Elvis culture” erupts as a multifarious, elastic and enigmatic phenomenon that resembles America when she puts on her choicest democratic attire. “Elvis culture” also generates fascinating debates about notions of contemporary southern democracy and its questionable potential for rebellion and diversification. Zawadka uses the theory of performance to interpret one of the most neglected elements of the above mentioned culture, the Elvis movies (or else, as she puts it, the idea of the “filmmaking Elvis”) as a “uniformly (un)cultured” question, hoping that this “will allow us in the first place to play this idea out as simultaneously reflecting and resisting what can be called the ‘dominant’ Elvis ideology.” What results is a complex analysis of a performative – thus “(un)critical” – rendition of southern identity as portrayed in three Presley movies – Love Me Tender, Harum Scarum, and Change of Habit – which constitute an instructive barometer of the ever-changing cultural and socio-political face of the South and of the whole nation.

Few historical turns contributed more than the civil rights movement to changing the South, both individually and collectively. The days when walking and sitting in were potent political statements clearly left an indelible mark on the history and the literature of the region. In the first essay of section IV, Elizabeth Hayes Turner traces the development and re-appraises the reverberations of the Poor People’s Campaign, a logical economic extension of the civil rights movement, organized in 1968 by the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, including Martin Luther King, Jr. This momentous event which sprang from the strike of sanitation workers in Memphis, Tennessee, concluded with between 3,000 and 5,000 of the nation’s destitute moving to Washington DC where they lived temporarily in “Resurrection City,” a compound of makeshift dwellings on the National Mall. It was a more inclusive project than any previous civil rights initiative, in that the SCLC brought into the pilgrimage African Americans, Mexican Americans, Native Americans, Appalachian poor whites and Puerto Ricans. The aim was to make Americans pay attention to those who had previously been invisible and excluded from the Dream and to make them aware that even in the prosperous 1960s there was considerable poverty, directly attributable to the nation’s history of exclusion of the racial other and to the squandering of money in the imperialistic war in Vietnam. Although most historians, led by the negative press coverage of the time, consider the campaign a failure, Turner argues that the PPC actually gave rise to a number of groups and initiatives that continued to fight and to change misguided federal practices. The greatest impact, though, was not on Congress or the Government but on the many activists and the participants themselves, who undertook to carry the flame and continued the fight to raise awareness among the poor and the disadvantaged. As Turner sustains, “out of the radicalizing experience of the Poor People’s Campaign emerged participant leaders who channeled their energy into a virulent anti-war movement, identity politics of the 1970s, and into lasting support mechanisms for distressed children.”

Mark Newman uses archival records, diocesan newspapers, pamphlets and interviews for his essay on the positioning of white Catholics in the South with respect to civil rights. He provides precious information about the progressive minority who urged white Catholics to reject segregation, as well as the religious and secular arguments used by segregationists to support Jim Crow. The ranks of progressive white Catholics in the South included some migrants and some members of northern religious orders assigned to the region. The progressive circles included bishops, priests, nuns, editors of diocesan newspapers, faculty at seminaries and Catholic higher educational institutions, as well as male and female laity. The progressives propagated their position through sermons, pastoral letters, articles in the diocesan press, etc. Sometimes they met and cooperated with civil rights organizations, and a few took part in the protests. Some of the seeds sown by the progressives sprouted, leading some to revise their views on segregation, whereas many accepted the change reluctantly and only on the instruction of their prelates or priests. Newman provides a well-researched account of the progressives’ motivations, of their religious and secular arguments, activities, and influence.

In her essay, Sharon Monteith straddles the civil rights movement and the Caribbean South. She describes her analysis of Trinidadian Elizabeth Nunez’s novel Beyond the Limbo Silence (1998) as “an attempt to reconfigure aspects of the civil rights movement in the southern United States by shifting its meaning further south.” In her novel, Nunez imaginatively links Mississippi’s Freedom Summer project of 1964 with the history of a Trinidadian family and with images of Voudon, Obeah and Calypso, and explores the intersections of the long history of colonial oppression in the Caribbean and the wounds of racial discrimination in the US South. Nunez’s incursions into the surreal are for Monteith “both an unusual and a risky literary strategy when sensitivity and fidelity to the experiences of civil rights workers is a structuring principle of many civil rights fictions.” In a novel in which Nunez draws from her own experiences as a foreign student in the US, three Caribbean students in a college in Wisconsin engage in discussions and debates about how each may best help the cause of civil rights. Monteith relates aspects of the novel to John Lowe’s concept of “Calypso Magnolia,” which refers to fictions in which different cultures overlap and to the transnational counter-narratives that challenge previous assumptions about “nation” or “region.” Monteith believes that “[i]n extending a tragic and traumatic moment in the civil rights movement beyond regional and national boundaries, Nunez is inventive if not entirely successful in integrating the historical with the surreal.” She also argues that Nunez’s novel might fruitfully be read alongside Wilson Harris’s creolization theories, whereby histories, fables and myths serve to support those groups who resist and survive practices of victimization. Monteith concludes that “Beyond the Limbo Silence is a coming-of-age story, a Bildungsroman, and it may, of course, be read as a memorial to the civil rights activists who died for the struggle but it is more successful as a sad and gentle critique of cultural blindness.”

Youli Theodosiadou’s contribution provides a most valuable example of the ways in which history can function as emplotted narrative and shows how Thulani Davis’s civil rights novel 1959 gains its power from history, in that it focuses on the issue of school integration and its influence on the child narrator-protagonist. The novel skillfully incorporates pivotal historical incidents of the civil rights movement such as the confrontation at Central High in Little Rock, Arkansas and the sit-in strategy launched by black students in Greensboro, NC, in February 1960. When the protagonist, Willie Tarrant, hears Martin Luther King speak during one of his visits to her hometown of Turner, Virginia, she feels empowered and realizes that she too can come to share in the American Dream. She also realizes that growing up black in the US South entails a complex set of parameters that merge the political with the personal. Theodosiadou skillfully analyzes the ways in which Davis blends the historical with the fictional to create a potent coming-of-age narrative that not only captures a pivotal phase of American history but also successfully negotiates the connection between place and history. As Theodosiadou concludes, Thulani Davis “constructs a verbal monument so as to remind us that history cannot be suppressed or forgotten.”

Religion has always been a crucial factor in the culture of the American South. The fifth section of the current volume contains two essays on southern religion, one historical and the other literary. The Second Great Awakening which began in the early 19th century was a national phenomenon that resulted in significant growth in evangelical protestant denominations. In his essay, David Goldfield explores the denominational sundering caused by slavery, which made southern and northern evangelicals grow apart, a separation that was manifested most blatantly in the sectional break-up of the Baptists and Methodists in the mid 1840s, with slavery as a major cause for the rift. Before the Civil War, ministers were more influential in moving public opinion and the church was more entangled in matters of state in the North than in the South. But after the war, and because of it, everything changed; the South became the most religious region of the country, whereas northerners, as Goldfield says, “did not abandon their faith, but they placed it within the broader context of a rapidly urbanizing and industrializing society.” If northerners in the late 19th century were more keen on making money in a capitalistic world that was becoming more secularized by the day, southerners, as Goldfield argues, “integrated evangelical Protestantism into every aspect of their culture and politics,” to the point that many considered both secession and slavery as divine blessings that made southerners a chosen people attacked by northern barbarians. After the war, the southern church became a major source of comfort to the defeated and enabled white southerners to rationalize defeat as spiritually strengthening and eventually redeeming. While northerners relegated religion to a subordinate role, white southerners came to sanctifying the past, and their church incorporated the creed of the Lost Cause.

Southern women had always been more devout than the men. After the war they intensified their role as guardians of memory. Goldfield explains: “As history blended into faith, and as the boundaries between public and private spheres in the South became indistinct, women became the attendants of sacred southern memory.”

In her autobiography Killers of the Dream (1949), Lillian Smith likened southern evangelist preachers to political demagogues because both “won allegiance by bruising and then healing a deep fear within men’s minds.” According to Smith, those preachers of fire and brimstone “believed their way of salvation was ‘right,’ as did the old circuit riders, and could not conceive of another way of avoiding destruction” (Smith 103). Ineke Bockting addresses the tragic and often self-destructive consequences of southern religious fundamentalism as reflected in Peter Taylor’s verse story “The Hand of Emmagene,” in which a girl commits a desperate act of self-mutilation as a consequence of the puritanical religious outlook of a family and a congregation prone to literal interpretations of the Bible. Bockting reexamines the relation of the story to southern Gothic and analyzes the formal and thematic liminalities in Taylor’s story, emphasizing the aspects that carry the story beyond the southern Gothic into the grotesque. In her discussion of a story that asks the reader to accompany the protagonist on her hard road to salvation, Bockting pays close attention to the stylistic and narratological aspects of the text in order to bring out the way in which empathy is created, thus making the reader join the unfortunate traveler on this hard road.

The final section of the volume covers a variety of literary journeys into and out of the South. In the first essay here, Nahem Yousaf looks into the untold story of a southern community fighting the ravages of AIDS, as told by immigrant doctor Abraham Verghese in his memoir My Own Country: A Doctor’s Story of a Town and Its People in the Age of AIDS. The memoir examines the links that Verghese establishes between his experience as an Indian immigrant arriving in Johnson City, East Tennessee via Ethiopia, India and urban North America, and the experiences of a community within a community living with HIV. It describes how Verghese, between 1985 and 1989, found a homeplace in “another country,” the beautiful area at the foot of the Smoky Mountains from which his AIDS patients had once escaped, but to which they now return to die. Yousaf reads Verghese’s memoir in terms of a series of cultural flows and concurs with Werner Sollors’s thesis that the traditional US settler-frontier is revised by new immigrants in new places. This paper also considers the cultural impact of Verghese’s narrative through the different manifestations in which it reaches different audiences−the first mode in which Verghese explored HIV in his southern narrative was the short story “Lilacs” (The New Yorker, 1991), which led to the creation of the memoir, published in 1994. This was in turn adapted by the Indian director Mira Nair to the 1998 movie My Own Country. Yousaf maintains that “In My Own County [Verghese] tracks the voyage of discovery he makes to the realization that his patients comprise much of his own story too.”

Suzanne Jones analyzes Connie May Fowler’s first novel Sugar Cage (1992), which opens in 1945 and spans more than two decades, and which examines the race relations of two generations of southerners. Jones reads the novel as a narrative which provides the lenses for readers to see beyond the regional to the global South. She pays attention to the ways in which magical realism functions as an interesting connective tissue between black and white worlds in Florida, in a work whose author explores cultural and transnational complexities, especially the importation of African and Haitian belief systems and Florida’s reliance on Haitian migrant workers. Jones embraces the theories of Antonio Benítez-Rojo, who argues that Caribbean revolutionary discourses, which reacted to slavery, colonialism, and the plantation economy, inform the literary expression that is known as magical realism. By the conclusion of Sugar Cage, several of Fowler’s characters have crossed color lines and national boundaries to make personal connections, though practically no institutional changes. In her narrative of southern race relations, Fowler depicts a migrant worker of mixed Haitian and Seminole Indian ancestry, Soleil Marie Beauvoir, thus complicating the biracial history of the South; she also includes an interracial romance as a metaphor for the potential transformations that the local can have on the region and the nation. At the same time she shows how agribusiness has spawned a neo-plantation system that exploits migrants of color to the present day. As Jones writes, “Both the civil rights movement and the Vietnam War complicate the domestic dramas of Fowler’s working-class characters and remind readers that the young lovers’ [Soleil Marie and the white teenager Emory Looney] romance is part of a larger political and international story, in which resolution does not come easily.” Jones concludes that the fact that Fowler chooses a partner of color for her white protagonist is proof of the reach of Caribbean cultures into the US South, and “[t]hat her mixed-race character Soleil Marie turns to transcultural improvisation to fulfill her dream makes the knowledge of several characters more powerful than that of one.”

Marcel Arbeit’s essay looks at the connection between forced movement and individual identity, and analyzes the ordeal of a southerner confronting the taboo of breaking away from the family to go West in The Good Brother, the first novel by the Appalachian writer Chris Offutt. The protagonist journeys westward in highly dramatic circumstances and with unsatisfactory results, as Montana holds very few desirable things in store for him. The novel describes the life journey of a loser named Virgil Caudill from the Appalachian part of Kentucky, where the hills seem to move more than the inhabitants of the hollows, one of those environments that Zygmunt Bauman describes as “communities of life and fate” (11). For the first time in his life, the protagonist has to face the interrelated problems of mobility, migration and identity, and he confronts the paradox of identity – how to reconcile moving with the desire for security. To gain security and acceptance in the Appalachian community, Virgil has to avenge his brother and then escape to a world outside his native region; taking the new name Joe Tiller, he goes on to inhabit what Arbeit calls “the void between two lives.” Virgil is capable of shucking off his Kentuckian identity to become a westerner, and at the same time he finds features of Montana similar to the hills of Kentucky, which itself suggests a vicious circle in which heading westward is not much different than heading back home. None of the identities that Virgil/Joe tries fits him well, and he is permanently unsure about where he stands. There is uncertainty at the novel’s close as to which direction the protagonist will take and, as Arbeit argues, the open ending suggests that he is after all, no matter how unintentionally, confirming his original Appalachian identity.

A notable expert in transatlantic literary relations, Waldemar Zacharasiewicz traces the personal and literary pilgrimages of William Goyen and Gail Godwin through European locations in the 1950s and 60s. He highlights the special relationship between the American South and European culture that goes back to the antebellum period, when some southerners felt more affinity with Old Europe than with the US North. In the 20th century the Agrarians would also express their preference for transatlantic culture. The authors that Zacharasiewicz studies here felt attracted to individual European countries, in this way transcending the limitations of their native region through encounters with other people and other landscapes yet remaining anchored, in differing degrees, to their home turf and seeing the South (inside themselves) in a new light provided by the perspective of distance. As so many others had done before them, Goyen and Godwin escaped from the restrictive codes of behavior and gender roles of their native region while they also became aware of hitherto unknown facets of their southernness. Through the fiction that they write about southerners in Europe they continue to chronicle their native region. During his European sojourn Goyen retained his rootedness in the small-town South, whereas Godwin was more insistent on escaping from an intolerably patriarchal South, and she incorporated a transatlantic viewpoint in her predominantly autobiographical fiction. Zacharasiewicz concludes that whereas these authors both physically and imaginatively transcended southern borders, “their fictional worlds to various degrees remained anchored in the experiences of their childhood and youth as they continued to ‘look homeward,’ definitely in their correspondence and in the narration of return visits of their characters to the South.”

Valeria Gennaro Lerda deals with issues relating to the “Great Migration” of African-Americans from the South (1916-18). Drawing on primary sources such as the David R. Cocker Collection and the Daniel L. Tompkins Collection, she describes the resistance of southern white entrepreneurs and land owners who depended on black labor for their operations in the South. Cocker and Tompkins were eager to exert social control over the black population, and were most active in the resistance to the migration of black laborers, taking action against northern agents and supporting state legislation to prevent the recruitment of these laborers. Gennaro Lerda posits that the Great Migration, which constituted a threat to the very fabric of social and economic relations in the South, also showed a failure of the New South creed of southern progressivism, because about half a million workers migrated from a land which did not answer to the promise of a new economic era.

The variety of essays in this collection confirms the plurality of approaches to the theme of motion and change in the US South, that region whose distinctive history, literature and culture continue to reveal new insights to all scholars and readers willing to take those roads of discovery.

Works Cited

Bauman, Zygmunt. Identity: Conversations with Benedetto Vecchi. Cambridge: Polity, 2004.

Mason, Bobbie Ann. Clear Springs: A Memoir. New York: Random House, 1999.

Smith, Lee. “The South under Siege, Yet Again.” New York Times 29 Apr. 2007. <http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/29/opinion/29smith.html>.

Smith, Lillian. Killers of the Dream. 1949. Revised edition 1961. New York: Norton, 1994.

IINWARD JOURNEYS

Mister M, Mister I, Mister SSI

Bill Lazenbatt

“The Mississippi,” says Mark Twain in the opening sentence of his Life on the Mississippi, “is well worth reading about. It is not a commonplace river, but on the contrary is in all ways remarkable” (13). Certainly, in relation to the South, the central importance of the river topographically, historically, commercially and culturally cannot be over-stated. As the main artery flowing through the region, it is also the most significant site of the journeys made by southerners at various points in time, and it enjoys a permanent significance in the literature of the South.

It is a commonplace of criticism that the literary river journey may frequently be interpreted as a journey of self-definition, an excursion not simply into the less explored reaches of the actual river, but into the psychology of the characters involved; the best example of which is probably Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. This essay will explore the minds of several male voyagers on the mighty Mississippi, to enquire into the extent to which their river experiences help to clarify or consolidate their gender definition and sense of masculinity. It will refer to representative texts by the giants of southern literature, Twain and Faulkner, as well as more recent work by Richard Ford and – to provide a woman’s perspective – Lee Smith. Firstly, it is pertinent to ask if there is any correlation between the sense of maleness referred to and the designated gender of the river itself. Why are some rivers considered male and others female?

There appears to be no obvious pattern to the way in which we attribute gender to particular rivers: some are designated as feminine; others are resolutely masculine. Topographical or geographic similarities fail to provide a satisfactory explanation, though one internet commentator, considering linguistic gender in German, posits the “rule of thumb that really big rivers are masculine (der Nil, der Amazonas, der Mississippi, der Rio Grande, der Rhein) but smaller rivers and streams are feminine (die Elbe, die Bille, die Weser)” (Newton). English, lacking linguistic gender, does not reflect even this degree of consistency. For instance, within literature, an important river like the Thames is given masculinity with the phrase “Old Father Thames” while conversely, in the greatest experimental novel in the English language, Dublin’s equally important Liffey is personified as feminine: Anna Livia Plurabella. If the broader symbolism of the river’s flow likens it to the flow of life, we might find a feminine creative and reproductive principle in the “female” rivers like Anna Livia, or remember that “la Seine est une amante,” or find “male” examples like the Rhine complemented by reference to the Götterdämmerung’s Rhine Daughters. This, however, is not the case for the Mississippi, which is invariably and without qualification given a masculine status as “Old Man River” throughout its appearance in southern literature and culture. Originally named by the Algonquin Indians as the “Father of Waters,” an epithet which Faulkner recycles in The Wild Palms (Brown 79), it retains a sense of masculinity and is most frequently associated with the displays of stereotypically masculine behaviour of those who journey upon it. Indeed, it might be argued that the river is a site of masculine preservation from the opposite and potentially weakening influence of the feminine and that the “River God,” identified by T. S. Eliot in “The Dry Salvages” and invoked by Lionel Trilling in an early essay on Huckleberry Finn, represents a mystical maleness for which the river offers no feminine counterpart (Trilling 115).

The impression of the river as a male domain is reinforced if we consider some of its legendary characters and their exploits. The masculine prowess of Jim Bludso, skipper of the Prairie Belle, provides one example. Commemorated in John Hay’s 1871 ballad, Jim’s character is a blend of rough and ready manliness and instinctive goodness: “He weren’t no saint, them engineers / Is all pretty much alike, / One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill / And another one here, in Pike; / A keerless man in his talk was Jim, / And an awkward hand in a row, / But he never flunked, and he never lied, / I reckon he never knew how.... / And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, / A thousand times he swore, / He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank / Till the last soul got ashore” (Hay, “Jim Bludso”). When the old steamboat’s boilers finally do blow, Jim proves courageously to be as good as his word, and gives his own life in order to save the others: “they all got off / Afore the smokestacks fell— / And Bludso’s ghost went up alone / In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.” The final stanza applauds Jim’s courage and manliness: “He weren’t no saint, but at jedgement / I’d run my chance with Jim, / ‘Longside of some pious gentlemen / That wouldn’t shook hands with him. / He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, / And went for it thar and then; / And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard / On a man that died for men” (Hay, “Jim Bludso”).

Moreover, as the Christian parallel here suggests, truly admirable masculinity is a composite of physical action and moral integrity. The braggadocio of boastful action is not in itself enough to commend the masculine. That other legendary figure of the Mississippi River, Mike Fink, is perhaps more guilty of such boastfulness. While he appears in many incarnations throughout southern writing, nowhere for this forum is more appropriate to find him in all his conceit and self-praise than in Eudora Welty’s The Robber Bridegroom. Observing the conventions of ebullience and exaggeration which characterise the tall tale, Welty heads straight for hyperbole:

“You doubt that I am Mike Fink? Nevertheless it is true!” yelled the flatboatman. “Only look!” And he doubled up his fists and rippled the muscles on his arms up and down, as slow as molasses, and on his chest was the finest mermaid it was possible to have tattooed at any port. “I can pick up a grown man by the neck in each hand and hold him out at arm’s length, and often do, too,” yelled the flatboatman. “I eat a whole cow at one time, and follow her up with a live sheep if it’s Sunday.... I can carry a dozen oxen on my back at one time, and as for pigs, I tie them in a bunch and hang them to my belt!” (Welty 9)

In addition to this, if addition were needed, Fink boasts further of his male animal attributes and his muscularity:

“I’m an alligator!” yelled the flatboatman, and began to flail his mighty arms through the air. “I’m a he-bull and a he-rattlesnake and a he-alligator all in one! I’ve beat up so many flatboatmen and thrown them in the river I haven’t kept a count since the flood, and I’m a lover of the women like you’ll never see again.” And he chanted Mike Fink’s song: “I can outrun, outhop, outjump, throw down, drag out, and lick any man in the country!” (Welty 10)

Little doubt, then, of the extreme nature of masculinity in so simple and so traditional a rendition of gender. But, leaving aside its comic purpose, such a two-dimensional definition appears unlikely and very limited; surely there is more to manliness than violent boastfulness, even within the river’s arena of desperadoes, tough flatboatmen, gamblers, adventurers and ladies who are no better than they ought to be? A more holistic definition of masculinity might include a sense of responsibility towards others, or a code of behaviour, such as Hemingway’s characters develop, which extends the range of genderdefinition beyond the physical, to encompass moral and philosophical dimensions too. To discover the additional attributes, where better to turn than to the greatest odyssey of all on the Mississippi, namely The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. In a novel obsessed with notions of self-definition and identity, the eponymous hero’s development into moral manhood is charted as he progresses from one assumed identity to another. Identified in parenthesis on the 1884 title page as “Tom Sawyer’s comrade,” in other words, something of an afterthought in a story for boys, Huck will eventually outgrow so reductive a beginning to step from the final page of the volume into mythology, as moral exemplar and legendary conscience of his nation. Along the way, he will demonstrate in repeated key moments that there is an alternative to Colonel Sherburn’s brutally misanthropic definition of what constitutes a man. Huck’s need to repeat and reaffirm his moral decisions as part of a learning process is in keeping with the theory put forward by Judith Butler that there is a performative and repetitive quality to gender definition, a theory that in fact holds good for all the texts considered in this paper.

According to Butler, gender “operates as an interior essence ... an expectation that ends up producing the very phenomenon that it anticipates.” It achieves this by means of “performativity”: by performing the features of a particular gender, we become that gender. “Performativity,” says Butler, “is not a singular act, but a repetition and a ritual” (xv). Moreover,

gender is an identity tenuously constituted in time, instituted in an exterior space through a stylized repetition of acts. The effect of gender is produced through the stylization of the body and, hence, must be understood as the mundane way in which bodily gestures, movements, and styles of various kinds constitute the illusion of an abiding gendered self. (Butler 191)

The “exterior space” of the Mississippi is a perfect location for such rituals of self-discovery, and, as Huck demonstrates initially, for the repetition of acts that will finally confirm his identity and mature masculinity. Of the number of provisional identities which he tries on then discards again, interestingly the first in line requires him to change gender altogether. In the guise of Mary – and then Sarah – Williams, Huck convinces no-one of his femininity; rightly so, as all the gestures and styles of being of his girl-persona contradict that essential maleness that he will develop in the company of Jim while on the river. Leslie Fiedler’s reading of a chaste inter-racial love relationship between Huck and Jim, in “Come Back to the Raft Ag’in, Huck Honey!” establishes the racial harmony of the river idyll, but overlooks the central characterization of Jim in a paternal role. Both protagonists are denied adult status when ashore: one by reason of his race, the other by age and class. However, both discover in a symbiotic interaction on the mythic raft, suspended in an idealism insulated from the disappointing realities of shore life, aspects of their own being that create a fuller sense of mature masculinity. Jim’s paternal concern, though largely removed from him by the reductive infantilisation process of slavery, is nevertheless evident in the story he tells of his deaf daughter, and is transferred across race and family lines by the repeated acts of fatherly care he shows for Huck. In turn, the latter learns by repetition how to become a man of independent thought and judgement, rather than the sort of conformist whom Sherburn derides as mere members of the mob. On several occasions Huck defies the prevailing view of how to treat black people, as when he apologizes to Jim for tricking him:

It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger – but I done it, and I warn’t ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. I didn’t do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn’t done that one if I’d a knowed it would make him feel that way. (Twain, Huckleberry Finn 143)

Subsequently, Huck discovers further points of empathy:

[Jim] was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick ... I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their’n. It don’t seem natural, but I reckon it’s so. (Twain, Huckleberry Finn 218)

The boy’s developing moral conscience reaches its highpoint in his decision to “go to hell” rather than betray Jim, and his arrival at this mature position is a fitting climax to the idyllic days spent on the raft. Now manhood has been reached and the various false disguises of boyhood, those aliases of “George Peters,” “George Jackson,” “Adolphus” and – tellingly – “Tom Sawyer” are left behind as Huck finds his own identity. The transformation is possible not only because Huck has repeated the performance of manly empathy, but also because the river gods have sanctioned it, have created a transcendent effect in those moments when the two protagonists respond to the easy flow of the river’s spirit and relax into a blissful harmony. Not only will Jim be freed, but Huck too will be freed from the limited mindset of a shore-based boyishness, which will hold Tom Sawyer captive for the rest of his life. The identification of the river as the main highway into more intransigent slave territory is reversed, as Huck leaves his early social subservience behind and shoulders in its place a sense of morally brave masculinity.

William Faulkner discovers his own river gods in The Wild Palms, or rather in the “Old Man” narrative that constitutes half of this hybrid novel and provides counterpoint to the story of Harry and Charlotte in the title narrative. Noel Polk informs us that Faulkner objected to the title change from its original If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem