JanMohamed - The Economy of Manichean Allegory - 1985

The Economy of Manichean Allegory: The Function of Racial Difference in Colonialist
Literature
Author(s): Abdul R. JanMohamed
Reviewed work(s):
Source: Critical Inquiry, Vol. 12, No. 1, "Race," Writing, and Difference (Autumn, 1985), pp.
59-87
Published by: The University of Chicago Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/1343462 .
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The Economy of Manichean Allegory:
The Function of Racial Difference
in Colonialist Literature
Abdul R. JanMohamed
Despite all its merits, the vast majority of critical attention devoted to
colonialist literature restricts itself by severely bracketing the political
context of culture and history. This typical facet of humanistic closure
requires the critic systematicallyto avoid an analysisof the domination,
manipulation, exploitation, and disfranchisementthat are inevitablyin-
volved in the construction of any cultural artifactor relationship. I can
best illustrate such closures in the field of colonialist discourse with two
brief examples. In her book TheColonialEncounter,which contrasts the
colonial representations of three European and three non-European
writers,M. M. Mahood skirtsthe politicalissue quite explicitlyby arguing
that she chose those authors precisely because they are "innocent of
emotional exploitation of the colonial scene" and are "distanced"from
the politics of domination.'
We find a more interestingexample of this closure in Homi Bhabha's
criticism. While otherwise provocative and illuminating, his work rests
on two assumptions-the unity of the "colonialsubject"and the "am-
bivalence"of colonial discourse-that are inadequately problematized
and, I feel, finally unwarrantedand unacceptable. In rejecting Edward
Said's"suggestionthat colonial power and discourse is possessed entirely
by the coloniser,"Bhabha asserts, without providing any explanation,
the unity of the "colonialsubject (both coloniser and colonised)."2I do
not wish to rule out, a priori,the possibilitythat at some rarefiedtheoretical
level the varied materialand discursiveantagonismsbetween conquerors
and natives can be reduced to the workings of a single "subject";but
Critical Inquiry 12 (Autumn 1985)

? by The University of Chicago. 0093-1896/85/1201-0009$01.00. All rights reserved.
59
60 Abdul R. JanMohamed ColonialistLiterature
such a unity, let alone its value, must be demonstrated, not assumed.
Though he cites Frantz Fanon, Bhabha completely ignores Fanon's def-
inition of the conqueror/native relation as a "Manichean" struggle-a
definition that is not a fanciful metaphoric caricature but an accurate
representation of a profound conflict.'
Consider, for instance, E. A. Brett's research, only one example I
might adduce that corroborates Fanon's definition. Brett found that the
European attempt to develop a capital-centered mode of agricultural
production in Kenya, where farming was essentially precapitalistic, created
a conflict between two incompatible modes of production and that "any
effective development of one necessarily precluded an equivalent de-
velopment of the other in the same social universe."4 Native farming was
centered around a subsistence economy and, more crucially, did not offer
the means of production-namely, land and labor-for exchange on the
market. Consequently, as Brett demonstrates, in order to commodify
land and labor and make them available on the capitalist "market," the
British systematically destroyed the native mode of production. In other
words, the Europeans disrupted a material and discursive universe based
on use-value and replaced it with one dominated by exchange-value. In
this kind of context, what does it mean, in practice, to imply as Bhabha
does that the native, whose entire economy and culture are destroyed,
is somehow in "possession" of "colonial power"? Bhabha's unexamined
conflation allows him to circumvent entirely the dense history of the
material conflict between Europeans and natives and to focus on colonial
discourse as if it existed in a vacuum.
This move in turn permits him to fetishize what he calls "colonial"
discourse (that is, the discourse of the dominators and the dominated)
and map its contradictions as the problematics of an "ambivalence," an
"indeterminacy,"that is somehow intrinsic to the authority of that discourse.5
By dismissing "intentionalist" readings of such discourse as "idealist"
quests, Bhabha is able to privilege its "ambivalence" and, thereby, to
imply that its "authority" is genuinely and innocently confused,unable to
choose between two equally valid meanings and representations. To impute
in this way, at this late date, and through the back door, an innocent or
naive "intention"to colonialist discourse is itself a naive act at best. Wittingly
or otherwise, Bhabha's strategy serves the same ideological function as
older, humanistic analyses: like Mahood, he represses the political history
of colonialism, which is inevitably sedimented in its discourse.
Abdul R. JanMohamed, assistant professor of English at the University

of California, Berkeley, is the author of Manichean Aesthetics:The Politics
of Literature in Colonial Africa. He is a founding member and associate
editor of Cultural Critiqueand is currently working on a study of Richard
Wright.
Critical Inquiry Autumn 1985 61
We can better understand colonialist discourse, it seems to me, through

an analysis that maps its ideological function in relation to actual imperialist
practices. Such an examination reveals that any evident "ambivalence"
is in fact a product of deliberate, if at times subconscious, imperialist
duplicity, operating very efficiently through the economy of its central
trope, the manichean allegory. This economy, in turn, is based on a
transformation of racial difference into moral and even metaphysical
difference. Though the phenomenological origins of this metonymic
transformation may lie in the "neutral" perception of physical difference
(skin color, physical features, and such), its allegorical extensions come
to dominate every facet of imperialist mentality. Even the works of some
of the most enlightened and critical colonial writers eventually succumb
to a narrative organization based on racial/metaphysicaloppositions, whose
motives remain morally fixed but whose categories flex to accommodate
any situation. I cannot trace the genealogy of the metonymic transformation
and the resulting allegory in its entirety here; nevertheless, our examination
must begin with a brief appraisal of the social, political, and economic
ambience of colonial society, which is responsible for generating these
duplicitous tropes.
The perception of racial difference is, in the first place, influenced

by economic motives. For instance, as Dorothy Hammond and Alta Jablow
have shown, Africans were perceived in a more or less neutral and benign
manner before the slave trade developed; however, once the triangular
trade became established, Africans were newly characterized as the epitome
of evil and barbarity.' The European desire to exploit the resources of
the colonies (including the natives, whom Europeans regarded as beasts
of burden) drastically disrupted the indigenous societies. Through specific
policies of population transfers, gerrymandering of borders, and forced
production, to mention only a few such measures, European colonialists
promoted the destruction of native legal and cultural systems and, ul-
timately, the negation of non-European civilizations.7 These measures
produce pathological societies, ones that exist in a state of perpetual
crisis.'
To appreciate the function of colonialist fiction within this ambience,
we must first distinguish between the "dominant" and the "hegemonic"
phases of colonialism as well as between its material and discursive ideo-
logical practices. Throughout the dominant phase, which spans the period
from the earliest European conquest to the moment at which a colony
is granted "independence," European colonizers exercise direct and con-
tinuous bureaucratic control and military coercion of the natives: during
this phase the "consent" of the natives is primarily passive and indirect.
Although we shouldn't overlook the various forms of native "cooperation"

for example, in the traffic of slaves-the point remains that such co-
operation testifies less to a successful interpellation of the native than to
the colonizer's ability to exploit preexisting power relations of hierarchy,
subordination, and subjugation within native societies. Within the dominant
phase (to which I will confine the scope of this paper), the indigenous
peoples are subjugated by colonialist material practices (population trans-
fers, and so forth), the efficacy of which finally depends on the technological
superiority of European military forces. Colonialist discursive practices,
particularly its literature, are not very useful in controlling the conquered
group at this early stage: the native is not subjugated, nor does his culture
disintegrate, simply because a European characterizes both as savage.
By contrast, in the hegemonic phase (or neocolonialism) the natives
accept a version of the colonizers' entire system of values, attitudes,
morality, institutions, and, more important, mode of production. This
stage of imperialism does rely on the active and direct "consent" of the
dominated, though, of course, the threat of military coercion is always
in the background. The natives' internalization of Western cultures begins
before the end of the dominant phase. The nature and the speed of this
internalization depend on two factors. The many local circumstances and
the emphasis placed on interpellation by various European colonial policies.
But in all cases, the moment of "independence"- with the natives' oblig-
atory, ritualized acceptance of Western forms of parliamentary govern-
ment-marks the formal transition to hegemonic colonialism.
Distinguishing between material and discursive practices also allows
us to understand more clearly the contradictions between the covert and
overt aspects of colonialism. While the covert purpose is to exploit the
colony's natural resources thoroughly and ruthlessly through the various
imperialist material practices, the overt aim, as articulated by colonialist
discourse, is to "civilize"the savage, to introduce him to all the benefits
of Western cultures. Yet the fact that this overt aim, embedded as an
assumption in all colonialist literature, is accompanied in colonialist texts
by a more vociferous insistence, indeed by a fixation, upon the savagery
and the evilness of the native should alert us to the real function of these
texts: to justify imperial occupation and exploitation. If such literature
can demonstrate that the barbarism of the native is irrevocable, or at
least very deeply ingrained, then the European's attempt to civilize him
can continue indefinitely, the exploitation of his resources can proceed
without hindrance, and the European can persist in enjoying a position
of moral superiority.
Thus a rigorous subconscious logic defines the relations between
the covert and overt policies and between the material and discursive
practices of colonialism. The ideological functions of colonialist fiction
within the dominant phase of imperial control, then, must be understood
not in terms of its putative or even real effects on the native but in terms
CriticalInquiry Autumn 1985 63
of the exigencies of domestic-that is, European and colonialist--politics

and culture; and the function of racial difference, of the fixation on and
fetishization of native savagery and evil, must be mapped in terms of
these exigencies and ideological imperatives. I do not wish to suggest,
however, that racial denigration has no effect whatsoever on colonized
intellectuals and literature. It does-but only during the late stages of
the dominant phase and, more particularly, during the hegemonic phase.
Before turning to the question of racial difference in the works I
will discuss, we need to note the relation of the individual author to the
field of colonialist discourse. The dominant pattern of relations that
controls the text within the colonialist context is determined by economic
and political imperatives and changes, such as the development of slavery,
that are external to the discursive field itself. The dominant model of
power- and interest-relations in all colonial societies is the manichean
opposition between the putative superiority of the European and the
supposed inferiority of the native. This axis in turn provides the central
feature of the colonialist cognitive framework and colonialist literary
representation: the manichean allegory-a field of diverse yet inter-
changeable oppositions between white and black, good and evil, superiority
and inferiority, civilization and savagery, intelligence and emotion, ra-
tionality and sensuality, self and Other, subject and object. The power
relations underlying this model set in motion such strong currents that
even a writer who is reluctant to acknowledge it and who may indeed
be highly critical of imperialist exploitation is drawn into its vortex.9 The
writer is easily seduced by colonial privileges and profits and forced by
various ideological factors (that I will examine below) to conform to the
prevailing racial and cultural preconceptions. Thus the "author-function"
in such texts, as elsewhere, "is tied to the legal and institutional systems
that circumscribe, determine, and articulate the realm of discourses."'0
And since this "function" in the imperialist context confers on the author
all the moral and psychological pleasures of manichean superiority, a
"native" writer, such as V. S. Naipaul, can also be inducted, under the
right circumstances, to fulfill the author-function of the colonialist writer."
Another significant feature of the system governing colonialist fiction
is the nature of its audience. Since the object of representation-the
native-does not have access to these texts (because of linguistic barriers)
and since the European audience has no direct contact with the native,
imperialist fiction tends to be unconcerned with the truth-value of its
representation. In fact, since such literature does not so much re-present
as present the native for the first time, it is rarely concerned with overtly
affirming the reader's experience of his own culture and therefore does
not really solicit his approval: it exists outside the dialogic class discourse
of European literature. The value of colonialist statements is consequently
all the more dependent on their place in colonialist discourse and on
"their capacity for circulation and exchange, their possibility of trans-
formation, not only in the economy of discourse, but, more generally,

in the administration of scarce resources.""2
Just as imperialists "administer" the resources of the conquered
country, so colonialist discourse "commodifies" the native subject into a
stereotyped object and uses him as a "resource" for colonialist fiction.
The European writer commodifies the native by negating his individuality,
his subjectivity, so that he is now perceived as a generic being that can
be exchanged for any other native (they all look alike, act alike, and so
on). Once reduced to his exchange-value in the colonialist signifying
system, he is fed into the manichean allegory, which functions as the
currency, the medium of exchange, for the entire colonialist discursive
system. The exchange function of the allegory remains constant, while
the generic attributes themselves can be substituted infinitely (and even
contradictorily) for one another. As Said points out in his study of Ori-
entalism, such strategies depend on a "flexiblepositionalsuperiority, which
puts the Westerner in a whole series of possible relationships with the
Orient without ever losing him the relative upper hand."'" Within such
a representational economy, the writer's task is to "administer"the relatively
scarce resources of the manichean opposition in order to reproduce the
native in a potentially infinite variety of images, the apparent diversity
of which is determined by the simple machinery of the manichean allegory.
Hence we can observe a profound symbiotic relationship between
the discursive and the material practices of imperialism: the discursive
practices do to the symbolic, linguistic presence of the native what the
material practices do to his physical presence; the writer commodifies
him so that he can be exploited more efficiently by the administrator,
who, of course, obliges by returning the favor in kind.'" In fact, at any
given point within a fully developed dominant imperialism, it is impossible
to determine which form of commodification takes precedence, so entirely
are the two forms intertwined.
2
Colonialist literature is an exploration and a representation of a
world at the boundaries of "civilization,"a world that has not (yet) been
domesticated by European signification or codified in detail by its ideology.
That world is therefore perceived as uncontrollable, chaotic, unattainable,
and ultimately evil. Motivated by his desire to conquer and dominate,
the imperialist configures the colonial realm as a confrontation based on
differences in race, language, social customs, cultural values, and modes
of production.
Faced with an incomprehensible and multifaceted alterity, the Eu-
ropean theoretically has the option of responding to the Other in terms
of identity or difference. If he assumes that he and the Other are essentially
identical, then he would tend to ignore the significant divergences and

to judge the Other according to his own cultural values. If, on the other
hand, he assumes that the Other is irremediably different, then he would
have little incentive to adopt the viewpoint of that alterity: he would
again tend to turn to the security of his own cultural perspective. Genuine
and thorough comprehension of Otherness is possible only if the self
can somehow negate or at least severely bracket the values, assumptions,
and ideology of his culture. As Nadine Gordimer's and Isak Dinesen's
writings show, however, this entails in practice the virtually impossible
task of negating one's very being, precisely because one's culture is what
formed that being. Moreover, the colonizer's invariable assumption about
his moral superiority means that he will rarely question the validity of
either his own or his society's formation and that he will not be inclined
to expend any energy in understanding the worthless alterity of the
colonized. By thus subverting the traditional dialectic of self and Other
that contemporary theory considers so important in the formation of
self and culture, the assumption of moral superiority subverts the very
potential of colonialist literature. Instead of being an exploration of the
racial Other, such literature merely affirms its own ethnocentric as-
sumptions; instead of actually depicting the outer limits of "civilization,"
it simply codifies and preserves the structures of its own mentality. While
the surface of each colonialist text purports to represent specific encounters
with specific varieties of the racial Other, the subtext valorizes the superiority
of European cultures, of the collective process that has mediated that
representation. Such literature is essentially specular: instead of seeing
the native as a bridge toward syncretic possibility, it uses him as a mirror
that reflects the colonialist's self-image.
Accordingly, I would argue that colonialist literature is divisible into
two broad categories: the "imaginary" and the "symbolic."'5The emotive
as well as the cognitive intentionalities of the "imaginary"text are structured
by objectification and aggression. In such works the native functions as
an image of the imperialist self in such a manner that it reveals the latter's
self-alienation. Because of the subsequent projection involved in this
context, the "imaginary" novel maps the European's intense internal
rivalry. The "imaginary" representation of indigenous people tends to
coalesce the signifier with the signified. In describing the attributes or
actions of the native, issues such as intention, causality, extenuating cir-
cumstances, and so forth, are completely ignored; in the "imaginary"
colonialist realm, to say "native"is automatically to say "evil"and to evoke
immediately the economy of the manichean allegory. The writer of such
texts tends to fetishize a nondialectical, fixed opposition between the self
and the native. Threatened by a metaphysical alterity that he has created,
he quickly retreats to the homogeneity of his own group. Consequently,
his psyche and text tend to be much closer to and are often entirely
occluded by the ideology of his group.
Writers of "symbolic" texts, on the other hand, are more aware of

the inevitable necessity of using the native as a mediator of European
desires. Grounded more firmly and securely in the egalitarian imperatives
of Western societies, these authors tend to be more open to a modifying
dialectic of self and Other. They are willing to examine the specific
individual and cultural differences between Europeans and natives and
to reflect on the efficacy of European values, assumptions, and habits in
contrast to those of the indigenous cultures. "Symbolic" texts, most of
which thematize the problem of colonialist mentality and its encounter
with the racial Other, can in turn be subdivided into two categories.
The first type, represented by novels like E. M. Forster's A Passage
to India and Rudyard Kipling's Kim, attempts to find syncretic solutions
to the manichean opposition of the colonizer and the colonized. This
kind of novel overlaps in some ways with the "imaginary" text: those
portions of the novel organized at the emotive level are structured by
"imaginary"identification, while those controlled by cognitive intentionality
are structured by the rules of the "symbolic" order. Ironically, these
novels-which are conceived in the "symbolic"realm of intersubjectivity,
heterogeneity, and particularity but are seduced by the specularity of
"imaginary" Otherness-better illustrate the economy and power of the
manichean allegory than do the strictly "imaginary" texts.
The second type of "symbolic" fiction, represented by the novels of
Joseph Conrad and Nadine Gordimer, realizes that syncretism is impossible
within the power relations of colonial society because such a context traps
the writer in the libidinal economy of the "imaginary."Hence, becoming
reflexive about its context, by confining itself to a rigorous examination
of the "imaginary"mechanism of colonialist mentality, this type of fiction
manages to free itself from the manichean allegory.
3
If every desire is at base a desire to impose oneself on another and
to be recognized by the Other, then the colonial situation provides an
ideal context for the fulfillment of that fundamental drive. The colonialist's
military superiority ensures a complete projection of his self on the Other:
exercising his assumed superiority, he destroys without any significant
qualms the effectiveness of indigenous economic, social, political, legal,
and moral systems and imposes his own versions of these structures on
the Other. By thus subjugating the native, the European settler is able
to compel the Other's recognition of him and, in the process, allow his
own identity to become deeply dependent on his position as a master.'6
This enforced recognition from the Other in fact amounts to the European's
narcissisticself-recognition since the native, who is considered too degraded
and inhuman to be credited with any specific subjectivity, is cast as no
more than a recipient of the negative elements of the self that the European
projects onto him.'" This transitivity and the preoccupation with the
inverted self-image mark the "imaginary" relations that characterize the
colonial encounter.
Nevertheless, the gratification that this situation affords is impaired
by the European's alienation from his own unconscious desire. In the
"imaginary" text, the subject is eclipsed by his fixation on and fetishization
of the Other: the self becomes a prisoner of the projected image. Even
though the native is negated by the projection of the inverted image,
his presence as an absence can never be canceled. Thus the colonialist's
desire only entraps him in the dualism of the "imaginary" and foments
a violent hatred of the native. This desire to exterminate the brutes,
which is thematized consciously and critically in "symbolic" texts such as
Heart of Darkness and A Passage to India, manifests itself subconsciously
in "imaginary" texts, such as those of Joyce Cary, through the narrators'
clear relish in describing the mutilation of natives. "Imaginary" texts, like
fantasies which provide naive solutions to the subjects' basic problems,
tend to center themselves on plots that end with the elimination of the
offending natives.
The power of the "imaginary"field binding the narcissistic colonialist
text is nowhere better illustrated than in its fetishization of the Other.
This process operates by substituting natural or generic categories for
those that are socially or ideologically determined. All the evil characteristics
and habits with which the colonialist endows the native are thereby not
presented as the products of social and cultural difference but as char-
acteristics inherent in the race-in the "blood"-of the native. In its
extreme form, this kind of fetishization transmutes all specificity and
difference into a magical essence. Thus Dinesen boldly asserts:
The Natives were Africa in flesh and blood.... [The various

cultures of Africa, the mountains, the trees, the animals] were different
expressions of one idea, variations upon the same theme. It was
not a congenial upheaping of heterogeneous atoms, but a hetero-
geneous upheaping of congenial atoms, as in the case of the oak-
leaf and the acorn and the object made from oak."'
As this example illustrates, it is not the stereotypes, the denigrating

"images" of the native (which abound in colonialist literature), that are
fetishized. Careful scrutiny of colonialist texts reveals that such images
are used at random and in a self-contradictory fashion. For example, the
narrator of Cary'sAissaSavedcan claim that "Koluchildren of old-fashioned
families like Makunde's were remarkable for their gravity and decorum; ...
they were strictly brought up and made to behave themselves as far as
possible like grown-ups.""9He even shows one such child, Tanawe, behaving
with great decorum and gravity. Yet the same narrator depicts Kolu adults
who have converted to Christianity as naughty, irresponsible children.

Given the colonialist mentality, the source of the contradiction is quite
obvious. Since Tanawe is too young to challenge colonialism, she can be
depicted in a benign manner, and the narrator can draw moral sustenance
from the generosity of his portrayal. But the adult Kolus' desire to become
Christians threatens to eliminate one of the fundamental differences
between them and the Europeans; so the narrator has to impose a dif-
ference. The overdetermined image he picks (Africans = children) allows
him to feel secure once again because it restores the moral balance in
favor of the ("adult") Christian conqueror. Such contradictory use of
images abounds in colonialist literature.
My point, then, is that the imperialist is not fixated on specific images
or stereotypes of the Other but rather on the affective benefits proffered
by the manichean allegory, which generates the various stereotypes. As
I have argued, the manichean allegory, with its highly efficient exchange
mechanism, permits various kinds of rapid transformations, for example,
metonymic displacement--which leads to the essentialist metonymy, as
in the above quotation from Dinesen-and metaphoric condensation-
which accounts for the structure and characterization in Cary's Mister
Johnson. Exchange-value remains the central motivating force of both
colonialist material practice and colonialist literary representation.
The fetishizing strategy and the allegorical mechanism not only permit
a rapid exchange of denigrating images which can be used to maintain
a sense of moral difference; they also allow the writer to transform social
and historical dissimilarities into universal, metaphysical differences. If,
as Dinesen has done, African natives can be collapsed into African animals
and mystified still further as some magical essence of the continent, then
clearly there can be no meeting ground, no identity, between the social,
historical creatures of Europe and the metaphysical alterity of the Calibans
and Ariels of Africa. If the differences between the Europeans and the
natives are so vast, then clearly, as I stated earlier, the process of civilizing
the natives can continue indefinitely. The ideological function of this
mechanism, in addition to prolonging colonialism, is to dehistoricize and
desocialize the conquered world, to present it as a metaphysical "fact of
life," before which those who have fashioned the colonial world are them-
selves reduced to the role of passive spectators in a mystery not of their
making.
There are many formal consequences of this denial of history and
normal social interaction. While masquerading under the guise of realist
fiction, the colonialist text is in fact antagonistic to some of the prevailing
tendencies of realism. As M. M. Bakhtin has argued, the temporal model
of the world changes radically with the rise of the realist novel: "For the
first time in artistic-ideological consciousness, time and the world become
historical: they unfold ... as becoming, as an uninterrupted movement
into a real future, as a unified, all-embracing and unconcluded process."20
But since the colonialist wants to maintain his privileges by preserving

the status quo, his representation of the world contains neither a sense
of historical becoming, nor a concrete vision of a future different from
the present, nor a teleology other than the infinitely postponed process
of "civilizing."In short, it does not contain any syncretic cultural possibility,
which alone would open up the historical process once more.
Gordimer has succinctly articulated the consequences of this fore-
closure for the colonial writer:
Cultural identity [is] "nothing more nor less than the mean between
selfhood and otherness .. ."
The dilemma of a literature in a multiracial [that is, imperialist]
society, where the law effectively prevents any real identification of
the writer with his society as a whole, so that ultimately he can
identify only with his colour, distorts this mean irreparably. And
cultural identity is the ground on which the exploration of self in
the imaginative writer makes a national literature.2"
For these reasons the colonialist text also lacks the domestic novel's in-
conclusive contact with an open-ended present. By producing a necessary
incongruity between man and his potential, domestic fiction can actively
engage the question of the hero's unrealized potential and demand and
his inadequate response to his fate and situation. In the colonialist fiction,
on the other hand, either the debased native's lack of potential is a
foregone conclusion or, if he is endowed with potentiality-as, for example,
Aladai is in Cary's African Witch-then it is violently and irrevocably
foreclosed before the novel ends. The potentiality and even the humanity
of the native are considered momentary aberrations that will inevitably
subside and return him to his innate, inhuman barbarity. Similarly, the
European's own potential, purpose, and direction are never called into
question by the social and cultural alterity of the native since he is, after
all, extremely debased or entirely inhuman.
The colonialist's need to perpetuate racial differences also prevents
him, as we have seen, from placing the object of his representation, the
racial Other, on the same temporally and socially valorized plane as that
occupied by the author and the reader. This complicity between reader
and author encourages an even further distancing of the represented
world. We find the most telling version of this strategy in colonialist
humor. In Cary'sMisterJohnson,for instance, the ridiculousness of Johnson,
a black, semiliterate clerk in the colonial service, depends on an implicit
agreement between the narrator and the reader that Johnson's attempt
to imitate English manners, values, and ideas is inherently absurd. Comic
dismemberment in these kinds of novels does not demystify and familiarize
the world but, rather, solidifies and reinforces the distance between the
reader and the world. Even in a "symbolic"novel such as Kim, the absurdity
of Hurree Chunder Mookerjee, M.A.-and, above all, of his desire to

become a fellow of the Royal Society-depends on the same distancing
strategy. In the manichean world of the colonizer and the colonized, of
the master and the slave, distance tends to become absolute and qualitative
rather than relative and quantitative. The world is perceived in terms of
ultimate, fixed differences, and the privileging of experience, knowledge,
and practice, which Bakhtin considers necessary for the development of
the novel, tends to be ignored entirely.22The economic, social, and political
hierarchical organization of the colonial society turns it into a quasi-
feudal world, which finds its appropriate literary forms in the adaptable
categories and hierarchically valorized structures of allegory and racial
romance.
Conrad seems to have understood implicitly that such involvement
in the colonial situation entailed a regression to the economy of the
"imaginary" phase and its concomitant domination of the psyche. In
many of his short stories and novels, he explores the edges of the European
imperial world, and in Heart of Darknesshe depicts the process whereby
the colonialist is transformed by the structure he sets in place. Conrad's
thorough comprehension of the imperial situation, the colonialist mind,
and its literary implications manifests itself in his decision to write a
"symbolic" novella that deliberately thematizes the libidinal economy of
the "imaginary."His comprehension is equally evident in his choice of a
form best suited to the colonialist context: a manichean allegory, with
its metonymic machinery, based on an overdetermined metaphor of
Africa as the heart of darkness and evil. The allegory operates through
imagery of light and dark that functions simultaneously at the pseudo-
religious, political, and psychological levels. Furthermore, it is buttressed
by the parallel between the Roman conquest of Europe and the European
conquest of Africa, which tends to dehistoricize Western colonialism. Yet
through the imagery, the narrative frame, and the character development,
Conrad ensures that in the final analysis his novella remains rooted in
the "symbolic" realm.
He does so, first, by inverting the metaphor of darkness: through
the breaks in the narrative, he demonstrates that darkness is present in
London; he characterizes Brussels, the whited sepulcher, as the door to
darkness, guarded by the angels of death; and, by insisting that the
Belgian Congo is not initially a dark but a blank spot on the map, he
implies that darkness, both as a metaphor and as the practice emblematized
by slavery, comes with colonial occupation. By characterizing Marlow as
Buddha, by implicitly equating his voyage with Christ's journey into the
wilderness, and by thus turning his "inconclusive" story into a modern
parable, Conrad rescues his novella from the easy satisfaction of the
allegorical fantasy typical of the narcissistic colonialist text and transforms
it into a story that becomes meaningful through the exegetical participation
of the audience. Finally, by granting Kurtz a momentary awareness of
his actions and by presenting us with Marlow's meditation about their

implication, Conrad demystifies important aspects of the fetishistic and
occluded mentality of the colonizer.
In doing so, Conrad shows that the transformation from the overt
to the covert colonialist aims, depicted by the degeneration of Kurtz, is
mediated by the infinite power of the conqueror, by his arrogation of
the position of a God among the natives. Once he succumbs to his own
power, Kurtz is trapped by his own self-image, which he superimposes
on the natives. He eventually projects his self-hatred, as well, in his desire
to exterminate all the brutes, whom he now considers the source of the
evil. Yet despite what writers like Chinua Achebe say about the denigration
of Africans in Heart of Darkness, Africans are an incidental part, and not
the main objects of representation, in the novella.23 At times Conrad's
depiction of Africans is quite unbiased and perceptive-for example,
when he equates the function of African drumming with that of church
bells in a Christian country, he rejects the traditional colonialist use of
drumming as the emblem of the natives' evil, bloodthirsty intentions. He
is not entirely free, however, from the colonialist mentality that he reveals
so well: his depiction of the intimated cannibalism is tasteless and probably
groundless, and he represents and eventually forecloses the syncretic
potentiality of his African helmsman through traditional colonialist humor.
We can also see embedded within Conrad's novella a number of
subgenres that are always based on the manichean allegory: the adventure
story-such as those of G. A. Henty that are specifically designed for
young boys or those of Edgar Wallace and H. Rider Haggard that are
also geared to adults-about Europeans battling dark, evil forces; the
story utilizing Africa as an alluring, destructive woman-from Haggard's
She and Nanda the Lily to Marguerite Steen's Sun Is My Undoing-that
recalls Kurtz'sfixation on the dark, satanic woman; and the story presenting
Africa as a dark labyrinth-which Conrad seems to have inaugurated
and which finds its more recent manifestations in such novels as Graham
Greene's Heart of the Matter-wherein a European journeys into Africa
in order to discover his own identity as well as the meaning of life and
death. All these are implicitly at work in Heart of Darkness. The only
subgenre not included in the novella (but which Conrad understood
thoroughly and dramatized in LordJim, in Jim's journey to the mythic
world of Patusan) is the narrative depicting Africa as an uncorrupted
Eden. But whether these versions of Africa are benign or denigrating,
they are all manichean and essentially unchanging. As Hammond and
Jablow conclude after surveying four centuries of British writing about
Africa, "whether confident or doubtful, the writers describe Africa in the
same conventions. The image of Africa remains the negative reflection,
the shadow, of the British self-image."24
The most significant formal manifestation of the manichean allegory
is the racial romance. Northrop Frye's definition of the romance also
appropriately describes this subgenre: "The essential difference between

novel and romance lies in the conception of characterization. The romancer
does not attempt to create 'real people' so much as stylized figures which
expand into psychological archetypes. It is in romance that we find Jung's
libido, anima, and shadow reflected in the hero, heroine, and villain
respectively." Where the novelist deals with personae and a stable society,
the "romancer deals with individuality, with characters in vacuo idealized
by revery.""25 In the racial, colonialist version of this genre, the villains
are always the dark, evil natives (and, occasionally, whites who sympathize
or consort with the natives) who are used simultaneously as stereotypes
and archetypes. Racial romances can vary from pristine fantasy versions
to more mixed and problematic ones, from Haggard's She to Andre
Brink's A Chain of Voices.In all cases, however, they pit civilized societies
against the barbaric aberrations of an Other, and they always end with
the elimination of the threat posed by the Other and the legitimation of
the values of the good, civilized society. The ideological function of this
form of "kidnapped romance" is to justify the social function of the
dominant class and to idealize its acts of protection and responsibility.26
This genre is not only suited to but is an integral and necessary part of
the dominant phase of colonialism. Its persistence and the obsessive
preoccupation that Cary, for one, has had with it in spite of his desire
to move away from it testify to the fact that this form is determined by
colonialist social and economic structures.27
Finally, we must briefly consider the fact that where dominant co-
lonialism and racism still exist today we will find examples of racial
romance and allegory. The "Republic"of South Africa, which has codified
one of the most developed forms of racism, has recently produced two
worthy paradigms: Andre Brink's A Chain of Voicesand J. M. Coetzee's
Waitingfor theBarbarians.28At the level of cognitive intentionality, Brink's
work is a "radical" historical novel. It depicts a failed revolt of black,
"Coloured," and Asian slaves against their Afrikaner master in the South
African hinterland of the early 1800s. By endowing each character with
a distinctive individual voice, Brink builds up a polyphonic chorus, spanning
two generations, that is designed to explore from various viewpoints the
causes and nature of the revolt. To give a voice to slaves and particularly
to their desire for freedom is no doubt a courageous and provocative
act in contemporary South Africa. Nonetheless, the novel remains rooted
in racial stereotypes/archetypes. The latter are not crude, for both the
white and the leading nonwhite characters have depth. However, the
only distinction between the two racial groups, other than the obvious
one between masters and slaves, is that the whites experience severe
sexual repression, while the nonwhites are obsessed with sex; indeed,
some of the nonwhites can perceive themselves only in terms of sexual
pleasure and fecundity. The undiscriminating sexuality of Ma-Rose, the
slave earth mother, is endowed with an ill-defined liberatory quality, and
the efficient and immediate cause of the revolt is a series of sexual

transgressions by the white masters. Thus we see, once again, that the
very conception of the novel, its emotive intentionality, is determined by
the "imaginary" mechanism of the manichean allegory: the whites are
in perfect control of themselves, while the natives, who indiscriminately
indulge their sexual appetites, clearly lack control and hence need to be
managed. The "historical" nature of the novel is also undermined, with
unintentional irony, by the framing device. The preface of the novel
presents the court's formal accusation against the rebels, and the epilogue
presents the conviction and sentencing. The main body of the narrative
is thus intended to examine the "reality"bracketed between legal facts.
Yet the legal facts also serve to bracket the narrative from the external
historical world: they utterly seal the failure of the rebellion. This drastic
legal closure cuts off all historical continuity and the hope for change.
Coetzee's Waitingfor the Barbarians, a deliberate allegory, epitomizes
the dehistoricizing, desocializing tendency of colonialist fiction. Set in a
remote border town of a socially and historically unspecified empire, the
allegory focuses on a liberal judge's reluctant, passive participation in
the fascist activity of his country. The novel does justice to the themes
of a liberal's complicity with fascism, his subsequent sense of guilt, and,
most important, the function of manichean polarity within the empire;
it shows without any hesitation that the empire projects its own barbarism
onto the Other beyond its borders. Although the novel is obviously gen-
erated by white South Africa's racial paranoia and the guilt of its liberals,
Waitingfor the Barbarians, unlike Conrad's Heart of Darkness, refuses to
acknowledge its historical sources or to make any allusions to the specific
barbarism of the apartheid regime. The novel thus implies that we are
all somehow equally guilty and that fascism is endemic to all societies.
In its studied refusal to accept historical responsibility, this novel, like
all "imaginary"colonialist texts, attempts to mystify the imperial endeavor
by representing the relation between self and Other in metaphysical
terms. The fundamental strategy of all such fiction is its unchanging
presentation of the natives' inferiority as an unalterable metaphysical
fact. Thus, for instance, Joyce Cary, after spending years trying to "civilize"
the natives of Nigeria, confidently asserts that they should not be given
independence: "An overcrowded raft manned by children who had never
seen the sea would have a better chance in a typhoon" than would the
Africans in managing their own destinies.29
This adamant refusal to admit the possibility of syncretism, of a

rapprochement between self and Other, is the most important factor
distinguishing the "imaginary" from the "symbolic" colonialist text. The
"symbolic"text's openness toward the Other is based on a greater awareness

of potential identity and a heightened sense of the concretesocio-politico-
cultural differences between self and Other. Although the "symbolic"
writer's understanding of the Other proceeds through self-understanding,
he is freer from the codes and motifs of the deeper, collective classification
system of his culture. In the final analysis, his success in comprehending
or appreciating alterity will depend on his ability to bracket the values
and bases of his culture. He may do so very consciously and deliberately,
as Forster does in A Passage to India, or he may allow the emotions and
values instilled in him during his social formation in an alien culture to
inform his appraisals of the Other, as Kipling does in Kim. These two
novels offer the most interesting attempts to overcome the barriers of
racial difference.
"The racial problem can take subtle forms," says the narrator of A
Passage to India, and in order to focus on the subtler versions, Forster
firmly and mercilessly satirizes the cruder, "imaginary"forms of colonialist
racism."s Although his statements verge at times on the stereotypic/ar-
chetypic colonialist generalizations (for instance: "Like most Orientals,
Aziz overrated hospitality" [PI, p. 142]), Forster does not present us with
stereotypes. The main characters may be flatter than in his previous
novels, but in the context of colonialist literature they are well-rounded
individuals who adequately represent themselves as well as some of the
general characteristics of their cultures. Thus, for instance, the general
differences between Muslim and Hindu beliefs and between Anglo-Indian
and English values are concretely and accurately delineated. Forster clearly
understood and represented the British colonialists' "imaginary" fixation
on racial difference and all the psychic and social distortion it entails.
Benita Parry succinctly characterizes them in her analysis:
While profiting from the fear on which the Raj rests, the Anglo-
Indians are victims of a fear which India arouses in them. They
live amidst scenery they do not understand, sense that Indians hate
them and feel India to be a poisonous country intending evil against
them. Already coarsened by their status in India, the crisis generated
by Adela Quested's accusation against Aziz hurls them into cruder
demonstrations of their hostility, some demanding holocausts of
natives, others longing to inflict humiliating punishment."3
The retreat of Anglo-Indians into the simple, manichean emotions of

the "imaginary," their negation of "free intellectual inquiry and accom-
modating civilized personal relations,"32is also clearly castigated by Forster:
"[Fielding] was still after facts, though the herd had decided on emotion.
Nothing enrages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is
exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed" (PI, p. 165).
Forster's representation of the Indians' cruder attempts to overcome the
effects of racial denigration-for example, the servility of the colonized,

the easily wounded pride and vanity of Aziz, the histrionic outbursts of
Mahmoud Ali in court, and other such manifestations of self-pity--are
equally acerbic and penetrating. All of these, however, provide the backdrop
against which Forster examines the more genuine and well-intentioned
efforts of some of the Indians and the few British, those still not entirely
contaminated by colonialist values, to overcome the barriers of racial
difference.
Yet the very devices-the landscape of India and, in particular, the
Marabar Caves, which become the efficient cause of mystical experiences
and the major crisis in the novel-through which Forster chooses to
examine the possibilities of cultural and racial rapprochement (as well
as the larger issue of the spiritual and metaphysical meaning of human
endeavor that is the central preoccupation of the novel) eventually guar-
antee their failure. He characterizes India as a land of pathos, of an
ontological homesickness, a land that knows "the whole world's trouble,
to its uttermost depth": "[India]calls 'Come' through her hundred mouths,
through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never
defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal" (PI, p. 136). The pathos
is embodied in the Marabar Hills and Caves and is characterized by their
eternal ambiguity. In the scene prior to the incidents in the caves, Forster
takes some pains to establish, through the discussion about some mounds
and a snake, that the Indian mind is steeped in and thrives on ambiguity:
"Everything seemed cut off at its root, and therefore infected with illusion"
(PI, p. 140). The ambiguity of the caves-the absolute "Nothing" which
inheres in them and the experience of which is the goal ofJain religion-
comes to represent the essence of Indian metaphysics, and, as Frederick
Crews points out, metaphysics rather than morality preoccupies Forster
in A Passage to India."3The careful correlations between the iconography
of the caves and the metaphors of Jain metaphysics stress Forster'sconcern
with the concepts of identity and difference that Indian philosophy priv-
ileges."4 The caves represent the fundamental, unconscious identity from
which all natural and social differences emanate and to which they all
return when they can escape their phenomenal manifestation. Mrs. Moore
and Professor Godbole experience this kind of unity, and Greysford and
Sorley anxiously speculate about it in their own Christian terminology.
Given Mrs. Moore's spiritual concerns and her rejection of the value
of social relations (see PI, p. 135), the caves echo her unconscious meditation
with "boum,"itself an echo of the sacred Hindu syllable "om,"the meditation
on which leads eventually to an experience of transcendent unity, identity,
and silence that erases all the categories of thought (and thereby of
nature), all the differences posited by signification. For Adela Quested,
balanced delicately between the spiritual concerns of Mrs. Moore and
the purely social ones of Fielding (who finds the caves meaningless and
unimpressive), the unconscious realm of the caves mirrors her own re-
pressed sexuality, the horror of which is quickly projected, with the eager
help of the Anglo-Indian community (well versed in such projection),
onto the racial Other, Aziz, who was the object of her fantasy. Thus
Forster, too, endows not the native but the land, emblematized by the
caves, with a specular function. Adela's repression and projection are
not rescinded until the courtroom scene, when she is once again aroused
by the physical beauty of that icon of god-as-unconscious, the punkah
wallah, and by the deification of Mrs. Moore's name, which, like other
mantras, also leads to the unconscious identity underlying difference.
Yet, having invested "India"(the land, the caves, and the non-Muslim
Indian religions) with this particular metaphysics of identity and difference,
Forster recoils from it in mild horror. His subconscious rejection of it is
revealed by the chaos and danger that follow each encounter with the
all-consuming transcendental identity: immediately after her experience
in the caves, Mrs. Moore is panicked and hurt by the crowd of wild,
uncontrolled Indians that surge into the cave; Adela feels sexually abused
after her visit; her encounter, in the courtroom, with the iconic repre-
sentation of the unconscious is followed by pandemonium that symbolically
threatens the order of the British Empire; and Godbole's mystical ex-
perience of identity is surrounded by the utter chaos of the Gokul Ashtami
festival. Even a momentary transcendence of difference, Forster seems
to fear, will lead to uncontrollable chaos.
A Passage to India also abounds in conscious rejection of the chaos
that, from Forster's viewpoint, attends the discovery of transcendent
identity. The echo returns to tell Mrs. Moore that "everything exists,
nothing has value," and she is gradually terrified by the realization that
everything-the concepts of eternity and infinity, the wisdom of "talkative
Christianity,"and even her affection for her children and Aziz-is "boum,"
Nothing (PI, pp. 149, 150). In consequence, she wishes to leave India
as soon as possible. Her experiences may well be the product of disillusioned
old age, as Crews argues, but the fear of identity manifests itself in other
forms as well.35India itself (which is a protagonist rather than a background
in this novel) mocks Mrs. Moore's discovery of identity by confronting
her with its differences: as she sails, the palm trees of India say to her,
"'So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as
final?' they laughed. 'What have we in common with them, or they with
Asirgarh? Good-bye!' " (PI, p. 210). Difference, then, mocks the primacy
of identity, but the result is not order. Like Fielding, who prefers the
"order" of Renaissance Italy to the "chaos" of India, the narrator too
withdraws from the emotional demands inherent in the process of iden-
tifying with an alterity:
How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all
the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain
that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and
perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear

of losing the little she does understand, she retreatsto the permanent
lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. [PI, pp.
247-48; my emphasis]36
Just as the novel retreats from the demands of metaphysical identity

to the safety of phenomenal difference, so conversely it avoids the prospects
of interracial identity by evoking metaphysical difference -that is, it takes
refuge behind the "permanent" ideological boundaries defined by "habit
or chance," by culture or race that has been turned into a metaphysical
fact. The only relationship with the potential for transcending this kind
of racial barrier fails, but the reasons for the failure are rather curious.
In spite of Fielding's rationality, lack of racial prejudice, and humaneness,
he is unable to "give in to the East" and live in "a condition of affectionate
dependence upon it" as Aziz wants him to. For Fielding, "dependence"
means becoming subservient, like Mohammed Latif, and such conversion
is naturally beyond him: "When they argued about it something racial
intruded-not bitterly, but inevitably, like the colour of their skins: coffee-
colour versus pinko-grey" (PI, p. 260). The misunderstanding or mis-
interpretation about subservience seems, at first sight, like an attempt to
avoid the possibility of a genuine friendship. Indeed, Forster is quite
ambivalent about identifying the causes that perpetuate racial difference.
On initial consideration, the discussion between Aziz and Fielding at the
end of the novel strongly implies that colonialism, which necessarily
involves the subordination of one to the other, is the real barrier. But
when Fielding finally asks why he and Aziz cannot be friends even though
they both want it, the negative reply comes not from either man but
from the many objects, both "ridiculous and august." The "India" that
had said "Come" and that, as we have seen, is the embodiment of an
unpalatable metaphysical calculus of identity and difference, now says
"No" to the possibility of overcoming racial alterity. In the final analysis,
racial difference is once again supported and justified by metaphysical
difference. The metaphysical preoccupation of A Passage to India is a
culmination of problems that Forster had been examining throughout
his work, and his decision to cast his concerns in terms of Indian philosophy
is innocent and logical. But the narrative decision to turn India into a
metaphysical protagonist inherently antithetical to Western liberal hu-
manism probably stems from a sense of larger cultural differences, the
machinery of which is similar to that of the manichean allegory.
A Passage to India is in many ways a far more penetrating and satisfying
novel than Kim. But, ironically enough, Kipling, the champion of colon-
ialism and British superiority, has produced the novel that more intriguingly
explores the issues of racial barriers and syncretic possibility. This is due
to the fact that Forster's depiction of racial and cultural difference is
ultimately based on a rational, intellectual concern, whereas Kipling's is
determined by strong emotional ties that collide with his intellectual

prejudice and colonialist sympathies. Kipling's own childhood in India
is quite obviously the basis of Kim's affection for the Indian world; and,
in the context of colonial fiction, a novel that proceeds from emotional
identification with the Other offers the most thorough vision of the
syncretic possibility.
In Kim, Kipling has created a lovable, honest rogue who easily wins
the reader's affection, which the narrator then harnesses to Kim's affection
for India. We are thus introduced to a positive, detailed, and nonstereotypic
portrait of the colonized that is unique in colonialist literature. The
narrator seems to find as much pleasure in describing the varied and
tumultuous life of India as Kim finds in experiencing it. What may
initially seem like a rapt aesthetic appreciation of Indian cultures turns
out, on closer examination, to be a positive acceptance and celebration
of difference. Kim delights in changing his appearance and identity, in
becoming Other, and he loves to live in a world of pure becoming. He
is a world of infinite concrete potentiality. As an orphan (a fact that is
inconsequential to him), he has no origins and therefore no familial,
social, political, or teleological constraints either. Endowed by the narrator
with special talents, he can do anything and become anybody. Kim and
his celebration of Indian cultures seem like perfect embodiments of
Kipling's syncretic desires. In fact, the structures of Kim's character and
his situation reveal the imperative that is essential for the fulfillment of
that desire. Because Kim's self is entirely decentered and malleable, he
finds pleasure in becoming an Other and in the variety and difference
in his world. Occasionally and momentarily he is troubled by his lack of
fixed identity, but in extreme situations he temporarily finds a center by
chanting his name. This ability to forgo a permanent fixed self, which
is essential if one is going to understand and appreciate a racial or cultural
alterity, is turned into a positive principle in Kim.The novel also implicitly
celebrates the analogous notion of maya, which means both "creation"
and "illusion."Kim delights in creating illusions of himself, and eventually
the question about his identity and his political role as a spy is linked up
with the lama's philosophical theories about the illusion of the phenomenal
world.
Kipling's choice of the picaresque form is not only appropriate to
this story but also bolsters the unique position of this novel in the gamut
of colonialist fiction. Like the Grand Trunk Road, the novel continuously
accommodates a wide variety of episodes and people, including the "low
life" of India, without distancing them through moral disapproval or a
preponderance of colonialist humor. In fact, it familiarizes the mundane
world of the colonized through gentle, affectionate humor and in this
way overcomes the barriers of racial difference better than any other
colonialist novel. It rescues the native cultures from the prejudged al-
legorical closure of the "imaginary" text and brings them into the open-
ended, transitory, contemporary world; in keeping with the personality

and values of its protagonist, it presents the world as becoming, as a
movement into the future, and raises the question of unrealized potential
and demand.
Yet underneath the celebration of Indian cultures lurks the problem
of racial difference. Is Kim white, or is he a native? The underlying
problem is that the birth of a genuinely syncretic subject necessarily
implies the death of an exclusively British subject. Consequently, the
novel equivocates: while Kim insists that he is an Indian, the narrator
adamantly asserts Kim's British origins. Kim is an Irish orphan who has
been brought up entirely within various Indian cultures: he looks, behaves,
and thinks like an Indian, speaks and dreams only in Hindustani, and
is more afraid of the English than are other native children. Subconsciously
aware of the enormous weight of this social formation, the narrator tries
to negate it at the very beginning of the novel:
Though he was burned black as any native; though he spoke the

vernacular by preference, and his mother-tongue in a clipped, un-
certain sing-song; though he consorted on terms of perfect equality
with the small boys of the bazaar; Kim was white-a poor white of
the very poorest.3"
Thus we see the old manichean dichotomies surfacing once again: in

the colonialist universe nurture is ephemeral-one's culture is inherited,
like the color of skin, through the genes. This struggle between Kim and
the narrator continues throughout the novel. Every time someone suggests
that he is white, Kim denies it vehemently and even insists that he will
die if he is removed from his beloved Indians. The narrative, however,
burdens him with a racial destiny that must, of course, be fulfilled: his
father's regiment will discover and restore him to his race. Eventually,
the novel works out a satisfactory compromise, which, for all its subtlety,
is once again a product of the infinitely flexible categories of the manichean
allegory.
The compromise also resolves the problem of Kim's origins. Among
other things, Kim is a story of the prolonged and unnatural recovery of
the paternal function, and the struggle over Kim's inheritance is a man-
ifestation of the conflict over cultural allegiance. Kim is an orphan, a
fact that he volunteers repeatedly when he is pretending to be a beggar.
As he matures and gradually is enlisted as a spy, he develops allegiances
to various Indian and European adults. Eventually, some of them adopt
him as their son, and he accepts them as fathers and mothers. The process
of mutual adoption between Mahbub Ali and Kim is explicitly, if not
legally, ceremonious; the relationship between the Teshoo Lama and
Kim, between a religious master and his disciple, is that of a spiritual
father and son; Hurree Babu acts and is accepted as Kim's elder brother;
and the Sahiba becomes his mother. All these relations are deeply emotional
and specific: each "parent" or "sibling" sees the chameleonic Kim as a
unique being, and he in turn draws a different kind of sustenance from
each of them. In contrast, his relationship to two Englishmen who control
the British espionage activities in India and take charge of his formal
education (though it is financed by the lama) is cold and rational. Kim
is fully aware that Creighton's largess and protection are based on an
ulterior motive (see K, p. 133). While the Indians keep reminding him
that he is white, the Englishmen tell him not to alienate himself from
the Indians. Thus the struggle over the inheritance is resolved through
a bifurcation of the paternal function: on the one hand, Kim's personal
and emotional allegiance to the Indians and, on the other, his impersonal
and rational relation to the Englishmen.
This solution plunges the novel back into colonialist ideology. Ac-
cording to the manichean allegory, Europeans are rational and intelligent,
while Orientals are emotional and sensuous. Kim does not resort to racist
stereotypes; the Indians are portrayed as being intelligent. Kim's allegiance
to them, however, is entirely emotional, whereas his relationship to whites
is entirely rational and impersonal--they simply train his mind. Hence,
the results of the syncretic experiment are finally decided by manichean
bifurcations. Furthermore, Kim's initiation into espionage, his becoming
an intelligence agent, allows the white Kim to serve colonialist power and
the Indian Kim to consort with various natives.
Kim's first major accomplishment as a spy is to thwart Russian and
French agents who are trying to subvert the British Empire in India. As
a "protector" of India, Kim also helps to bolster the overt colonialist aims
(to protect and civilize the Indians) while in fact prolonging the lease of
the covert policies. Kim becomes involved in espionage because he loves
to play games of illusion and to experience the variety of life. He has no
ulterior motives in this: he plays at the "GreatGame" of life (and espionage)
simply for the pleasure of playing, not for the sake of any profit. Yet in
this specific use-value that motivates Kim, the British colonialists and
their Indian agents are able to detect and exploit his exchange-value: it
is precisely because Kim can "exchange" himself with any native that he
is useful to the British. Thus like other colonialist writers, Kipling also
builds a novel around the exchange-value of the native, or quasi native.
Not once does the fascinating possibility that Kim's syncretism could
have a significance other than its use for British colonialism cross the
threshold of awareness in this novel.
The hero's syncretic potential is foreclosed and his celebration of
that syncretism is limited by the narrative decision not to probe beyond
his adolescence. The foreclosure is part of a larger strategy of containment.
As John McClure has observed, Kipling creates an idyllic world in Kim
by purging all significant danger or evil from the novel and by excluding
the two social forces that most infuriated him: the imperial administrative
hierarchy and the emerging nationalist Indian bourgeoisie. Both these

forces are present in the novel in only their most marginal and absurd
forms. More crucially, however, "what Kipling excludes, ultimately, is
history, the vital force changing Indian society. He does so by focusing
on either side of the historical process, on the plentitude of the moment
[Kim's experiences of the highways, bazaars, and so forth] and the finality
of the eternal [the "Great Game," the lama's search, and so forth]."38
Despite all its concreteness, then, the syncretism of Kim is founded both
on the fixed oppositions of the manichean allegory and on the ahistorical
abstractness of wish fulfillment.
Kipling understands and flirts with the concept of maya-the notion
that illusion inheres in all the noemata of human and natural creation
and in the noetics of human perception-at several different levels of
the novel, but ultimately the problematics of maya, too, are displaced by
the colonialist preoccupation with race. The lama feels that the whole
phenomenal world is an illusion and that everyone is "deceived by the
shadow of appearance" (K, p. 286), but Kipling is gently mocking him:
he is entirely blind to the fact that his unique disciple is a spy and is
using him to thwart the foreign agents. Mahbub Ali, Hurree Babu, Kim,
and the other British agents are playing their own "Great Game" of maya,
masking their real purposes and identities while trying to probe beneath
the appearances of Indian political life. Whereas the narrator dismisses
the lama's game of maya, that of the spies continues indefinitely because
its perpetuation is necessary for the resolution of the third game-the
game of Kim's identity. Only so long as Kim is a spy can he continue to
be an Englishman while appearing to be an Indian. For the narrator,
the only certainty behind the appearances of the novel is the racial identity
of Kim.
European fiction that deals with the colonial context is not invariably
caught in the pitfalls of the "imaginary" relations with the racial Other.
One type manages to avoid the world of specularity. Another type, at
times, even breaks through the barriers of fetishized racial difference,
and, though unable to achieve some "genuine"or "objective"understanding
of the Other, it offers evidence of a dialectical, mutually modifying relation
between self and Other. Both varieties, however, pay a certain price in
order to avoid the narcissistic world of the colonialist.
The first type of writer manages to resist the pull of the "imaginary"
realm by rigorously eschewing the temptation to represent the Other.
Whether deliberate or subconscious, this decision is based on an under-
standing that differences between self and Other cannot be adequately
transcended within the colonial context. Consequently, the writer chooses
instead to focus almost exclusively on the subjugating process and on

the mentality of the conqueror. Conrad follows this course most of the
time, but occasionally he slips either into the colonialist mode of perception
or into the world of the Other." In Nostromo,as in Heart of Darkness, he
stereotypes the Other, in this case the South American Indian, but uses
him as a background in order to examine the imperial process itself.
Thus Nostromocan be read as a study of the alienating power of exchange-
value, emblematized by the silver. Idealists and cynics, reactionaries and
revolutionaries, pompous fools and lucid thinkers, altruistic and egotistic
men and women are all eventually "corrupted" and alienated by their
attempt to use the silver as a medium of exchange in order to gratify
their "real" desires. The novel is relentlessly preoccupied with the fun-
damental motive of colonialism, that is, with the desire for profit, which
is ultimately the desire to control the medium of exchange. Accordingly,
Conrad's notions of capitalism/imperialismare, as FredricJameson implies,
both the source and object of Nostromo:"the emergence of capitalism as
... an always-already-begun dynamic, as the supreme and privileged
mystery of a synchronic system which, once in place, discredits the attempts
of 'linear' history or the habits of the diachronic mind to conceive of its
beginnings."40 However, in the context of colonialist discourse, it must
be emphasized that Conrad is able to achieve this apparently impossible
feat precisely by focusing on the colonialist manifestation of capitalism,
that is, on the space in which capitalism reproduces itself and rehearses
its own history. In this capacity, Nostromofunctions as a mirror-it shows
capitalism, in its process of subjugating the Other, its own specular image.
Nadine Gordimer, a contemporary writer whose interrogation of
colonialist intervention is even more relentless in some ways than Conrad's,
began her career with a clear understanding of the "imaginary" trap. At
a crucial point in her first novel, the heroine's developing awareness of
the manichean oppositions enforced by apartheid is mediated by an
inverted image of the self. Helen Shaw first sees Mary Seswayo, one of
the few black women students at the university she attends, in a mirror,
and, as their glances meet, Helen for the first time recognizes, in the
other woman's face, her own idealistic anticipation of boundless intellectual
stimulation and infinite justice that she expects the university to offer.4'
Apartheid, however, will neither allow Helen to become intimate with
her Other nor permit her to pursue a self-development untainted with
its fascist precepts. The novel ends with her determination to avoid, at
all costs, the ideological closures of a racist, exploitative society. Henceforth,
all of Gordimer's novels focus on the bankruptcy of the liberal ideology,
on the effects of South African fascism on the liberal consciousness of
her white protagonists, and on their progressive radicalization. When
she does enter the world of the Other, as in July's People, it is primarily
to examine the dependence of whites on their African servants. Unable
and unwilling to turn away from the colonial situation, Gordimer makes
a virtue of necessity by systematically scrutinizing the social and psycho-

logical effects of the manichean bifurcation on her white protagonists,
even though she is acutely aware that the price she pays for this deliberately
restricted focus is her inability, as a writer, to participate in the formation
of a genuinely national literature.42
Occasionally a writer overcomes the racial barriers and is significantly
influenced by the dominated Other. Isak Dinesen is an interesting case
in point. Her autobiographical works, Out of Africa and Shadows on the
Grass, clearly show that she was strongly influenced by the oral/mythic
culture of the Africans (which has a phenomenology significantly different
from that of chirographic cultures)." It can be argued that her tales, the
themes of which are only incidentally connected with Africa, are influenced
by oral narratives. Dinesen's understanding and appreciation of the Gikuyu,
Masai, and Somali cultures are the result of her willingness to examine
and decenter herself and her culture in the presence of the Other. As
she looks at herself through the eyes of natives, she begins to realize that
her cultural values, and therefore the self constituted by those values,
are entirely relative; instead of panicking, however, she is able to accept
the experience and even attain a partial transcendence through it, which
once again verifies the power of the manichean allegory. Her treatment
of her African servants and laborers and her regard for their dignity
and feelings improve dramatically as a result of her transformation. But
much of her colonialist rhetoric remains intact: she thinks of Africans
as primitive children. Though she sympathizes with their plight under
colonialism and makes genuine and significant efforts to improve their
situation, her representation of Africans is nonetheless determined by
the pervasive currency of the manichean allegory. But, while the manichean
allegory determines the deep structure of most colonialist texts, in Dinesen's
work it produces only the surface structure.
Similarly, Laurens Van der Post's decision to depict his own experience
of African oral cultures takes the form of a novel about a young boy's
adventures: even though Van der Post clearly does understand the phe-
nomenology of mythic culture, his representation of it is limited by his
belief that only a child would be interested in such cultures.44 Here the
allegory determines the deep structure, the very conception, of the novel.
As we have seen, colonialist fiction is generated predominantly by

the ideological machinery of the manichean allegory. Yet the relation
between imperial ideology and fiction is not unidirectional: the ideology
does not simply determine the fiction. Rather, through a process of
symbiosis, the fictionforms the ideology by articulating and justifying the
position and aims of the colonialist. But it does more than just define
and elaborate the actual military and putative moral superiority of the
Europeans. Troubled by the nagging contradiction between the theoretical
justification of exploitation and the barbarity of its actual practice, it also
attempts to mask the contradiction by obsessively portraying the supposed
inferiority and barbarity of the racial Other, thereby insisting on the
profound moral difference between self and Other. Within this symbiotic
relation, the manichean allegory functions as a transformative mechanism
between the affective pleasure derived from the moral superiority and
material profit that motivate imperialism, on the one hand, and the
formal devices (genres, stereotypes, and so on) of colonialist fiction, on
the other hand. By allowing the European to denigrate the native in a
variety of ways, by permitting an obsessive, fetishistic representation of
the native's moral inferiority, the allegory also enables the European to
increase, by contrast, the store of his own moral superiority; it allows
him to accumulate "surplus morality," which is further invested in the
denigration of the native, in a self-sustaining cycle.
Thus the ideological function of all "imaginary"and some "symbolic"
colonialist literature is to articulate and justify the moral authority of the
colonizer and-by positing the inferiority of the native as a metaphysical
fact-to mask the pleasure the colonizer derives from that authority.
The partial success that such literature achieves in justifying and per-
petuating imperial ideology is evident in certain kinds of critical elabo-
rations. Harry Barba, for instance, feels that the "regression" of Aladai,
the African "hero" of Cary's African Witch, "represents a triumph for the
primordial, retrogressive urge that dominates the Nigerian: for totem
and taboo, for ju-ju, and for the more advanced but equally destructive
stages of primitive ju-ju Christianity."We may receive this statement with
incredulity, but he goes on to state his point even more explicitly: "Like
Uli, Aladai shows a response to the call of blood which is stronger than
the influence of his contact with civilization.""45 Such "criticism"is by no
means rare: more sophisticated current versions of it can be found praising
V. S. Naipaul's representation of the innate barbarity of Third World
people."46But while colonialist fiction-as-rhetorical-practice does succeed
in persuading some people that its claims are valid, the same fiction in
its essence as determined-cultural-text preserves the structures and func-
tions of imperialist ideology for those who wish to discern them.
Finally, we must bear in mind that colonialist fiction and ideology
do not exist in a vacuum. In order to appreciate them thoroughly, we
must examine them in juxtaposition to domestic English fiction and the
anglophone fiction of the Third World, which originates from British
occupation and which, during the current, hegemonic phase of colonialism,
is establishing a dialogic relation with colonialist fiction. The Third World's
literary dialogue with Western cultures is marked by two broad charac-
teristics: its attempt to negate the prior European negation of colonized
cultures and its adoption and creative modification of Western languages
and artistic forms in conjunction with indigenous languages and forms.

This dialogue merits our serious attention for two reasons: first, in spite
of the often studied attempts by ethnocentric canonizers in English and
other (Western) language and literature departments to ignore Third
World culture and art, they will not go away; and, second, as this analysis
of colonialist literature (a literature, we must remember, that is supposed
to mediate between different cultures) demonstrates, the domain of literary
and cultural syncretism belongs not to colonialist and neocolonialist writers
but increasingly to Third World artists.
1. M. M. Mahood, The Colonial Encounter:A Reading of Six Novels (Totowa, N.J., 1977),
pp. 170, 171; and see p. 3. As many other studies demonstrate, the emotional innocence
and the distance of the six writers whom Mahood has chosen-Joseph Conrad, E. M.
Forster, Graham Greene, Chinua Achebe, R. K. Narayan, and V. S. Naipaul-are, at best,
highly debatable.
2. Homi K. Bhabha, "The Other Question-The Stereotype and Colonial Discourse,"
Screen 24 (Nov.-Dec. 1983): 25, 19.
3. Frantz Fanon, The Wretchedof the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington (New York,
1968), p. 41.
4. E. A. Brett, Colonialismand Underdevelopmentin East Africa: The Politics of Economic
Change, 1919-1939 (New York, 1973), p. 169.
5. "For it is the force of ambivalence that gives the colonial stereotype its currency:
ensures its repeatability in changing historical and discursive conjunctures; informs its
strategies of individuation and marginalisation; produces the effect of probabilistic truth
and predictability which, for the stereotype, must always be in excessof what can be empirically
proved or logically construed" (Bhabha, "The Other Question," p. 18). Bhabha amplifies
his views of ambivalence in "Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,"
October28 (Spring 1984): 125-33.
6. See Dorothy Hammond and Alta Jablow, The Africa That Never Was: Four Centuries
of British Writing about Africa (New York, 1970), pp. 20-23.
7. These policies and practices have been documented abundantly. Specific studies
provide thoroughly detailed information; see, e.g., Richard D. Wolff, The Economics of
Colonialism:Britain and Kenya, 1870-1930 (New Haven, Conn., 1974).
8. See G. Balandier, "The Colonial Situation: A Theoretical Approach," in Social Change:
The Colonial Situation, ed. Immanuel Wallerstein (New York, 1966), p. 37.
9. For a detailed study of one such case, see chapter 2, "Joyce Cary: The Generation
of Racial Romance," in my Manichean Aesthetics:The Politics of Literaturein Colonial Africa
(Amherst, Mass., 1983), pp. 15-48.
10. Michel Foucault, "What is an Author?" Language, Counter-Memory,Practice: Selected
Essays and Interviews, ed. Donald F. Bouchard, trans. Bouchard and Sherry Simon (Ithaca,
N.Y., 1977), p. 130.
11. I cannot develop this argument here for two reasons: first, Naipaul clearly belongs
to the hegemonic phase of colonialism, the discourse of which must be examined in its
own right and, second, the transformations and repressions that a "native" writer must
undergo in order to become a colonialist writer are complicated and also demand separate
consideration.
12. Foucault, The Archaeologyof Knowledge, trans. A. M. Sheridan Smith (New York,
1972), p. 120.
13. Edward W. Said, Orientalism(New York, 1978), p. 7.
14. This relation between material and discursive practices, between power and knowledge
in Western representation of Others, has been mapped most thoroughly in Said's Orientalism.
15. These categories, the "imaginary" and the "symbolic," are derived from the work
of Jacques Lacan. The "imaginary"is a preverbalorder, essentiallyvisual, that precedes
the "symbolic,"or verbal, order in the development of the psyche. The "imaginary,"actualized
during the "mirror stage" (between the ages of six and eighteen months) by the child's
recognition of his own image in a mirror or in the presence of another human being, is
characterized by identification and aggressivity. During this phase, the child identifies
himself completely with his specular image; yet, because the identification includes a non-
transversable distance between self and the Other (who is seen as self), the experience is
deeply imbued with aggressivity toward the self/Other. This capture of the self by the
specular image is only partially modified by the subject's accession, through the acquisition
of language, to the "symbolic" order of society and intersubjectivity. In the "symbolic"
order, language mediates (and, once again, alienates) the subject's desire, but the specular
dynamics of the "imaginary" phase remain embedded in the "symbolic" order, albeit in a
form modified by the complex sublimations of the "symbolic" order. See, particularly,
Lacan, "The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I as Revealed in Psychoanalytic
Experience," Ecrits: A Selection, trans. Alan Sheridan (London, 1977), pp. 1-7. I am also
indebted to commentaries on Lacanian theory; see Anika Rifflet-Lemaire, Jacques Lacan,
trans. David Macey (London, 1977); Lacan, TheLanguage of the Self TheFunctionof Language
in Psychoanalysis,ed. and trans. Anthony Wilden (Baltimore, 1968); and Fredric Jameson,
"Imaginary and Symbolic in Lacan: Marxism, Psychoanalytic Criticism, and the Problem
of the Subject," Yale French Studies, no. 55-56 (1977): 338-95.
It is perhaps necessary to repeat Wilden's stress on the fact that the relationship
between the "imaginary"and "symbolic"orders is simultaneously diachronic (developmental)
and synchronic (structural) and that the stade du miroirmust be read in three ways at once:
"backwards-as a symptom of or a substitute for a much more primordial identification;
forwards-as a phase in development; and timelesslyvas a relationship best formulated
in algorithmic terms. The subject's 'fixation' on (or in) the Imaginary is a matter of degree"
(Wilden, "Lacan and the Discourse of the Other," in The Language of the Self, p. 174). We
might add that similarly the "imaginary" or "symbolic" quality of a given text is a matter
of degree.
16. See Nadine Gordimer,July'sPeople(New York, 1981), for an unrelenting examination
of this dependence.
17. For a general discussion of this transitive mechanism in racial situations, see Joel
Kovel, White Racism: A Psychohistory(New York, 1971); for a historical case study see 0.
Mannoni's discussion of rape in Madagascar in Prospero and Caliban: The Psychology of
Colonization,trans. Pamela Powesland, 2d ed. (New York, 1964).
18. Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa (New York, 1937), p. 21.
19. Joyce Cary, Aissa Saved (London, 1949), p. 33.
20. M. M. Bakhtin, "Epic and Novel: Toward a Methodology for the Study of the
Novel," The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist, trans. Caryl Emerson
and Holquist, University of Texas Press Slavic Series, no. 1 (Austin, Tex., 1981), p. 30.
21. Gordimer, "Literature and Politics in South Africa," SouthernReview [An Australian
Journal of LiteraryStudies] 7 (Nov. 1974): 226.
22. See Bakhtin, "Epic and Novel," pp. 15-16.
23. The interpretation and status of Conrad's fiction among Third World writers is
quite ambivalent; see, e.g., Achebe, "An Image of Africa," MassachusettsReview 18 (Winter
1977): 782-94, and Peter Nazareth, "Out of Darkness: Conrad and Other Third World
Writers," Conradiana 14, no. 3 (1982): 173-87.
24. Hammond and Jablow, The Africa That Never Was, p. 197; in this book Hammond
and Jablow present a good content analysis of these subgenres.
25. Northrop Frye, Anatomyof Criticism:Four Essays (Princeton, N.J., 1957), pp. 304,
305.
26. See Frye, The Secular Scripture:A Study of the Structure of Romance, Charles Eliot
Norton Lectures, 1974-1975 (Cambridge, Mass., 1976), p. 57.
27. For a more elaborate definition of racial romance, see my chapter "Joyce Cary:
The Generation of Racial Romance," Manichean Aesthetics,pp. 15-48.
28. See Andre Brink, A Chain of Voices (Harmondsworth, 1983), and J. M. Coetzee,
Waitingfor the Barbarians (Harmondsworth, 1982).
29. Cary, The African Witch (London, 1949), p. 12.
30. Forster, A Passage to India (New York, 1924), p. 158; all further references to this
work, abbreviated PI, will be included in the text.
31. Benita Parry, Delusions and Discoveries:Studies on India in the British Imagination,
1880-1930 (London, 1972), pp. 279-80.
32. Parry, Delusions and Discoveries,p. 273.
33. For an elaboration of Forster's humanist concerns in A Passage to India, see Frederick
C. Crews, E. M. Forster:The Perils of Humanism (Princeton, N.J., 1962), pp. 139-63.
34. For an elaboration of this fascinating correlation, see Parry, Delusionsand Discoveries,
pp. 288-90.
35. See Crews, E. M. Forster,p. 156.
36. In Jain philosophy each distinct entity, including the tiniest grain of sand, has a
soul and is capable of feeling; see Parry, Delusions and Discoveries,pp. 288-90.
37. Rudyard Kipling, Kim (New York, 1959), p. 5; my emphasis. All further references
to this work, abbreviated K, will be included in the text.
38. John A. McClure, Kipling and Conrad:The ColonialFiction (Cambridge, Mass., 1981),
p. 80.
39. Conrad's attempts to free himself from the preformed categories of colonialist
discourse and the consequent struggles in his fiction between his criticism of imperialism/
capitalism and the received closures of colonialist ideology are admirably mapped in Parry,
Conrad and Imperialism:IdeologicalBoundaries and VisionaryFrontiers (London, 1983).
40. Fredric Jameson, ThePolitical Unconscious:Narrative as a SociallySymbolicAct (Ithaca,
N.Y., 1981), p. 280.
41. See Gordimer, The Lying Days (New York, 1953), p. 144.
42. I have explored Gordimer's fiction in detail elsewhere; see my chapter "Nadine
Gordimer: The Degeneration of the Great South African Lie," Manichean Aesthetics,pp.
79-149.
43. See Dinesen, Out of Africa, and Shadowson the Grass (New York, 1974). For a succinct
definition of oral cultures, see Walter J. Ong, Oralityand Literacy:The Technologizingof the
Word(London, 1982), and for a detailed study of Dinesen's transformation, see my chapter
"Isak Dinesen: The Generation of Mythic Consciousness," Manichean Aesthetics,pp. 49-77.
44. See Laurens Van der Post, A StoryLike the Wind (New York, 1972).
45. Harry Barba, "Cary's Image of Africa in Transition," Universityof Kansas CityReview
29 (1963): 293.
46. I do not mean to imply that any writer who criticizes Third World cultures must
be automatically condemned as a colonialist. For instance, Achebe's depiction of corruption
in Nigeria, in his novel No Longerat Ease (New York, 1961), is as complete and penetrating
(if not more so) as any of Naipaul's characterizations. The crucial difference, however, is
that while Achebe's representation is sympathetic and, therefore, informative, Naipaul's
reeks of contempt and reveals only the operation of colonialist mentality.

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The Economy of Manichean Allegory: The Function of Racial Difference in Colonialist

Critical Inquiry 12 (Autumn 1985)

Abdul R. JanMohamed, assistant professor of English at the University

We can better understand colonialist discourse, it seems to me, through

The perception of racial difference is, in the first place, influenced

Although we shouldn't overlook the various forms of native "cooperation"

of the exigencies of domestic-that is, European and colonialist--politics

formation, not only in the economy of discourse, but, more generally,

identical, then he would tend to ignore the significant divergences and

Writers of "symbolic" texts, on the other hand, are more aware of

The Natives were Africa in flesh and blood.... [The various

As this example illustrates, it is not the stereotypes, the denigrating

who have converted to Christianity as naughty, irresponsible children.

But since the colonialist wants to maintain his privileges by preserving

of Hurree Chunder Mookerjee, M.A.-and, above all, of his desire to

his actions and by presenting us with Marlow's meditation about their

appropriately describes this subgenre: "The essential difference between

the efficient and immediate cause of the revolt is a series of sexual

This adamant refusal to admit the possibility of syncretism, of a

"symbolic"text's openness toward the Other is based on a greater awareness

The retreat of Anglo-Indians into the simple, manichean emotions of

effects of racial denigration-for example, the servility of the colonized,

perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear

Just as the novel retreats from the demands of metaphysical identity

determined by strong emotional ties that collide with his intellectual

ended, transitory, contemporary world; in keeping with the personality

Though he was burned black as any native; though he spoke the

Thus we see the old manichean dichotomies surfacing once again: in

hierarchy and the emerging nationalist Indian bourgeoisie. Both these

instead to focus almost exclusively on the subjugating process and on

a virtue of necessity by systematically scrutinizing the social and psycho-

As we have seen, colonialist fiction is generated predominantly by

and artistic forms in conjunction with indigenous languages and forms.

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