Bruce Andrews: What could be the connection between literature and the digital?

Electronic Poetics by Bruce Andrews

Going electronic. Radical or so-called innovative literary writing faces (& that means faces up to) the facts of life in the digital age. If you have been committed to foregrounding the processes by which language works, to the unsettling & detonation of an established medium — what then? How simpatico is this potential cyberworld as a staging area & as a reading environment? 1 

Raw material: if you use language in its ‘unfinished’ (less thoroughly socialized) state or at a molecular level, the project lends itself to the jammed, disjunctive situations of the screen with its striking dispersions or overlaps. Densities of significance can become visibly spatial, programmatically animated or varying or self-mistranslating. So at least the electronic realm can show the dependence of sense & meaning on technical mechanics, even if not on an encompassing social system of language. Can we lay out — sometimes keeping them present as separate & navigable layers — the alternative choices & building blocks of discourse as an array of hypermediated readymades, with the bleed-throughs of palimpsest-like sense solicited by the reading process? 

If editing is a dimension of reading; if reading constructs…. Can the electronic process of writing offer us an active enough editing, involving us — but with some critical distance — in the aberrant, nonnarrative wanderings of textual sense? As prescribed menus & fixed choices & coherences of branching give way, a directive gets issued for choice: order off the menu! Spatially, to make a freed-up connectionism, once incessant comparisons & linkings are given a physical presence on the screen, externalizing the associations but keeping intact much of the (nonhierarchical or unimposed) experience of hypertextual (& web) surfing. Couldn’t the screen become all middle, all between, back & forth, side by side, fostering an experimentalism of interpretation & processing, without a smoothness of the surface or familiar signposts to plausible and/or psychologizable depth? Even conventional link-node hypertext can build some of this directly into the writing’s physique. And, in hypermedia, given the lure of image & sound & layering, programmable variation or retranslation as well as interactive navigability, both normative syntax & literary convention stop being the obvious way to organize the microscopic bits of language material.

wpid-img_5047-2013-03-19-20-001.jpg
How else can an electronic poetics emerge out of such ‘agrammars’ of collage & multiple sequence, such ‘workings’ of nonidiomatic, labyrinthine difference? The central emphasis on (inevitably social) Language (with a capital L) among literary practitioners in recent decades offered a way out of the autonomizing moves of earlier modernisms. Does the electronic world tempt us back into another version of that autonomizing? Stripping away these humanist touches (& personality signatures) of the author, we can end up with the computational logics & resistance to rhetoric of Artificial Intelligence (AI). Of course this allows for faster & more dazzling unseatings of ‘the personal’, for mechanizing & de-authorizing the writing process. Yet the ‘event’ of language — & the time of its literal work & play — can threaten to disappear when it gets subordinated to fixed procedural systems. Hypermediated readership may run the same risk of entrallment to an AI model that we sometimes find in conceptual art. 

As with procedural writing in general, the textuality of this electronic art may ‘thin out’ the complexities of reception or undercut the (constitutive) emphasis on active readership — on reading as much more than the sensation of being caught up in (or cannibalized by) an algorithm. Can we banish the author as a dictatorial pseudo-presence, without reducing the mode of reception to a minimalist/behaviorist schematics?, the coerced trip or grammar of a hidden code, a secret logic of citation & refiguration? Although textual space may get fixed or objectivized through the use of deductive systems or formalization, texts’ meanings do not magically acquire autonomy. Textuality does not operate ‘in itself’. Signification depends on readerly experience in time & space. And so, a timely electronic textuality may ask us to move beyond: not only the personalizing projections of conventional literature, but the reductive spectacles of artificially intelligent net art & the automatisms of prescriptively procedural coding; to let its space remain the staging ground for interactive trajectories of reading making sense. 

The linguistic or semiotic ‘object’ is a present tense ‘event’ activated by the reader, made into an active accomplice of textual meaning. This occurs by memory & association & by the game-like play of teasing out implications: qualities that reading shares with the work performed on data by computer users — searching, linking, exchanging, classifying, resizing. But why virtualize or automatize this already navigational space of reading according to a preprogrammed taproot? Why put all this elaborate audiovisual & shape-shifting & spatially remaneuvering apparatus in the service of a straitjacketed or passive reading style? Thinking about the computer’s interface & mode of address, the distinction between looking through or looking at, between the beholder’s immersion & the reader’s active use is still (unfortunately) relevant.

wpid-img_6808-2013-03-19-20-001.jpg
I’m struck by the recent arguments of Lev Manovich’s Language of New Media.2 He highlights the current trends in the cyberworld (& more so in its commercial precincts) toward reinstating a traditionally cinematic (or centrifugal) experience of immersion — of video playback, in psychology-centered & storytelling forms; a 3-D virtual simulation made from compositing, instead of the raw edits & exposed boundaries of the vectors of meaning created by montage. A montage aesthetic can give way in the face of a deceptive visual blend (or eye candy), a glorifying of seamless continuity & psychological captivation with an illusion of plausible depths. In the ‘fourth wall’ traditions of VR just as much as in sentimentalizing ‘scenic’ & imagistic literature, absorption is at the heart of fiction (& its fingerpuppet, ‘workshop poetry’). If we add, to this programmed calming & unshocking, the pre-set trajectory or assembly line of sequencing within an imaginary plane — (maybe even with digital immediacy fostering fantasies of relinquishing control) — we get something similar to those troubling social processes of interpellation, hailing, recruiting. As if the electronic media were ventriloquizing speech. And readers were its dummies. (Is the ghost in the machine the sum of its receded possibilities?) 

However fashionable these trends may be, we can still highlight the other dimension of what the cyber realm offers up to contemporary writing: the ‘Database Logic’, as Manovich calls it, in contrast to the narrative & illusionistic form privileged by conventional cinema. Viewers’ Perception/Representation sits on one side, Users’ Control & Agency on the other. In the latter, a database, a structured collection of events of sense-making, is spatialized as Control within Reception of a body of material on which you can perform various operations. Here the screen is designed neither to be looked through, nor looked at from a (comfortable) distance. Language on the desktop becomes an interface to an elaborate multimedia database, with huge responsibilities (for semiosis, not just information) placed at the users’ fingertips. The database itself can take precedence over any prefixed menu or imposed selection. Reading’s task: to reentangle, rather than decipher; you don’t decipher a labyrinth. Your clicks of attentiveness pile up into a density. An opaque screen becomes an action-oriented control panel, no longer colonized (as so much traditional literary pagespace is) by 3-D illusion. You want to intensify the reading action to the point where you abolish that auratic distance which absorption into the spectacle requires. 

Instead of the ribbing of a story, space turns more explicitly into a flattened navigable datasphere, an information space & more: affective, semiotic, multimediated, no longer abstracted into the blind machinications of programming or backgrounded by engrossing distraction. Resonances can be scored spatially, & not just in the layers to which clearcut visibility succumbs.3 Taking away some of the narrative coerciveness of temporal sequence, this spatializing helps to dehierarhicize material, reframing & resizing its semiotic spelunking into huge leaps & shifts of scale or into the frame within frame concentrics of cascading style sheets or hypermedia stacks. Readership operates more like a search engine, with the production of meaning as the reprocessing or tactile ‘working’ of information from a database — nonidiomatic, outside of any imposed narrative or fixity or genre. Instead of a looping or sequential preprogrammed unveiling of sense, we get Random Access Memory; outside of the prefixed trajectories of much hypertext, with the reading experience a bit homogenized, formulaic (made to fit the ‘little form’), something more generative appears.

wpid-2013-03-0917-36-26-2013-03-19-20-001.jpg
We can think of the textual surface as an instrument panel, the screen as a flat & opaque workspace, given enormous fluidity, activating the user’s body. Action replaces both the passive representation of conventional literature & the passive spectacle of animated, programmed work.4 It embraces navigation, micro-evaluations, conceptual animation, freeze-framing, editing, blending, filtering, subliminal cut & paste, time compressions & expansions, frame resizing: practically everything we need to sidetrack closure. Here the aggressively focussed gaze may be as out of place as the yearning for the iconic which has bedevilled visual poetry. Instead, we want an active mapping — with ‘map’ as a verb instead of an imposed noun. 

Since relation is what counts within this nonlinear space, we want language able to highlight (in a literal way) its intertextual webbing of sense. The intertext is not a prescribed quest, an odyssey of replacement choices, of shutting out the margins to create some (virtual) forward momentum, as it is in some hypertext fiction. That compulsory sequencing can seem weirdly ‘off point’ when the electronic databases give us the possibility of a more spatialized simultaneity & density. “Database and narrative,” as Manovich puts it (p.225) “are natural enemies.” Precomputed trajectories & preselected viewpoints amount to decisions. By leaving them open to choice, user multiplicity opens up. It can make literature more like the composition of an online encyclopedia, of an archive — with the paratexts, the margins, the bibliographic coding included as a vertical dimension, a positioning or layering of the language material within outside contexts of implication.5 Beyond the cannibalisms of metaphor, we get something more like a viral metonymy. 

Reading, more like software extensions do, ‘performs’ instead of appearing as the deductive end-product of AI logic. Of course, surprise can be programmed, just as it is with chance-generated procedural texts or the heavily constraint-based texts of OULIPO or its progeny. But self-created individualized surprise, which we value from our literary reading experiences (whether these are trained on sophisticated poetic texts or on the detritus of the urban flaneur) gets us beyond this. Sound offers examples: we have no way to capture sound in an instant; it can’t be static the way that a photo snapshot can be. And so the acoustics of electronic textuality seem obtrusive because we can’t pinpoint it in time & thus control it. Sound thus probably requires more of the specific user controls of software to make a polyvocal ventriloquism out of its raw materials. (Area for future research: an hypertextual sound poetry.) From this vantage, software offers a model for reading, & not only for the determinate proceduralisms of writing. Readership is reimagined as software use & not just as the target of programmed sequences & puzzle-solving. 

Even though the meanings of language often seem more like an afterthought than the organizing principles in the digital domain, sense & its production (both narrowly linguistic & more broadly semiotic as well as social) remain key — beyond decorative (even if kinetic) visuals & sound. Language’s social resonances still need center stage, choreographed to implicate situations beyond the immediate GUI (Graphic User Interface) & to ‘remind’ us, by interpretable social choices (& the social force) of language, of the world(s) beyond. Semantic relations (with arrangements of time & space & grammar & typography & sound as vehicles) still top the hit list of socially relevant material. An immersive virtual space may encourage us to forget this, to vaporize everything outside the frame. If language is social, how can we make it resistant to a VR set-up? How to get beyond the razzle-dazzle (or comforting aura) of absorption, or of programmed works that make the prior socialization of the material (& the social antagonisms or dissonances built into them) seem to vanish. If the osmosis of meaning is inherent at the barest denotative (or protosemantic)6 level, an algorithmic work could allegorize this in production. But reception carries other demands. Meaning grounds social address. Social address reconfigures meaning. If we want to probe the hailing or interpellation of social address, how can we incorporate this into our electronic work? (Not just with avatars!)
wpid-img_4300-2013-03-19-20-00.jpg

One agenda item of radical imaginative writing continues to be to forge some distance, to aerate, to help readers avoid being sucked unawares into the textual dynamics. To maneuver its raw materials of language into a showing or theatricalizing of the ways that meaning is produced. To ‘lay bare the device’ involves more than the technicalities of permutation or the long ‘advertisements for myself’ of recitals of deterministic procedure. The contextual is a social arena, not a matter of machinic specification. And so we need to focus on the social horizons of the language — in the lexical choices, the grammatical choreographing of the scope & shifts in scale of relationism. A Brechtian-style distance at the semantic level is still valuable.7 The aim is not just a referential sociogram, a mesh of social connections among the things represented. We’re not asking for a transparent reflection of socially charged material. The task is to gain a sense of words as interfaces, implicated in prior (& future, imaginable) social coding. The readers’ map becomes the intertext, letting underlayers of significance showing through. Sense is an elastic social game world. If you want to create a social connectionism, it has to be between the social tilts & volleys of the language; it has to reverb off of the reader. The pleasures of anti-illusionism require active work. Reading, put more directly in charge, is intertextual. The reader is the (modifying, reconfiguring) playback device, not the target of it. 

Reading style can be exploratory, as long as we’re within a navigable space more hospitable to multiple simultaneous screens or ‘accounts’. Without as much of a preimposed logic, or absorptive strategy, or obtrusive hyperlinks, the realm of tactics expands. Certainly the computer world offers new opportunities for nonrepresentational fragmentation, for a close-up encounter with particulars, an orgy of unfixing, or incompletion & interferences, of simultaneity or collaged noise — made from a density of micro-referencing & intimations which can be defamiliarized, detourned, rebackgrounded & networked. Density can make for a new visual & aural immediacy, for the artful choreographing of a semiotic value coming in & out of focus. Software on the reader’s side can bring this fluidity of the units to the front, to make ‘sense’ a performative (or public relations) technology. Reading must be granted its rights to ‘teleaction,’ to control over the remote layers of significance & their opportunities for recoding. Tactics here might include taking active charge of the margins, the paratexts, to pop their bibliographic codes & contexts in & out of sight, earshot, hand. 

Meaning’s activation makes an architecture. So why not make full use of digital software in fabricating it? In a space less fixed by the needs of representation, subtleties in animation or design will make for an architecture liquid or dynamic enough to accommodate the text’s contagion. In a vicarious way, we would reenact the production process — through the layerings & driftings of sense, not just through some phantasmagoric spectacle. We improvise an (incremental/paratactic) domicile or habitation which can ‘contextualize’ the lyric in the form of a hypermediated website, actively crafted & open to user transforms or even to reader-customized markup language. To let meaning on the reader’s side, beyond the mathematicizable simulations of the ‘Turing Man’, create an architecture of difference & hybridity The automatisms of proceduralism or algorithmic processing give way to the desktop as reader’s navigation control panel.8 We revisit the moment to moment focus of gameplay, but now without even a hyperlinked net underneath us. Our only protection is intertextual & thus generative or promiscuous: we’re only ‘secured’ by the proliferation of possibilities, side by side; by the explanatory & positioning force of the words.

wpid-img_4967-2013-03-19-20-00.jpg
What types of action does this suggest? The multiple & simultaneous commands & desktop options within software programs (or software prostheses) offer up a parallel — closer to the experience of reading, for example, so-called Language Writing than of sitting still for streaming (& maybe ambient) video. For texts, look at what comes loaded with word processing programs like Word. For visual images, look at the simpler controls over JPEG images or MPEG files with Quicktime or Acrobat’s PDFs. For sound, look at the simpler controls that come with RealAudio playback or over MP3 files. Later: imagine controls & filterings & transforms as complex as those of Photoshop or ProTools audio software or MAX/SP programming or Action Scripts in Flash. For combined text & sound & visuals, we find ourselves with website design as a model — in this case, the design of a pattern of multiple (possible) trajectories through a body of language, socially charged & layered, treated like a searchable database.. We start to erase the line between writing & ‘desktop publishing’, between usability studies & the poetics of hypermedia. 

In the digital domain, how would writing build its authority? (Instead of an incessant virtualizing or dazzling automaticity, wouldn’t it come through the micro-referentiality of the language? through representational detail, at the word-by-word level or below in the ‘factory’ of letters & syllables?) Electronically, scaleable, it helps us work in miniature, not to negate these semantic ‘surface-charges’ or powers of language, but to reactivate them at a micro-level. Should we let a vaguer overall vibrancy replace the narrower-scaled duties of reference or protosemantics? Does elaborate overdetermination & density make for visceral immediacy, or even strangeness — by close-up? Can physical movement in space replace the simulations of monocularity & psychological movement? In some depsychologizing combination of the literal & the virtual, could user control create enough reflexivity to suggest transparency, semblance, mimesis? The imperious subject, no longer upholstered by its typical personalizing projections into a familiar pagespace or strata of possessible meaning, could be made abject. But as a reading protocol & not only as a writing designed to program the subject into an algorithmically skeletal shape. 

One result: to allow the self to be shattered — but by meaning; to be laid bare as its device: by multiplicitous positioning, sensory overload & excess & special effects, with radically disjunct material, words empowered by a spatializing, by superimpositions & links & scrolling. After all, how fixed are the units & elements we want to juxtapose? Electronic writing can more readily show the mutually shape-shifting & charging & impinging & implicating of units cross-dissolving together in a collage’s mutational vibration. Not: the self-scrolling & morphing text based on the prior programming of an overarching structure working its way from the top down (to ‘us) — & often meant to be ‘impressive’ rather than ‘readable’. But instead: an inductive experience of mutational reading, a forging of relations from the bottom up. An unprogrammable gameplay, partly because the stitches show, in a corrosive closeness of complicity & investment. Without the detachments of aesthetic distance or seamless compositing or of being ‘remote controlled,’ we appreciate the surprises of anti-narrative. Isn’t it all about reconstellation, reconnectionism; to set words & phrases into a spatial redialog, based on a hybridity of multitasking: layers & stacks, switchings, multiple windows, concentric circles of significance & emblematic implicationism, a post-behaviorist arena of multimediated flesh rather than just of mathematical computation. If ‘Software = Us’, we move from nonreferential formalisms & procedural formalizations to a social informalism.9 A future — unplanned, full of inventiveness — opens up.
*

”Electronic Poetics” is a preview of “Ergodic Poetry”, edited by John Cayley and Loss Pequeño Glazier, a special section of _The Cybertext Yearbook 2002_ (Markku Eskelinen and Raine Koskimaa, editors), Feb 2003.
Bruce Andrews, UbuWeb
______________________________________________________________________
NOTES
1. See Brian Kim Stefans, “Stops and Rebels: a critique of hypertext” in Fashionable Noise (Atelos, forthcoming 2002); Kenneth Goldsmith, guest ed., “Cyber Poetics” (Object 10, special issue, 2002); Loss Pequeño Glazier, Digital Poetics: The Making of E-Poetries (University of Alabama Press, 2002); Marie-Laure Ryan, ed., Cyberspace Textuality: Computer Technology and Literary Theory (Indiana University Press, 1999. In particular, I’d like to warmly thank Kenneth Goldsmith, Loss Pequeño Glazier, Darren Wershler-Henry, and Brian Kim Stefans for helping me start to dip belatedly into digital waters. These skeletal remarks also carry forward some of the argument in my September 2001 talk in the Textual Operations series, “The Poetics of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E” (which is available online at Goldsmith’s Ubu.com as well as Wershler-Henry’s Alienated.net websites; forthcoming on my Electronic Poetry Center author page).
2. Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (MIT Press, 2000).
3. See Johanna Drucker on the digital remediation of Bernstein’s Veil in “Intimations of Immateriality: Graphical Form, Textual Sense, and the Electronic Environment,” in Loizeaux and Fraistat, eds., Reimagining Textuality: Textual Studies in the Late Age of Print (University of Wisconsin Press, 2002).
4. “Conversely, computer poetry that makes use of flash technology—although providing a certain degree of reader of interactivity essentially turns the reader into a passive video-viewer of predetermined authorial intentions.” : Jena Osman, “Procedural Poetry: The Intentions of Nonintention,” p.369, in Finch and Varnes, eds., An Exaltation of Forms (University of Michigan Press, 2002). As Stefans notes, even as a form of ‘Civilized Dada,’ “the CP [Computer Poem] may, by inflicting its rules on the user, transform the reader into the paranoiac” (cited). To imagine a readership less vulnerable to the impersonal machinations of algorithmic processing, he calls for ways to hook into convention & the everyday, the emblematic & the game, dissimulation & metastasis.
5. Jerome McGann, Radiant Textuality: Literature after the World Wide Web (Palgrave, 2001).
6. Steve McCaffery, Prior to Meaning: The Protosemantic and Poetics (Northwestern University Press, 2001).
7. Bruce Andrews, “Brechtian V-Effect Updated: Implications for Poetic Praxis,” Crayon 3 (2001).
8. Manovich. Also, J. David Bolter, Turing’s Man: Western Culture in the Computer Age (University of North Carolina Press, 1984). And notice Rem Koolhaas’s contrast between urbanity & architecture, quoted in Scholder and Crandall, eds., Interaction: Artistic Practice in the Network (Eyebeam Atelier, 2001), p. 74.
9. See Bruce Andrews, Paradise & Method: Poetics & Praxis (Northwestern University Press, 1996; “Making Social Sense: Poetics & the Political Imaginary,” in Ed Foster, ed., The World in Time and Space (Talisman House, 2002); “The Poetics of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E” (see footnote 1); “Praxis: A Political Economy of Noise and Informalism,” in Charles Bernstein, ed., Close Listening (Oxford University Press, 1998), also included on my Author Page at http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/andrews.

Nirringrazzjakom

View Malta

Knights Hospitaller, Boat People and literary translation: in a strangely Catholic stronghold of the Mediterranean, Youssef Rakha reencounters his own life and work

And then the storm comes. At first we mistake the thunder for celebratory canon fire, the lightning for pyrotechnic pomp. Together with Valetta’s church bells, both have been ongoing for as long as we can remember.

***

With all that poetry bubbling in my head – and in so many vernaculars of the Mare Nostrum – by then I am convinced of my metaphorical place on the island: it feels like I have been here much longer than is actually the case. The hilly pathways of this, my walled city are preternaturally familiar, the variously textured grey and sandstone surfaces all around, shimmering blue patches of sea at the foot of undulating asphalt-and-cobblestone arches that rear cobra-like off Triq ir-Repubblika (Sicilian Arabic – sorry, I mean Maltese – for Republic Street). So are my curt exchanges with the black-clad waitresses at the café trottoir by the stone gate (on the other side is the fountain encircled by Malta’s bright yellow public buses):

When I sit at my favourite table to order espresso, it is as if I have been seeking out this circle of shade my whole life.

In the day I work with the Others in an antique-filled room on the roof of the same unassuming building with distinctive bright-coloured balconies that turn out to have ancestral roots in the mashrabeyya. But naked now in the cramped hotel bedroom, cigarette case and lighter in hand, I leap from the bed to the window, as I have done so often; I lean out.

The chill night breeze is refreshing. Rain drops wet the cigarette before I can light it.

***

The Others are writers whose homes dot the same intimate shores and for a day or so – a sizable part of the virtual lifetime we will spend together – it is as if we are castaways stranded on unknown terra firma: in addition to the island-dwellers Pierre Mejlak and Guze Santago, the Fado-singing Valter Hugo Mãe from Porto, the staunchly Catalan-speaking Miquel Desclot from Barcelona, and the proactive and miniscule Nadja Mifsud (also a native islander) from Lyon; the modern-day Sicilian cantautor Biagio Guerrera will arrive later.

We communicate in English, which though Malta’s lingua franca is the only non-Mediterranean tongue heard here. While we go about discussing poems and places, we are vaguely aware of the two forces that conspired to bring us together among the antiques: the UK-based Literature Across Frontiers, run by Alexandra Buchler; and the Mediterranean Literature Festival, Inizjamed, organized by (among many others) Adrian Grima and Clare Azzopardi.

They want us to translate each other. Out of the English approximations of what we have written or sung, they want us to make literature in languages we know even better than English. It is risky business, twice removed from the original. But then the writers are there, you can hear the cadences in their own voices and ask them what the sentence literally meant when it first rolled off the tongue, whether the implications of the word are positive or negative, what the meaning would have been had they used a different phoneme.

It works: Valter’s poems in particular flow incredibly well in the standard Arabic for which I am responsible; he is a Nineties Generation Egyptian poet inexplicably but completely displaced. The English – “my/mother used to say, valter be careful, that’s no/way to play, you’ll break a leg,/you’ll break your head, you’ll break your heart. and/she was right, it was all true” – may well have been translated from Arabic, indeed.

They want us to translate each other and later, when we exit Valletta and walk downhill to the converted seaside cemetery managed by a non-profit organization called Din l’Art Helwa (Maltese for “This Land is Good”), they want us to hold microphones to our mouths before an audience of at least a hundred and, while the wind blows, to read.

It works so well several of us, once the poems are finished, also sing.

***

The storm takes place on Thursday night. Wednesday is one of five national holidays in Malta: On 8 September 1565, the Ottoman fleet that had laid siege to the island since June finally departed. In the time of Sulaiman the Magnificent, the Great Siege was a glorious moment for European Christendom, and the Maltese – devout Catholics to this day, even though the word for God in their language is Allah and the greeting, until recently, essalam alaik – celebrate it with parades and canon fire, rowboat races and fireworks.

Never mind that the Ottomans were fighting not the local population but the Crusader Order of Saint John, whom they had expelled from Rhodes in 1522: the knight in armour remains a symbol of patriotism on this tiny enclave wedged between Tunisia and Sicily; the Maltese Cross hankers back to Hospitaller iconography; and no one makes a distinction between the Knights and the locals as unlikely victors over the not so invincible Turk. Valletta itself, my fortified city, was built in response to the siege, named after the Grand Master of the Order Jean Parisot de Valette.

Now a few months before landing in Malta I finished my first novel, which evokes a formerly great civilisation and looks up to the Ottomans, the last champions of Islam as such; by the end the hero’s map of post-9/11 Cairo turns into a tugra or sultan’s seal, and the hero himself is convinced he is an agent of the late Mehmed Vahtettin, the last sultan-caliph.

It is as if the celebrations are a historical insult directed at my person; it takes self-control to abandon my plans of running around the cathedral screaming “Long live the Ottoman Empire, long live the Refuge of the World” on the day. Still, I do not feel besieged in Malta. The siege for me has more to do with EU restrictions on smoking which, though condoned by the Maltese, cannot be said to reflect their temperament in particular. It seems wrong to antagonise an entire population just because I cannot light up in bed.

***

There are closer kin than the sons of Osman (who have long given up their Islamic prerogative anyway). There are Africans like myself stranded on the same terra firma, although in a different and much more serious way. Often Muslim, they are black, and because they arrive on sardine can-like boats from the shores of Libya, they are known as the Boat People. It is hard to see how they represent in the minds of some Maltese the threat of a Muslim takeover of Europe, but they are illegal immigrants and the island is hard pressed to accommodate them. Only the Catholic clergy seem to care for them, ironically. In the early morning they gather outside the Detention Centre in a quarter known as Marsa (Arabic – God, sorry: Maltese) for “harbour”, offering themselves for manual labour. They will do anything rather than return home.

I do not have time for them.

***

A week is not enough time to explore the island and its little sibling, Gozo – let alone listen to the stories of ID-less young men from my unfortunate continent – especially not when so much of the day is taken up by literary interaction at so many different levels. It is not enough time to prod Maltese intellectuals regarding their complex sense of national identity and how comfortably their unflinching alignment with Europe as opposed to North Africa sits with the Arab (Semitic or Phoenician) side of their heritage.

It is not enough time to discover the history of this simultaneously polyglot and insular place, to engage with its politics and mores, to feel welcome or unwelcome as an English-speaking Arab-Muslim among its by and large affable people, or even to attend Sunday mass in their beautifully mongrel speech. A week is not enough time.

Yet a workshop and a festival do provide opportunities, thankfully. And besides Valter’s poems and Pierre’s warmth, to mention but two causes for gratitude, I will happily recall reading the Lebanese poetess Hyam Yared’s French work in English (my accent notwithstanding), having run into her outside the hotel and spent some time revising the translations with her.

Likewise Nial Griffiths, author of Grits and Sheepshagger: a disarmingly down-to-earth Brit from Liverpool, currently living in Wales. For his 45-minute interview with the Maltese translator Albert Gatt – a beret-wearing beau who speaks English like Prince Charles – Nial carried his wine bottle on stage. Irreverent, funny, passionate about writing and dialect – not to mention, now that I have read his work, brilliant – Nial would have made the perfect mate back in Hull, where I went to university. I would not have met him otherwise.

***

A week is not enough time to learn Maltese, which having encountered it I know, rightly or wrongly, that I could learn in a month. Perhaps the most remarkable encounter of all, this: theories abound as to the origins of the language, with native speakers traditionally denying any connection with Arabic. Yet aside from philology, as an avid explorer of Arabic dialects, I will readily attest to this being one of them (Italianate though it can sound to Arab ears).

True, a good half of the diction is Latin – no abstract concept seems to occur in Arabic at all, giving rise to astounding phrases like responsibilte kbira (big responsibility) – but the phonetics, the grammar, the rhythms are all Arabic. Elements of Middle Eastern and North African vernaculars are mixed in such a way as to suggest this really does have origins in the Arabic once spoken throughout Sicily. One theory holds that, when the Arabs arrived from Tunisia, they forcefully evacuated the people and relocated them in Sicily. Malta remained uninhabited for at least a century, and when it was repopulated the language of the Sicilian newcomers, ethnically Latin though they may have been, was Sicilian Arabic. This would explain why, while it died out completely where it originated, that once very current dialect lives on in some form in Malta.

The Maltese do not often accept this theory because it seems to break a line of continuity dating back to the time of Saint Paul – the Saint Paul, who wrote the Gospel? But of course! – who is said to have conversed with the people in their own language – presumably some variety of Phoenician – when he arrived on the island during his travels.

Identities are constructed anyway, but perhaps the Maltese are not aware of the extent of variety within spoken  Arabic irrespective of what you call or how you choose to transcribe any one variety of it. Suffice to say it is easier for me to understand Maltese than Moroccan Arabic.

***

Which is why as I lean out of my hotel room window holding the by now soaking cigarette and looking out over the dome of the cathedral where lightning will strike again, I continue to marvel at one expression for “I thank you” that I heard on first arriving: irringrazzjekom. Irrin is a corruption of or a variation on urid (standard Arabic for “I want”, which in the vernacular becomes arid, nrid and many others), grazzie is the Italian word for thanks, and kom is the objective second-person plural suffix normally attached to the end of a verb in Arabic. Out of these three elements, the Maltese have forged a single, beautifully expressive word.

While I try to light another cigarette, I feel no word in any language can express me better.


Enhanced by Zemanta