Yet this ambivalence towards the feminine subject,
and towards theslippery issue of subjectivity, becomes a common device used by Mansour,
particularly in her poetry, to resist developing a ‘voice’ that espouses a single,
consistent identity. All three of the contributions to Surrealism and Women
focus on this practice as a way of exploring the theme of shifting identity
in Mansour’s work and the way in which this is deployed through the ambiguous use
of pronouns and swift shifts in viewpoint. However, while the voice in Mansour’s
work remains deliberately elusive, the evocation of an explicitly visceral, erotic
language that directly portrays the powerful physical and emotional complexities
of sexual desire and love is evident in her work until her relatively early death
in 1986.
In this
essay I reframe this focus on the conundrum of viewpoint in Mansour’s poetry, suggesting
that it is her very insistence on ‘deconstructing’ and fragmenting the body that
creates a disembodied voice, one that layers disparate images together so
compactly and lists parts of the body and bodily functions in such a repetitive
mantra that they no longer imply a consistente whole, imaginative or otherwise.
The body parts dissolve into bodily fluids, reducing them to an existence which
underlines their reliance on words. The constant naming of the parts does not give
them more substance, as it did for Adam when he named all the beasts in God’s new
creation in the opening chapters of Genesis. Rather, Mansour’s repetitive naming
of body parts denies the possibility of a neat, corporeal whole and allows them
only a symbolic existence anchored through the all-encompassing voice.In this way
the speaking voice within the poems is pervasive and ethereal. Mansour’s poetic
voice is sufficiently ‘disembodied’ to permit simultaneous but subordinate viewpoints
all existing at various times within the texts. Female/male, child/parent, human/animal,
creator/destroyer, intimate and universal are all multiple identities that coexist
within a polyphonous, heteroglossic text (Bakhtin 82). I suggest that through this
voice Mansour is able to invoke her connection with the mythology and poetic traditions
of Egypt, conjuring a strong sense of the magic and mysticism of the pre Judeo-Christian
era in Africa and the ancient Near East. I further develop a notion of Mansour’s Egyptian speaking subject by revisiting
Katharine Conley’s skilful analysis of Mansour’s poem “Pandemonium” in which she
reads the poet’s evocation of Africa/Egypt through an analogy with the ‘open body’
of the Bahktinian ‘carnivalesque.’ I wish to extend this reading to suggest that
Bahktin’s notion of the ‘grotesque’ may be better suited to explain how Mansour’s
poetic voice articulates a transformative process that subverts all expectations
through its reliance on base materialism.
My overall
aim here is to encourage renewed interest in Mansour’s poetry, which has received
less scholarly attention than her prose Works or plays, first by exploring Mansour’s
connection to Egypt and then by touching on the shifting viewpoints in her poetry
and on the recurring motifs of death and the ‘grotesque body’. By far the majority
of Mansour’s work has been published only in French; however, throughout this short
essay I have consciously chosen to use English translations in the hope that they
might gain a wider audience. Unless otherwise indicated, all passages are quoted
from Serge Gavronsky’s edited collection Essential Poems and Writings, published
in English in 2008, or from his translated version of Cris - Screams, published
in 1995. I am grateful to have been afforded access to Katharine Conley’s translation
of “Pandemonium,” published for the first time in this issue of Dada/Surrealism.
Who the Devil is Joyce Mansour?
In the opening lines to her essay entitled
“Identity Crises: Joyce Mansour’s Narratives”, Judith Preckshot asks, “Who the devil
is Joyce Mansour?”, a question that resonates all the more as there is so little
knowledge of her life in French or English. The same facts are summarily reproduced
across the literature: Mansour was born Joyce Patricia Adès in 1928 in England,
the daughter of Egyptian Jewish parents one of whom (although it is nuclear which
one) was the child of a textile and clothing manufacturer in Manchester.She was
raised in Cairo and married at nineteen, although her husband died soon after and
she went on to marry Samir Mansour. Once in Paris, she soon became close to the
surrealists, in particular Breton, who acclaimed her first publication Screams
in 1953. The Mansours often hosted evenings for the surrealists, including the
infamous 1959 event, Execution du testament duMarquis de Sade. Deliberately
fashioning her hair and jewellery after the styles of ancient Egypt, “Mansour was
the embodiment of the surrealist female ideal in that she was both beautiful and
exotic” (Conley, Automatic Woman). Breton was particularly taken with her,
not only because her writing was so clearly extraordinary in its frank and subversive
sexuality, but also because she may well have symbolised the personification of
the “victorious Orient” he had called upon years before, to “do with me as you please
[…] lovely bird of prey and of innocence, I implore you from the depths of the kingdom
of shadows! Inspire me!” (Antle). Less hyperbolically, his views on the subversive
potential of the ‘Orient’, specifically Egypt, as the source of a “new myth” capable
of “liquidating” the dominance of Western rationalism, became part of his wider
political agenda (Antle).
The
late French scholar and friend of Mansour, Serge Gavronsky, furnishes a few more
rather startling facts in his introduction to the Essential Poems and Writings
of Joyce Mansour. First, he indicates that Mansour was brought up as a strict
Sephardic Jew who maintained adherence to her faith until the death of her first
husband. From an early age she was taught to read the sacred texts in Hebrew and
tutored in the wider mysticism of the Kabbala and the mythologies of the ancient
Near East. In 1949, she married Samir Mansour and a year before Screams was
published Mansour had her first son Philippe, to be followed by her second son Cyrille
in 1955. I have not managed to find any further mention of Mansour’s children. Gavronsky
also mentions that her mother died when she was 15. In an interview with the photographer
Marion Kalter in 1977, Mansour reveals a young adulthood overshadowed by grief:
“I was a sportive girl in the sun until my mother died…then I got married. My husband died also.At that point I
became conscious of all this and started to see things. One sees that everything
is not rosy. I wrote to get it all out.”
Writing,
then, is perhaps a means to gain some control over a life in which Mansour seems
to be powerless – certainly against death. A Picture emerges of Mansour as multicultural
and polylingual, as orphan, wife, widow, mother and artistic creator. We might think
that Mansour inhabits multiple, concurrent and shifting identities. One of these,
the influence of Mansour’s Egyptian ethnicity, may be a valuable way of understanding
how multiple viewpoints might co-exist within the parameters of a single poem. In
the three sections below I will look at some of the possible approaches to the issue
of Joyce Mansour’s poetical relationship to the transformative potential in the
imagery of Egypt.
The shifting I
In Cairo, Mansour was actively involved with
Georges Henein (1914-1973) and the surrealist group he founded in the 1930s. Mansour
contributed to his review Art et liberté that was published until Heinein’s
return to Paris in 1947, and she has been included in collected volumes with other
poets involved with the group. Henein admired Mansour’s poetry, commenting in particular
on her use of black humor and the way in which she Drew on surrealist accents to
evoke “the rigorous cruelty of childhood” (Antle). Primarily, he saw her as an Egyptian
poet. Gavronsky, too, acknowledges but does not detail a strong “Egyptian subtext.”
In her article “Joyce Mansour and Egyptian Mythology” (also in Surrealism and
Women), Maryann De Julio convincingly demonstrates the way in which Mansour
“draws heavily on the Egyptian cult of the dead to explore and express an inner
psychic reality”. In fact Mansour invokes both Eros and Thanatos to describe a psychic,
emotional and physical experience that is simultaneously creative and destructive.
At the
start of her paper De Julio points out that Mansour evokes the Egyptian deity Hathor
in her common representation as a cow on the very first page of Screams:
The nail planted in my celestial
cheek
The horns that grow behind
my ears
My bleeding wounds that never
heal
My blood that becomes water
that dissolves that embalms
My children that I strangle
while granting their wishes
All this made me your Lord
and your God. (De
Julio)
The
poem’s allusions to the blood and body of Christ and to the ancient Egyptian spiritual
practice of embalming may be seen as an implied referenceto an all-encompassing
and never-ending spiritual life. In turn these are folded into the notion of a female
deity that can as easily destroy as create, a deity both benevolent and malignant
and all-powerful. De Julio explains that Hathor is often evoked by Mansour recalling
her as both fertility goddess as well as destructive Eye. In this case the Eye of
Hathor and the I of the poem are
conflated into a single force that both redeems
and destroys and is both male and female. Ades has commented on the maleness and
femaleness of the ‘I’ in Mansour’s poetry. As anthropologist Jonathan Marshall argues,
“the Egyptian pantheon is different from all others in that ambiguity is embraced
and the threat of disruption is accepted.” De Julio, too comments how “bisexuality
was common in the creation myths” of Egypt. Before the advent of a sky god Rê, more
akin to Judeo-Christian monotheism, it was the female god Hathor, or commonly conflated
with her, Nut, who ruled the sky. She was often depicted as holding the earth in
a protective embrace. She was also the personification of the destroyer. Perhaps
the most interesting part of this myth is that at the end of the day, Nut would
swallow the sun and after it had worked its way through her body she would give
birth to it again in the morning. This is a creation myth in which the feminine
swallows the masculine (sun) and which celebrates both the creative and procreative
process. An implicit understanding of a feminine which destroys and creates forms
part of Mansour’s distinctive understanding of female subjectivity.
In Screams
Mansour slips between pronouns. Her “I” often implies that the speaker is using
a male persona or subtly changes viewpoint during the telling:
She loves me selfishly.
Loves it when I drink her
night spit.
Loves it when I slip my salted
lips
Along her obscene legs across
her fallen breasts.
Loves it when I mourn my
youthful nights
While she tires my muscles
which rebel
Against her abusive will.
The
speaker here could be male or female. The voice is aggressive, even loathing, yet
submissive at the same time. More often, Mansour uses the second person and calls
upon, brings into being, another who may be na eroticised Oth er through which the
poet can focus purely on the rawness of sexual desire:
Between your fingers
My mouth
Between your teeth
My eyes
In my belly
Your ferocious rhythm
Peels my body
Of raw sensation.
Or,
more frequently, the Other is either dead or dying and Mansour establishes a scenario
where the speaker summons a ‘second person’ who is resolutely physical but absent
while providing a dialogue through which the poet can explore her own psycho-emotional
state with an imagined, immort al Other:
I lift you in my arms
for the last time.
I lower you quickly into
your cheap coffin.
Four men carry it aloft after
nailing it shut
Over your broken face over
your anguished limbs.
They carry it down cursing
the narrow stairs
And you move in your tight
little world.
Your head severed from your
slit throat
This is the beginning of
eternity.
Again,
the relationship between the ‘I’ and the ‘you’ is ambiguous. Whom do we lift up
in our arms? A child, a fragile infirm parent, a murdered lover? The ‘I’ seems abstracted,
split, yet at the same time is ultimately, throughthe poet writing the words, one
and the same. Interestingly, in his essay on classical (pre-Islamic) Arabic poetry,
Geert Jan van Gelder points out that there is a strong tradition in early Arabic
verse of using the first and second person to refer to the self in sudden unannounced
shifts sometimes over the space of a couple of lines. He argues that this shifting
is most prevalente when “passions and emotions are recalled or when disillusions
are implied (separation, breach of promise […])” almost as if the very borders of
the self were threatening to fall away or as if the only way to exact distance from
the strength of sentiment were to view the self from the outside. Fluent in Arabic,
a voracious reader and a part of Henein’s group that promoted the traditions of
the Arabic language, Mansour was presumably well aware of the large body of poetry
to which Gelder is referring.
Mansour’s
use of the second person as a device for creating a dialogue which is ultimately
from a single voice is common throughout Screams and throughout her work
in general:
Last night I saw your corpse.
You were damp and naked in
my arms.
I saw your shiny skull
I saw your bones kicked up
by the morning sea.
On the white sand under a
hesitant sun
Crabs fought over your flesh.
Nothing remained of your
plump breasts
And yet that’s the way I
liked you
My flower.
Here,
in a dreamscape, the speaker manages to contain and control death through the imaginative
function of memory. The decay of the body becomes part of the natural process of
renewal. By evoking the inevitability of death of the Other, Mansour ensures the
victory of single ‘I’. She explains it bestherself in a line from one of her own
poems: “I am myself, I am the enemy. Alone” (Essential Poems and Writings 109).
This sentiment is reminiscent of theway in which Mansour describes her isolation
in the interview with Marion Kalter (quoted
above), yet it also encapsulates the distillation of a single voice that speaks
for both self and Other – another that is both multicultural and inherently part
of the self.
Decay and excess
Death and decay loom large as recurring motifs
in Mansour’s poetry and prose. De Julio points to the influence of the Egyptian
cult of Eros andThanatos in her poetry, and certainly she mounts a convincing argument.
At times the poet manages to collapse desire and the attraction to death seamlessly:
Wait for me
I hardly feel time fleeing
From my room where my tears
sleep in my bed
I know your angular body
That never stops dancing
to the sound of my laughter.
I know your vicious body
That cares only for the warmth
of the dying
In his arms on his mouth
between his hairy legs
Wait for my pleasure to prepare
its death
Wait for my body to grow
cold to grow stiff
Before taking your own pleasure. (Screams)
Here
death is momentary orgasm; it is the natural end of us all and, yet it is usurped
by desire. However, in Screams, it is Mansour’s personal experience that
drives her to seek imagery commensurate with destruction, decay and violence. To
return to Mansour ’s interview with Kalter in 1977:
…I wrote to get it all out. Everything became
disgusting for me. I spoke in English but wasn’t very cultivated. I was strong in
sports, which made me be with men all the time. Everything came out like a scream.
That became the name of my first book. I didn’t take myself very seriously. For
me it was a way of getting it all out because of rage and vengeance. To get the
bad blood out. It became the transformation of a problem. Then I met Sam and we
came to Paris. It was with my meeting the surrealists, André Breton among them,
that everything really started.
Although
Breton loomed large in Mansour’s life, her work has a much greater affinity, at
least on the surface, with the approaches of Bataille. To the best of my knowledge
this connection has not been fully explored, but even a cursory comparison between
the types of imagery favoured in Documents and the texts written by Bataille
for publication in the jornal reveal a certain similarity: the emphasis on waste,
meat, carcasses, decay, female body parts, anthropological and ritualistic artifacts,
juxtaposed with texts on philosophy, tracts on poetry and the Bataille’s own critical
dictionary is as disorientating and subversive as Mansour’s carefully compiled layers
of imagery and linguistic ambiguity. For Bataille as for Mansour, these elements
have a transformative potential. In Death and Sensuality: A Study of Eroticism
and Taboo he claims that the final aim of eroticism is fusion, the removal
of all barriers. He continually points out that this fusion is the unavoidable cycle
which links Eros and Thanatos. In Screams Mansour repeats the words decay,
blood, flesh, rotting, death, filth, dying and disgust over and over again like
a hellish mantra. They appear on every page, in nearly every poem. As other scholars
have pointed out, she also lists body parts, hair, breasts, legs, bellies, ears,
anuses, penises, hands, eyes and mouths. As in Bataille, these last two feature
heavily:
Sitting on her bed with her legs apart.
A bowl in front of her.
Looking for something to eat but seeing nothing
The woman whose eyelids were eaten by flies
Wails.
Flies came in through the windows
Left by the door
Hovered over her bowl
Red eyes black flies
Eaten by the woman
Who couldn’t see a thing.
The ‘Open Body’ and the Dominant Voice
To continue my exploration of Mansour’s Egyptian
speaking subject, in this final section I look at Mansour’s long poem “Pandemonium”
(1976) which is in one sense an evocation of Africa as the embodiment of transformative
potential imagined by Breton. It is reminiscent of the marvellous itself, the point
at which anything is possible. In this case,Mansour also evokes the Egypt of her
imagination, “Poised between two doors”, the Oriental and Occidental. In another
sense, her imagery positions the desert as a site of real and violent ‘magical’
transformation, of primordeal, black magic. The poem opens with the familiar references
to the throat and mouth and the use of the second person, but by the end of the
first stanza we are aware that the tone of this speaker is quite different from
the bile-spitting ‘I’ of Screams. This voice is calling to a vast, chaotic
and wondrous place, dazzling in its color, potency and scale:
Offer your throat to the
night
Obsessive Africa
Spit your teeth your waste
Your dizziness
In the whipped cream
Of the church
The blowfly’s trunk
Skinny sluggish Priapus
Satisfies his thirst
With amniotic fluid
From the burning coals pulls
out a stone
A crown of thorns
Black vermillion like the
seven lanterns
Of the embolism
Laugh nomads, old age is
sedentary
Far away in the forest
A scarab
Glistens.
From
the outset, the reader is confronted with layers of allusion - Christian, bodily,
classical, reproductive, ritualistic, pantheistic, sacrificial (“Offer your throat”)
and distinctly Egyptian. The rhythm of the language is perfectly metered to slow
down to the last two words. Not only does Mansour evoque the very heart of Milton’s
chaotic but charismatic Hell; she creates the body of an Africa with few constraints,
an Africa that defies rational order. It is a space in which the “Evening Star”
co-exists with the “sad stink of urine.” Over the eight stanzas Mansour amasses
the stark language of bodily function set against allusion to Edenic Paradise and
sacred African ritual. “Spit”, “waste”, “sperm”, “urine”, “vomit”, “blood”, “bleeding”,
“rump”, “anus”, “penis”, “mouth”, “flesh”, “ears”, “foreskin”, “lips”, “teeth” and
“throat” are all repeated over and over like a rosary of base physicality which
stands in opposition to repetitions of “paradise”, “stars”, “sky”, “night” which
thread celestial allusions throughout the poem. In this vacillation between Earth
and sky, low and high, lurk references to ancient rituals of transformation, “tattoos
on the skin” and a call to “offer the foreskin to the knife” that imply an older,
more visceral and transgressive unification of body and spirit than the later Christian
notion of transubstantiation.
In her
essay on “Pandemonium” Conley argues that Mansour depicts the ‘body’ of Africa and
the many characters within ‘her’ as being in a state of transition or flux. She
draws an analogy with Bakhtin’s notion of the ‘carnivalesque’, a space or moment
in which the boundaries between high and low culture are blurred, allowing for the
parody and subversion of high culture, accepted norms and established institutions
by the ‘lower’, less cultivated orders. Carnival thus symbolises a world turned
upside down in which the social hierarchies are freed from their normal social constraints
(Bakhtin, Rabelais). For Bakhtin, this temporary inversion represents a transitional
state which Conley refers to as an “open body” (‘Joyce Mansour’s). However, what
drew me to the relationship between “Pandemonium” and Bahktin was not the openness
of the ‘carnivalesque’ but Mansour’s mention of Gargantua in the fifth stanza:
Wake up the trade winds from
Oriental shores are forever dappled
The somber spectacle of brains
draining from nostrils
Would make Gargantua laugh
According
to Bakhtin, Rabelais’ tale of Gargantua and Pantagruel critiques social and political
life in the Renaissance through the grotesque giants’ frank exchange of the everyday
language of bodily function and sexual innuendo and ribald humour. Through an analysis
of Rabelais’ work, Bakhtin develops his notions
of the ‘carnivalesque’ as a social order and the ‘grotesque’ as a literary
trope. The latter, focused on the realism of the grotesque body, is a way of
lowering, parodying or subverting the values entrenched in the overly-mannered,
petty-aristocratic and religious hierarchies of the day. It is the capacity for
the ‘grotesque’, for language, to dissolve the distinctions between all things that
seems to correspond best with Mansour’s intention here, as she imagines the transgressive
laughter of Gargantua. Indeed, the very nature of language as a creative yet mystical
force, capable of absorbing and describing both the base and the lofty, is captured
in stanza four, “One thousand impenetrable words alight and sparkle.”
All
these layers of reference in “Pandemonium” combine, Conley suggests, to create a
“textual body which is not singular in any sense and which, furthermore, is the
very opposite of the Occidental sublimated body because it refers constantly to
its own materiality” (“Joyce Mansour’s”). I agree that Mansour’s Africa is clearly
a textual body that refers to its material nature if only to list over and again
its many and various parts. Yet the constant repetitions are almost hypnotic and
seem to be more akin to the subversive
and transformative power of words. The very
uttering of the words blood, mouth, teeth, flesh, spit, vomit and cry constantly
creates a song of excess which denies corporeality and exults imagination. Rather
than presenting a polyphony of different viewpoints and speaking voices as in the
earlier poetry in Screams, Mansour distils a speaking voice that is both
self and many others but is arguably still “Alone.” Bakhtin refers to this process
of distillation as ‘heteroglossia’, many languages speaking as one, part of his
concept of the dialogic imagination in which all language (and therefore ideas)
is dynamic and relational, constantly extending and informing itself. For Mansour,
the mouth is a recurring motif, one that has the power to create the words that
issue from it. The full mouth, on the other hand, appears to represent the Other.
In “Pandemonium,” Mansour states categorically that the full mouth, the swallowing
mouth, “is death, after all.” I am reminded of the deity Nut who, every evening,
swallows the sun, affecting ‘his’ demise for that day. Death is equal to a subject
not free, even momentarily, to speak.
The Final Utterances
In this essay I have suggested that an examination
of Mansour’s poetry through the lens of her relationship to Egypt is a fruitful
way of better understanding some of the constant recurring motifs and imagery throughout
her poems: the often ambiguous relationship between the ‘I’ and the ‘you’ in her
works, the insistence on the primacy of death and decay, and the emergence of an
omnipotent speaking voice that acts as a disembodied conduit for a range of other
speaking identities within a single poem. Indeed, the peculiarities of subjectivity
that Mansour explores produce some of the boldest and most stunning of surrealist
poetry. The voice that emerges from these complex articulations of cultural identity
indicates that the poet’s Egyptian background and personal identification with Africa
are of paramount importance.
By way
of concluding, I would like to look briefly at one of Mansour’s final poems:
UNTITLED
POEM
Never tell your dream
To the one who doesn’t love you
The hostile ear is dried up
The bitter mouth maligns
Hatred vomits the sand in the hourglass
Faster always faster
The betrayed night aborts
A passion in the present already passed
And fear only augments
The rage of the caiman
The size of the cancer
Bury your dreams in the bags under your eyes
They will be safe from envy
They will be safe from the adage
That the African babbles
And the old are wise. (“Four Poems”)
Even
in the last years of her illness when death is drawing near Mansour still relies
on the language of excess to convey her outrage at the thought of not being able
to create through words: of being thought of as a babbler. I would suggest that
the ‘you’ in this poem is a caution to the reader but alsoan address to self, or
even multiple selves as she appears to be
talking to her own reflection (looking at the “bags under your eyes”). In response
to the difference between the male gaze and the way in which a woman might see herself,
Mansour once wrote “I think woman should hide herself in the imaginary, indecisive
folds of her own reflection.” (Ades). There are two people in this poem, the self
and the Other-self. Both are real and both are imagined; however, it is the imagined
self, buried under the surface who remains an ‘African’ and a singular speaking
subject. I recall again Mansour’s words that perfectly capture the way in which
multiple selves/voices are synthesised into the arrangement of an imagined whole:
“I am myself, I am the enemy. Alone.”
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Trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin: U of Texas P, 1982.
––––. Rabelais and His World. Trans.
Hélène Iswolsky. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1984.
Bataille, Georges. Death and Sensuality:
A Study of Eroticism and Taboo. 1962. Trans.
Mary Dalwood. San Francisco: City Lights, 1986.
––––. Story of the Eye. 1928. Trans.
Joachim Neugroschal. London: Penguin, 1979.
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Raaberg eds. Surrealism and Women. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1991.
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Gwen Raaberg. Cambridge: MIT P, 1991.
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Kristeva, Julia. Powers of Horror: An Essay
on Abjection. Trans. Leon Roudiez. New York: Columbia UP, 1982.
Mansour, Joyce. Essential Poems and Writings.
Ed. Serge Gavronsky. Boston: Black Widow P, 2008.
––––. “Pandemonium.” Trans. Katharine Conley.
Unpublished.
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Sausalito: Post-Apollo Press, 1995.
Marshall, Jonathan. “Re: Ancient Egyptian Gods
and Mythology.” Message to the author. 23 July 2012.
Matthews, J. H.. Joyce Mansour. Amsterdam:
Rodopi, 1985.
––––. “Some Post-War Surrealist Poets.” Yale
French Studies 31 (1964): 145-53.
Milton, John. Paradise Lost. 1667. Ed.
Barbara K. Lewalski. Malden: Blackwell, 2007.
Preckshot, Judith. “Identity Crises: Joyce
Mansour’s Narratives.” Surrealism and Women. Ed. Mary Ann Caws, Rudolf E.
Kuenzli, and Gwen Raaberg. Cambridge: MIT P, 1991. 96-113.
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Black, Brown & Beige: Surrealist Writings from Africa and the Diaspora.
Austin: U of Texas P, 2009.
*****
EDIÇÃO COMEMORATIVA | CENTENÁRIO DO SURREALISMO
1919-2019
Artista convidada: John Welson (País de Gales,
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