Aesthetic Nervousness

Disability and the Crisis of Representation

Ato Quayson

• Publisher: Columbia University Press
• Year: 2007
• ISBN:
  9780231511179
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Teoria della critica letteraria

Focusing primarily on the work of Samuel Beckett, Toni Morrison, Wole Soyinka, and J. M. Coetzee, Ato Quayson launches a thoroughly cross-cultural, interdisciplinary study of the representation of physical disability. Quayson suggests that the subliminal unease and moral panic invoked by the disabled is refracted within the structures of literature and literary discourse itself, a crisis he terms "aesthetic nervousness." The disabled reminds the able-bodied that the body is provisional and temporary and that normality is wrapped up in certain social frameworks. Quayson expands his argument by turning to Greek and Yoruba writings, African American and postcolonial literature, depictions of deformed characters in early modern England and the plays of Shakespeare, and children's films, among other texts. He considers how disability affects interpersonal relationships and forces the character and the reader to take an ethical standpoint, much like representations of violence, pain, and the sacred. The disabled are also used to represent social suffering, inadvertently obscuring their true hardships.

1

INTRODUCTION

Aesthetic Nervousness

IN 2004, SCOPE, A BRITISH ORGANIZATION FOCUSING ON people with cerebral palsy, launched a campaign called “Time to Get Equal,” in which they highlighted the various forms of discrimination that people with cerebral palsy were exposed to by care professionals, the various care institutions, and the general public. A Web site, www.timetogetequal.org.uk, provided personal accounts of some of the ways in which such people had been negotiating their day-to-day lives. One of the supporting images (figure 1) used to launch the campaign is fascinating in its suggestive use of literary echoes. To the right hand side of the frame, we see a man with a round hole in the center of his face, through which is visible the blue wall behind him. Just above him and to his left are the words: “I’m disabled. Not someone to look straight through.” The words are placed to act like a speech or thought bubble similar to those used in cartoons, but with the contours of the bubble removed. The picture has been taken in such a way as to cast a shadow on the blue background against which he stands. Whereas the man clearly has a hole in his face, the shadow of his face looks like that of a man screaming. There is an optical illusion at play in the picture that suggests a double speech act. The subtle literariness of the way the words are placed and the screaming penumbral projection behind the man are further augmented by the first sentence of the printed text right below the picture: “Please do not see me as the invisible man.” The kinship evoked between the person in this picture and the narrator of Ralph Ellison’s classic novel is telling, because as in Invisible Man, the problem is not one of not being seen, but of being framed within a discourse of stereotypes and expectations that serve to efface a person’s identity. While people routinely “look straight through him,” the person with cerebral palsy, like the Invisible Man, constantly wants to scream. I shall have more to say about Ellison’s novel in the next chapter, particularly in relation to his own ironic treatment of Brother Jack, the leader of the Brotherhood and who happens to have a concealed disability.

The Scope poster and Web site serve to highlight in a highly succinct and effective way some central features of disability studies. From at least the 1980s, the main interest of scholars in this field has been to shift the discussion of disability away from the medical discourse that had dominated such discussion previously and to see disability as woven out of a range of problems connected to the architectural environment, the public-transport system, and most important, to the often ill-concealed social attitudes that attend people with disabilities. In this regard, the term disability is no longer taken as referencing the notion of a reduced ability deriving from an impairment, but speaks to the built and social environments that generate difficulties for the disabled person’s capacity to live a full and fulfilled life (Corker and French 1999; Linton 1998; Davis 2002, 33–46). Once viewed from this angle, disability can no longer be seen as the product of tragic circumstances and thus be understood simply as the presumed sad fate of the individual (Oliver 1990). The notion of disability as personal tragedy places people with disabilities within a narrative in which accommodation to the impairment is squarely their own responsibility or that of their families. The medical and social systems are then tasked with corrective, ameliorative, or reprimanding roles, reminding the person with disability to “get a grip” and take charge of the process of his or her self-improvement and adjustment. Indeed, in the medical model, the person with disability is placed under an obligation to want to get well, his or her multiple social roles of parent, worker, spouse, and so on being suspended temporarily in exchange for a sign of strenuous effort toward improvement. (Murphy 1990; Wendell 1996, 87–109). Shifting the focus of disability to see it as primarily the product of social circumstances complicates even the notion of impairment. As the sociologist Oliver notes, the dominance and indeed proliferation of certain impairments can be directly linked to social systems. Thus in Africa there is a direct correlation between poverty and such diseases as polio. Additionally, it is not uncommon to see people with physical impairments reduced to begging on street corners or living a generally twilight existence, concealed from the eyes of the public. And it is not idle to note that the many civil wars that have blighted the continent, from Angola and Mozambique to Rwanda, Sierra Leone, and Liberia, have served to greatly increase the number of people with impairments. All these wars may be directly attributed to incoherent political and social structures that, for some, have made the instrumentalization of disorder an attractive option for the resolution of social conflicts.¹

In the contemporary West, on the other hand, noncongenital impairments such as spinal-cord injury and various workplace-related impairments derive directly from the relations of production within capitalism. Certain injuries and impairments are more likely to be sustained by factory and construction workers than by those who spend their time in an office, for example. If we recall the effect of disasters such as the chemical leakage at the Union Carbide plant in Bhopal in 1984 and the terrible impairments incurred among the local population because of it, we see a worrisome link between global capitalism and local disabilities. And to render matters even more complicated, it could be argued that the land-mines sown into the land in Angola and elsewhere are a direct product of cold-war politics and therefore an extension of the cynical underside of the West’s military-industrial complex. “Long cited as one of the most heavily mined countries in the world, the early UN estimate of 10 to 15 million landmines contaminating Angolan soil is still widely cited.” These are the words of the Landmine Monitor Report (1999, 117) on Angola. Viewed through a wider lens of social structures and international formations, disability ceases being an individual affliction to be borne silently by the person with an impairment. However, when the intricate links between social or international systems and such impairments are exposed, the response is often a mixture of guilt, bewilderment, and denial on the part of the nondisabled. I will be using the terms “impairment” and “disability” interchangeably, even though “impairment” refers to the specific physical or cognitive deficiency that leads to a reduced capacity to fully actualize all aspects of one’s life and “disability” to the socially regulated parameters that exacerbate the effect of the impairment. In practice, it is almost impossible to keep the two separate, since “impairment” is automatically placed within a social discourse that interprets it and “disability” is produced by the interaction of impairment and a spectrum of social discourses on normality that serve to stipulate what counts as disability in the first place.

It is not only the oppositions between impairment and disability that are rendered unstable once we begin to see disability within a social as opposed to a medical discourse. Various other oppositions are also destabilized, such as those that might be discerned in the distinctions between congenital and adventitious disability, between disease as causative factor and impairment as effect of disease, between physical deformity and madness, and between the material consequences of blindness or deafness and that of nonvisible disabilities. The central reason for this instability is that though different kinds of disability can be shown to have historically followed different rhythms and patterns of institutional evolution in the West and elsewhere, viewed from the perspective of what Rosemarie Garland Thomson (1997) calls the normate, disability has always been the object of a negative comparison to what is typically construed as corporeal normality. The attitudes that have historically attended people with disabilities have varied over time, but reiterated in all epochs is the idea that they carry an excess of meaning and therefore offer an insistent invitation to a series of interpretative and institutional framings. Thomson (1996, 1) puts it succinctly when writing in the context of the display of freaks: “By its very presence, the exceptional body seems to compel explanation, inspire representation, and incite regulation.” Seen from the perspective of the normate, the boundaries that might be taken to differentiate and divide various disabilities are frequently blurred. The disabled body has historically invited, compelled, and incited a variety of responses in spite of whatever specific impairments may be at issue. Even as different impairments become the touchstones or focal points for intensified social processes of corporeal hierarchization in different historical periods, certain symbolic representations and social attitudes were regularly transferred across disabled groups. As Stiker (1997, 72) puts it, writing of the Middle Ages: “Beyond these figures, so important in the Middle Ages—the beggar, the monster, the criminal—lies the silhouette of the disabled, borrowing features from the other three all at the same time or successively, and yet sharply contoured, taking us down into the depths of as yet unthought social ideas.” Even though in Western societies the disabled are no longer directly linked in the social imaginary to monsters and criminals, the point of Stiker’s remark is that persons with disabilities, located on the margins of society as they are, have historically taken on the coloration of whatever else is perceived to also lie on the social margins of society. It is this that allows Scope to invoke the Invisible Man in promoting awareness about cerebral palsy as a potent reminder of the interlinked construction of such margins.

Genealogies and Inflections

Disability scholarship allows us to glean certain repeated features from the general social treatment of the disabled (Stiker 1997; Braddock and Parish 2001). These repeated features will become pertinent for discussing the literary and aesthetic representation of disability, since I will be trying to show that the literary domain invokes some of these attitudes but dissolves them into the tapestry of representation. What follows next is not an attempt at a full survey of the history of disability discourse in the West, but only a review of some salient features that will become pertinent to my later literary discussion. Disability studies scholars already familiar with this history may wish to skip to the next section, where I outline the main theoretical emphases of this study. In this brief review section, I shall at various points correlate the social treatment of disability to specific texts and generic conventions in preparing the way for outlining what I mean by the concept of aesthetic nervousness.

Classical antiquity shared with the biblical period the fact that various forms of disability were interpreted as signs of the operation of a spiritual or metaphysical realm. Various texts in the Old Testament insisted, for example, that lepers could not be admitted to the world of normals. In the Old Testament, legal uncleanness attached to people with disabilities, who, even though permitted to participate in cultic observances, could never become priests who made sacrifices (Stiker 1997, 24). The Greeks, on the other hand, saw disability and disease as punishment from the gods, while for the ancient Egyptians, disability and disease were no longer instances of punishment for sin but the signs of a metaphysical drama (Stiker 1997, 39–46). From the ethnographic essays on disability in Ingstad and Whyte’s Culture and Disability (1995), one can also get the impression that various tribal peoples share a similar perspective with regard to disability to that of antiquity. Whyte (1995, 273–274) describes these as generally following a therapeutic itinerary governed by an impulse toward the placation of causal forces. In all these instances, the divine and metaphysical orders are seen to be proximate to the human life-world. Disability is then interpreted in various ways as a function and sign of that proximity.

“The body,” Mary Douglas (2004, 142) tells us in Purity and Danger, “is a complex structure. The functions of its different parts and their relation afford a source of symbols for other complex structures.” This observation is forcefully illustrated in the medieval period. In the early Middle Ages, writers such as Isidore of Seville (560–636) were able to proffer a taxonomy of monstrosity in which the disabled take their place beside monsters. His twelve-part taxonomic grid starts off as follows: (1) hypertrophy of the body, (2) atrophy of the body, (3) excrescence of bodily parts, (4) superfluity of bodily parts, (5) deprivation of bodily parts, and then through various gradations on to the mixture of animal and human parts and to monsters proper. Isidore of Seville’s taxonomy of the monstrous proceeds from the view that the most useful model for such a taxonomy was the human body itself. Indeed, the symbolic force of the body throughout the Middle Ages is particularly strong because of the influence of Neoplatonism, which allegorized the body as the “little cosmos” within which was contained the cosmos itself (Williams 1996, 107–108). Isidore of Seville’s taxonomy is ultimately also a normative grid; the degrees of embodied impairment-as-monstrosity are inherently part of a moral map of the corporeal body itself and the ways in which society might relate to it. Though his taxonomy seems extreme to modern eyes, the assumed ethical implications of impairment are also discernible in literary texts of different periods and cultures. In chapter 2, I shall outline a typology that takes account of such ethical implications as they relate to distinctions within the aesthetic domain in its attempts to “make sense” of the disabled body. As I shall show, the ways in which disability is represented in literary writing makes for a range of differentiated aesthetic dispositions that simultaneously reflect both an ethical and a literary dimension to such representations.

By the later Middle Ages, disability is defined by interlocking subsystems of social attitudes and treatment. On the one hand, charity is the dominant response to disability. Disability is seen as a sign of the variety of God’s creation, the specific impairments being read off as challenges to man’s sense of pride and self-sufficiency. Thus the nondisabled were encouraged by the church to respond with charity toward people with disabilities. Because disability was closely aligned to disease and disease was often interpreted as a form of plague and punishment for past sins, along with the encouragement to charity there also persisted an idea of disability as a sign of divine disfavor. The two attitudes—charity and fear—were by no means mutually exclusive.

In places such as France, lepers formed distinctive urban communities almost akin to monasteries (Stiker 1997, 68). Fourteenth-century England, on the other hand, saw a complex attitude of city authorities toward the management and containment of disease and disability. This was in spite of the persistent link made between the medical and religious grounds for social intervention. Furthermore, the fate of persons with disability was inextricably tied to that of the poor. With the progressive collapse of the medieval social structure and the decline of the monasteries and their eventual abolition in 1536, charity for the poor gradually moved from its traditional voluntary framework to become a special tax levied at the parish level. Starting in the 1500s, the Poor Laws that came out regularly for two centuries ensured that the link between the sick poor and people with disability—and the attempted alleviation of the causal connections between the condition of the disabled and poverty—increasingly became the focus of legislation and municipal activity. The 1571 census of the city of Norwich, for example, counted about a third of the sick poor as being either sick, sickly, or very sick. They were described as “weak, diseased, bed-ridden, lame, crooked, or suffering from stone, gout, dumbness, deafness, broken legs, diseases of the mouth, broken ribs, thigfola [fistula?], or were one-legged or one-handed” (Pelling 1998, 85). As was the case in France, lazarhouses for people suffering from leprosy and other communicable diseases were established outside the city walls. It was, however, traditional for lepers and lunatics as well as epileptics and sometimes the sick poor to share an asylum, thus making their later institutional prominence in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries such as on Robben Island in South Africa in a sense unremarkable.

Health practices were quite multifarious in the later Middle Ages, with overlapping and sometimes contradictory elements. Thus, on the one hand, lazarhouses were used for the treatment of conditions that negatively affected the working capacity of the patient and also of the poor, in the case of infectious diseases. On the other hand, diseases seen as “intractable,” such as those associated with people with severe mobility impairments or lunatics, were sometimes ignored. Intractable conditions “aroused a response from passers-by without involving the same risks of quarantine, confinement, and cure, even though such disabilities would not necessarily inhibit authorities from using the whip” (Pelling 1998, 96). It is clear that the boundary between disease and institutionalization was very thin indeed and that social attitudes extended from a sense of tolerant charity to one of moral panic.² At the same time, the late medieval period also saw a challenge to notions of aesthetic beauty. This is most marked in the paintings of Brueghel, who placed disabled characters in several of his most prominent paintings. As Mitchell and Snyder (2000, 4–5) show, Brueghel’s masterworks “rely upon the representational power of deformity and disability to expose the bodily life repressed within classicism,” seizing upon “disability’s power to disrupt and variegate the visual encounter with unblemished bodies.” We shall return to Mitchell and Snyder and their notion of the distortion and variegation of the visual encounter more fully in the next section.

Even as there appeared to be a variegated response to physical disabilities, madness, on the other hand, was consistently viewed throughout the Middle Ages and even into the Renaissance period as a form of divine punishment. Examples abound from the work of didactic writers such Aelfric, Abbot Leofstan of Bury St. Edmunds, John Mirk, and others to show how clearly the link was made between madness, divine retribution, and demoniacal possession (Harper 2003, 29–74). As Harper shows, this link was itself reflected in the Middle English romance and in the writings of people such as Chaucer, whose Miller and Summoner both tell stories that play upon such beliefs. Madness was also linked to witchcraft, with the bloody excesses of the witch and heresy hunts eventually breeding official and public skepticism about the links between madness and demoniacal possession. By 1563, Johannes Weyer was to write a medical thesis that wove an ingenious religious-cum-medical argument to show how mistaken the view was about the link between madness and demoniacal possession. He was followed by other writers who collectively cast scorn on the popularly held beliefs that had dominated the witch hunts (Porter 2002, 25–33). What is pertinent in these accounts, however, is the persistence of what we noted earlier with regard to the Greeks, Egyptians, and others in antiquity, namely, the idea that disability (in this case madness) reflected the proximity between the divine or metaphysical world and the human lifeworld.

By the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, however, a marked shift came when, with the emergence of a scientific medical discourse, the disabled were subjected to taxonomies of scientific measurement and ordering. The idea of the education or reeducation of disabled people grows out of the Enlightenment. But coinciding with this is the consolidation of carceral complexes such as the prison and the hospital, the hospital for lunatics and other persons with disability having grown out of charity houses since the Middle Ages. Increasingly, concerns were also raised in the period about the primary role of sexuality in generating disease and disability. The 1889 Report of the Royal Commission on the Blind, the Deaf, and the Dumb et Cetera worried that disabled offspring might result from sexual intercourse between people with physical disabilities, leading to “one more of the minor streams which ultimately swell the great torrent of pauperism” (xii). In that period, an explicit link was established between diseases such as syphilis and blindness, to the degree that an immediate correlation was made between blindness and sexual behavior. Blindness was taken as a sign of presumed sexually questionable behavior and moral deficiency. This correlation finds a peculiar focus in the literature of the Victorian period (see Holmes 2002). In opera, on the other hand, the relation between disability and presumed sexual behavior is used as a shorthand for tragic failings. In their fascinating study of the relationship between opera and disease, Hutcheon and Hutcheon (1996, 22) write that “the history of syphilis in Europe from 1495 on has been a history of Christian interpretations of this disease based on the earlier plague model: as a divine scourge, but this time specifically against the sexually sinful” (22). They go on to show in their discussion of Wagner’s Parsifal how Amfortas’s shameful wound, tactfully transferred from the character’s genital area to his chest by Wagner in a revision of his sources, prevents him from carrying out his social and moral tasks as leader of the Grail realm. But Amfortas receives his disabling wound as he sinks into the arms of the beautiful Kundry, “consistently represented in nineteenth-century cultural vocabulary of the syphilitic prostitute” (Hutcheon and Hutcheon 1996, 22, 62). She dies at the end of the opera as recompense, but not before the connection between sexually transmitted disease and the tragic and disabling effect it has on the hero has been suggestively established.

Even though many wars had historically been fought in the West and had led to the proliferation of disabilities, it may be argued that part of the sense of outrage we share today—and how that fed into specific legal instruments and institutions for addressing the needs of people with disabilities—derived mai...