All origin stories imply another origin: the origin of the tale. The setting was a small, chic office in the Place de la Sorbonne, belonging at the time to the Agence universitaire de la Francophonie. The year was 2008, and a small team of editors had gathered to plan an ambitious new edition of Aimé Césaire’s works.2 The debate hinged on the choice between a genetic3 or a critical approach. Only a handful of those in the room were familiar with the traditions of textual scholarship that gave meaning to that distinction. Among them was Pierre-Marc de Biasi, who among other accomplishments, was already known as a virtuoso of la critique génétique for his work on Flaubert. He was hesitant.
“You just can’t do good genetic critique without enough scraps of paper” he offered, suspicious of the 20th century, distracted from the history of colonial and anti-colonial archives—and I quote from memory, so he probably didn’t say that. “Yes you can!” I retorted, speaking out of turn and breaking ranks. “If you pay close attention to the material cues in a typescript, you can do it.” He wasn’t convinced, so we made a bet: 5 euros. Below is my first batch of receipts…
In one of those all-to-predictable ironies in the annals of literature, Aimé Césaire worked on Et les chiens se taisaient more than on any other text throughout his writing career only to have it be his most neglected. We can understand why the text was so important to him. In all the different versions that come down to us, published or unpublished, the central figure in the text is a rebel who refuses to compromise with the pretensions of power. For Césaire the poet and anti-colonialist, this fundamental antagonism provided a source and an opening. He was aware of it too. This much is clear from an interview he gave François Beloux in 1969:
Mais cette première pièce, je ne la voyais pas “jouée” ; je l’avais d’ailleurs écrite comme un poème. Cependant, ce texte présente pour moi une profonde importance : parce que c’est une pièce très libre et située dans son milieu—le milieu antillais. C’est un peu comme la nébuleuse d’où sont sortis tous ces mondes successifs que constituent mes autres pièces.4 (28)
Out of the gate we should take Césaire at his word—the fib will become apparent soon enough. At the most basic level, the most important themes in his œuvre are already prefigured in the different versions of Et les chiens se taisaient available to us: anti-colonialism, rebellion/revolution, nègritude, words as weapons, and, of course, freedom and the Caribbean.
The unqualified freedom he assigns his text, though, raises immediate questions: Free in what sense? As in free verse? Free from censorship? From peer or generic pressures? When it slips off the record? All of the above? Free from embodiment, from medium? Certainly not. No text is. Aimé Césaire and the Broken Record is in the public domain; is a text free when it sheds its remix and access restrictions? Perhaps for Césaire in a different key, most definitely so for us now. Under what conditions can we grasp the co-incidence of freedom when its recovery and loss is the explicit subject of the tragic tale of Toussaint Louverture recounted in “…et les chiens se taisaient”—when the very word derives its modern sense from negating those conscripted by modernity and its archives?5 We should be careful here not to confuse the freedoms we yearn for with the freedom of texts. We run the risk in this co-incidence of conflating by allegory several different kinds of reparations, when perhaps we should proceed by strategic metonym to avoid the obverse mistake: to assume they are not related.
Juxtaposed to place in his answer, the freedom of the text spills into its opposite without replacing it: an anchored flight from place—fuga estática de la poesía. The vehemence of his response to Beloux sanctions in turn a reading of his works where the paradox becomes a source question: how can a text be both free and situated? Some might shewdly build a holistic answer out of the notion, found in his early essay “Poésie et connaissance,” that poetic freedom is a miraculous weapon reconciling self and world to produce a richer truth than science. Such a commendable reading already bares the seeds of another answer, an answer contained in the “profound importance” of the text: freedom, as the fugitive virtue of a text, points to a source…
The nébuleuse, an astronomical soup of clashing dust particles and gases can be read as a metaphor for atelier, as workshop more than work, but also as that distant and diffuse source in need of return. The bewildering shift of Et les chiens se taisaient—particulate as dust and gas—from a situated historical tragedy on the Haitian Revolution (~1941-1943) to a highly iconoclastic lyrical oratorio hollowing the iconic rebel (1946), later re-situated for a larger market for books and stagings (1956), provides an exemplary case for exploring the tension between the freedom of text and the bind of place, and by extension, the genetic process that will situate the rest of Césaire’s work—and our own today.
A timeline of events surrounding the working and reworking of Et les chiens se taisaient shows two major clusters of intense activity, when the major textual transformations took place. The first period extends from ~1941 to 1946. In these years, Césaire created the historical drama based on the Haitian Revolution6 that introduces the title “…et les chiens se taisaient.” In 1944 he begins to transform this work into the “oratorio lyrique”7 that will represent its first published version as part of the poetry collection Les Armes miraculeuses (1946). In the second period, from 1954 to 1956, he develops the two other major versions of the work: the collaborative piece created with Janheinz Jahn, Und die Hunde schwiegen (1956), widely distributed and performed in Germany, and the “arrangement théâtral” published in Paris (1956). In a dizzying chain of textual events, these four major versions trace a journey from historical particularity to an oneiric universalism, and on to what we may be tempted to call a reconciliation of the two in the attempts to stage it at the height of the 1950’s anti-colonial movements.
Addressing particulars and universal aspirations in their storylines, the texts gathered under the rubric Et les chiens se taisaient were produced—and continue to be reproduced—under very peculiar circumstances. While these material traces may complicate our view of the work—or texts—any worthy attempt to find ourselves there, Wo Es war, in the crumbling flesh of archives and flash of circuitry, remains one of our most savvy hermeneutic gambits—a necessary component, perhaps, of our efforts to reshape and steward an anti-colonial past—to be with, not write about.
Aimé Ferdinand David Césaire—now canonized, pantheonized, just Césaire—had to navigate many different editorial waters before his texts opened to a world market for literature and ideas. His words are now carried in bytes crossing the oceans by submarine cable, often fragmented beyond repair in the password protected coffers of global finance. As expected, the drama of that emergence also bears the scars of these shifting situations. The freedom of a text is here as elsewhere tempered by the extent and make-up of the playing field—its genetic horizon… and our own.
the thick spit of time
We have reason to believe that Césaire started work on “…et les chiens se taisaient”8 sometime in 1941, during the height of l’Amiral Robert’s infamous regime in Martinique. The major indication comes from the typescript itself. Defying his captors, Toussaint Louverture, the main character of the early version, asks them to spit on him “l’épais crachat des siècles/ mûri/ en 306 ans” (76).9 Rewinding from 1941, this odd number gives us 1635, the year Martinique and Guadeloupe were appropriated in the name of the French Crown by Pierre Belain d’Esnambouc. The “thick spit,” aged 306 years, could reasonably refer to the time that Martinique has been under French domination.
The number 306 could also point to 1492, if we date the years back from 1798, the year that Toussaint signed the treaty with the English, which falls within the fictive timespan covered in the play, and which the first act mentions. One reason to prefer this interpretation would be Toussaint’s address to “Colomb” in the early parts of the play. Alas, the number 306 comes from a scene in Act 3, when Toussaint is already in prison in the Jura Mountains, or as the historical record would have it, in 1802. The last starting point would take us back to 1502, the year the first captured African is traded in America by a Spanish villain, Juan Cordoba de Sevilla. I tend to prefer this last computation. Thankfully, we don’t need to decide one way or the other categorically between these three manouvers, since all work to some extent.
A couple of years before 1941, Aimé and Suzanne Césaire had returned to Martinique from their student-years in Paris, where his “Cahier d’un retour au pays natal” had just been published in the journal Volontés. As soon as they returned, he began to teach secondary school at the recently opened Lycée Schœlcher in Fort-de-France. In April of 1941, almost a year after Petain came to head the État Français, through the collaboration of Aimé, Suzanne, René Ménil, and Aristide Maugée, the first issue of the journal Tropiques would see the light of day. Soon after the publication of Tropiques Nº1, the Capitaine Paul Lemerle would anchor in Martinique, bringing with it André Breton, Wifredo Lam, Claude Lévi-Strauss, Victor Serge, and a host of other intellectuals fleeing the war. Césaire would meet Breton and Lam soon after their arrival in Martinique in one of the most famous chapters of twentieth-century literary history.10 These new friendships, forged in the matter of a few precarious weeks, would soon become avenues for new collaborations, but even more importantly perhaps, they would allow Césaire to project his artistic ambitions outside the confines of Vichy Martinique.
From 1940 to 1943, Martinique was going through a period of “intense invention,” as Édouard Glissant observed,11 which can be clearly linked to the political, social and economic conditions brought on by Petainiste ultraconservative colonial policies. As Eric Jennings has recently argued, rather convincingly, this “form of colonialism steeped in social-Darwinist determinism and rooted in a reductionist, organic understanding of other, usually ‘primitive,’ societies and ‘races’” had many unintended (and thus greatly under-acknowledged) consequences (1): ideas of hyper-nationalism and folklorism were quickly reappropriated by the colonized; anti-universalist discourse became the foundation for particularist strands of intellectual activity; and last but not least, the harsher policies fueled anti-colonialist sentiment across the French colonies. The productions of Césaire and his circle during these years confirm Jennings’ analysis: The journal Tropiques makes a nudge in the direction of folklorism and nationalism, even as early as its first issue;12 Tropiques also became a space to discuss and embrace philosophies of difference, including Frobenius’ anthropology of Hamitics and Ethiopeans (S. Césaire 27-32). In addition, the rabid censorship under l’Amiral Robert’s government can be cited as the main cause for the journal’s oblique style, while the regime’s tighter grip on the black populace accounts for the journal’s hyper-antagonism.
All of the above applies more specifically to the typescript, “…et les chiens se taisaient.” Because the drama was written in secrecy, its language seems to have been inversely influenced by the politics of censorship. The typescript makes explicit what Tropiques cannot afford to. With the refrain “mort aux blancs”13 framing the retelling of Haitian resistance against French ambitions, the play confronts head-on the lies of colonialism and imperialism, providing a great counterpoint to the subterfuges and misdirections of the published material of the time. On the other hand, the typescript still contains much poetry that was typical of Césaire’s contribution to Tropiques, effectively creating a rift in the text between straight-forward and oblique language, cum poetics.
Beginning in 1941 and increasingly in 1942, a US naval blockade prevented the Germans from having access to the island—and as some claim, to a French cache of gold stashed in Fort-de-France. This effectively isolated Martinique. The only form of communication with the outside world came by way of a couple of ships that were allowed passage after an agreement between the Americans and Admiral Robert.14 Correspondence was then carried by post and sometimes by intermediaries. This situation must also be taken into account when we try to understand Césaire’s strategies of publication and composition once he began corresponding with Lam in Cuba and Breton in New York. Undoubtedly, the access to external editorial environments becomes even more vital under the watchful eye of state censorship, however weak.
“…et les chiens se taisaient” evidences a struggle between the freedom to speak frankly, without censorship and the idea of a poetry free from traditional form and subject. The text under censoring eyes desires to speak directly to the subjugated audience. In several scenes of the script, Toussaint addresses the black crowds in the language of truth to power. On the other hand, the freedom that Césaire seeks in poetic language cannot be reduced to direct address for long. As a result, the search for freedom is caught in a bind, and we cannot talk about one without the other. Undoubtedly, this work, as play or text, could not see the light of day in Martinique during the rule of Admiral Robert, but the possibility of it being published elsewhere was nevertheless present to Césaire thanks to his lifelines in Cuba and New York. As a result, its bind to the Caribbean—audience and history—seems stronger in its earlier stages than in later ones. If indeed the process of moving away from the history of the Haitian Revolution, as I hope to show in the next chapter, started during the draft stage of the typescript, we may have further circumstantial evidence that composition began in 1941.
Luckily, we find more precise information about the completion of the typescript in a trove of letters from Césaire to Breton housed at the Bibliothèque Litteraire Jacques Doucet in Paris. The first of these letters to mention the play is postmarked September 23, 1943, where Césaire notes he has just finished “un drame nègre.”15 A letter dated November 16, 1943 announces the impending arrival in New York of a package containing “un recueil possible de poèmes ainsi qu’un drame : Et les chiens se taisaient.” The next letter from Césaire (17 Jan. 1944), announces the arrival of some supplementary pages for “Et les chiens se taisaient” consisting of the short text “Intermède.” The Césaire documents at the Fonds Yvan Goll in Saint-Dié des Vosges, France, where the typescript is housed today, do not include this shorter piece. This suggests the possibility that sometime between November and January, Breton lent the typescript to Yvan Goll.
The story of how Yvan Goll became involved in the editorial life of Césaire in New York has been superbly narrated by the scholar and former curator of the Goll archive, Albert Ronsin16 in his article “Yvan Goll et André Breton.” After making amends with Breton more than a decade after their fist fight over the paternity rights to surréalisme, they both began to collaborate on a special issue of Goll’s journal Hemisphères. This happened between the end of 1943 and the beginning of 1944, around the time Césaire sent his typescript. Both Goll and Breton had spent time in the Caribbean en route to New York, both had something to say about it, and each had columbused a black poet: Nicolás Guillén for Goll and Aimé Césaire for Breton. Issue 2/3 of Hemisphères would include Breton’s introduction to Césaire, “Un grand poète noir,”17 Césaire’s own “Purs sang,” and an announcement on the back cover for an upcoming edition of Césaire’s “Cahier d’un retour au pays natal,” translation by Yvan Goll.18 Good relations between Goll and Breton would not last long after this new collaboration. In May of 1944, while working together on the translation of the Cahier, they had another, final falling out.
The correspondence makes clear that the relationship between Breton and Goll was above all editorial. This is evident from Breton’s business-like responses to Goll, and Goll’s obsequious editorial proposals to Breton. Breton did not seem to respect Goll’s artistic judgment, nor did he seem to value the awkward friendship. Given the nature of their collaboration, and the fact that Breton was already using Goll to publish Césaire, chances are that the busy Breton loaned Goll the “…et les chiens se taisaient” typescript in hopes that the latter would adopt the project. The publication, of course, never materialized, and [gasp!] Goll never returned the typescript to Breton, despite the latter’s repeated entreaties and the intercession of their mutual friend Robert Lebel. In his last letter to Goll (12 Dec. 1944), Breton reminds Goll that he has asked for the typescript three times already. That is the last most of us hear of this typescript until 2008, when a footnote in Ronsin’s article prompted me to travel to Saint-Dié des Vosges.
Because the dossier Césaire at the Fonds Yvan et Claire Goll does not include the short piece “Intermède,” it is safe to say that the integral Saint-Dié typescript was part of the package that Césaire announced in mid-November of 1943. This is our safest date for the completion of this version. In chapter 3, “you will assimilate to me,” I provide further arguments to support this date.
When we consider the size of the text—107 loose leaves + title page—the completion date also reinforces the argument that the text was begun in 1941. A text of this size is larger than all of Césaire’s combined output up to that date, from his first pamphlet pieces in Paris as a young man, to the 1939 edition of “Cahier d’un retour au pays natal,” to his contributions in Tropiques.19 Considering the enormous tax on his time that made him such a successful and dedicated teacher (Ngal 111-113) and his already substantial literary activity in Tropiques, we cannot but be astonished by this hitherto unknown work, which without a doubt, was Césaire’s most ambitious effort up until that point.
a codicology of the typescript
The main set of clues about the order of composition of the Saint-Dié typescript comes from the different pagination schemes added and deleted throughout its pages. To reach a genesis proper, though, we must close read in the bind of material traces, where the writing leaves its mark in carbon paper, writing utensils, page layouts, etc.—in short, a codicology of the typescript. Done with care, vigilance and humility—comme déterreurs de reliques—a forensic analysis of the typescript can yield re-compositions of textual segments, pulled by the gravity of smaller structural units—its bibliographic code, to cite McGann—to help us study its genesis.
Except for the actual text, all the relevant material evidence is detailed and organized in a series of codicological tables below.20 All of the rows in the tables, except for the headers, represent a page. These are organized from top to bottom in the order in which they are found today in Saint-Dié des Vosges—what we could call for brevity’s sake, the Saint-Dié witness. This order also corresponds to the pagination scheme labeled
The first table (table a), lists the support materials used for the typescript. I recognize a total of five—or four depending on how you look at it—different types of paper in the 108 loose sheets of the Saint-Dié witness. I distinguish these under the heading
durian. The most common type is
atemoya, thin, of a yellowing white hue (21.6 x 28 cm). Those pages marked
atemoya+ have sheets of the same material as
atemoya, except they are a few milimeters larger lengthwise.
coco belong to two self-contained segments in Act 1. batata is thin and pink (21.6 x 27.8 cm). The twenty leaves made of this paper are only found towards the beginning of the play as it stands now.
batata in the current pagination, and is thin and white with a light blue tint (21 x 27 cm). Last, but not least,
durian seems to have been introduced at a late stage of composition, and mostly appears in revisions made to Act 2. This paper is thick white and also yellowing, at times with rough-hewn edges, indicating the leaves came from a larger sheet. (22.4 x 28 and 21.6 x 28 cm).
The document seems to be, in large part, a copy of a missing original, and traces of carbon paper are visible to the naked eye in several pages. At least two kinds of carbon paper were used: blue and black. The traces of carbon paper residue in the typescript vary in intensity: at some points the paper is very dirty, at others very clean. At times, the carbon residue outlines unreadable glyphs, line traces from a previous page on the roller. Some pages are marked
orig, for original, because we can’t perceive any carbon residue on them—or at least without more scientific rigor. These pages mostly place towards the end, and indicate a late stage of the process. None of the use patterns align with other patterns we find in the pagination schemes, neither with the type of paper, nor with the type of revision instrument, which leads us to conclude that Césaire had a consistent supply of two types of interchangeable carbon paper. In theory, we could use the patterns to isolate smaller bursts of writing, but I have not had occassion to do it.
Besides direct overwrites with the typewriter, the text was revised using a variety of instruments likely handheld by Césaire himself. And analysis of the handwriting—a slight forward slant, a tendency for flat diacritics, sharp connecting strokes, a peculiarly open p, etc.—confirms these revisions belong to the same hand that revised the ~1938 typescript of the Cahier d’un retour natal archived at the Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée nationale in Paris.
The different types of handwriting instruments used in the the Saint-Dié witness are catalogued in table b by the pages in which traces can be found. Blue ink markings, ranging in hue from light to dark, are by far the most common, and they are almost universally present in the typescript. The final pagination itself is almost exclusively written in blue ink. Unless we are allowed a “thermal desorption and gas chromatography-mass spectrometry” of the blue ink21, we won’t be able to determine whether we are indeed talking about two different types of ink, or whether the same ink became darker with age, or under certain atmospheric conditions. In any case, I distinguish between them aided solely by comparison between samples. These are indicated in table b as
blue ink and
dark ink. Revisions made with blue ink range from corrections to substantial additions.
red ink markings can be found in a few scant pages belonging in the first two acts. The red ink plays an important role in erasing some of the historical traces from the typescript.
Pencil markings come in three varieties, ranging from most common to most rare:
dark pencil and
red pencil. The
light pencil is somewhere in the graphite hardness range of 1H and HB, probably your everyday No. 2. The
dark pencil, with more clay in the lead, ranges between 2B and 4B. Most pencil markings seem to occur during the middle stages of composition, and they play an important role in the temporal shift of key episodes and pages. The
red pencil is a soft pencil, and can only be found on four pages at the latest stage of composition, in the episode of the parliamentarians.
The witness has interesting features which push the boundaries of traditional codicology, and yet make fine additions to our catalogue. These range from the regular, to the highly peculiar. Some of the regular features are listed in table c. For example, some pages end half-way through, usually marked with a large X drawn across the empty bottom space of the page. I flag these in the table as
Half Pages. These pages can sometimes give us clues about the insertion of a page in a previous sequence, and other times help us isolate blocks of innominate and itinerant text.
Starting on page 41, and intensifying after page 60 of the current pagination, the typist22 tries to use as much of the real estate on the page as possible, sometimes schewing the line towards the end of the page, as the paper began to slip from the platen roller. Perhaps paper became scarcer during the later stages of composition due to the American blockade? Perhaps the household became more frugal? This marked difference in the use of paper is indicated in table c as
The last of the regular features is the uneven practice of underlining the speakers, marked with an x under the heading
Underline. This pattern is consistently used on the pages composed using
batata, then dissappears for a while, only to intensify during the composition of the middle pages on
atemoya paper. This quirk may indicate two typists, or simply two coherent periods of composition. Further evidence suggests the latter, but we cannot rule out the former.
The Saint-Dié witness also yields many unique material clues, some helpful, some odd. We still don’t know the typewriter that was used, but some clues point in the direction of an answer. The type alignment in page 52 and 62, for example, is slanted—as if the paper locating guide was missing, or simply ignored. On many of the pages where carbon paper was used, four evenly-spaced columns of residue are visible to the naked eye. What machine produced such effects? A Remington? A Japy? An investigation of the type produced by period machines might answer the question.
Some of these unique traces give us very useful clues about the order of composition and revision. On page 70, for example, traces of
blue ink matching the corrections on page 69 suggest the pages were stacked in order when the revisions were made. This also implies that these corrections were made after the typescript had achieved its current ordering, since page 70 belongs to a set of three pages that followed page 41 according to a previous pagination.
Other traces suggest working methods. The verso of page 71, for example, is a reverse mirror image of the front of the page, suggesting the typist accidentally placed a second, black carbon paper facing the wrong way. This implies that at least 3 copies of that page were attempted using the sandwich method: the missing original, (with blue carbon paper behind), our First Copy (with the flipped black carbon paper behind), and a missing third.
Some traces, alas, remain nothing more than a tease to would-be genetic critics, like the words “notions de base” in all caps and underlined, in the back of page 75.23
stack and shuffle
We are now ready to retreive the last key: pagination. In total, we can count ten different pagination schemes spread throughout the typescript. The pagination schemes are catalogued in table d. The schemes are differentiated from each other by the writing tool used and their position at the top of the pages, and though they imply an order of composition, this is not always the case.
Most pages have more than one set of numbers on them. Three sets of numbers come from a hand other than Césaire’s: the cataloguer’s numeration, the first pagination, labeled
P1, and a set of typewritten pagination on several pages,
P3. The last numeration added by Césaire determines the actual order of the pages as we find them today (
Page in tables a-d)24. This numeration will provide our canonical reference for this work, often in parentheses.25 The page sequence established by
Page is reinforced by the added pagination of a Saint-Dié des Vosges librarian, which I assume to be Albert Ronsin, who received the witness from Claire Goll, after Yvan’s death26. I’d divide the rest of the numbering into two periods, early and late. The late paginations
P6-P8 begin when
P6 introduces a continuous numeration that encompasses and organizes most of the text as we find it now, going from
P6.103. The early ones
P1-P5 mark a period of reorientation and experiment, where whole sections will change their place in the order or be heavily revised. The different pagination numbers also provide us with the principal criteria for re-organizing the text into smaller blocks to help us orient our genetic analysis of the text.
In order to best understand the process by which we arrived at the current pagination, we can reverse-engineer the pagination schemes. The results of the reconstruction are visualized in the shape of a table in figure p below, starting in chronological order from left to right. As in table d, the rows in figure p represent individual pages. Each of the matte, lime, lavender and clay-colored columns in figure p represents the state of the text in nine different stages of development, extending from left to right from the earliest stage
S1, corresponding to the first pagination,
P1, to the
Final stage, corresponding to the main pagination,
Page. A stage of development is not to be confused for a pagination, even though they coincide in many cases. In other cases, a set of pages does not receive a pagination scheme until later in the process, when a new order begins to emerge. Césaire’s texts, as those who study his bibliography know, have a tendency to migrate within and without themselves without end.
The page numbers belonging to each stage are written immediately to the left of the colored columns. To signal pages where we can tell a pagination is offered at a later stage of development, we use a backward slash, “\”. The numbers in gray correspond to either missing pages or page numbers marked in an earlier pagination scheme and implied in the later stage. Missing pages are devoid of color, and are indicated by dashed borders. A pagition scheme is written at the top-most cell where that pagination occurs for the first time on a given stage. Places where the text suffers a split are marked by dotted lines at the cut and splice. A few cells are marked with additional texture to help you locate their destination on a later stage. Long curly brackets in the far left contain the final act divisions. As opposed to table d, the order of the pages from top to bottom is , rather than rational, in the sense that the vertical alignment is determined by design choices meant to help you appreciate the transposition in Act 1, the shifting elements around a structural core in Act 2 and the intercalated doubling of Act 3.
My rationale for this reverse-engineering follows the results. To view the full version click on the cropped image below.27
The fact that both
P2 cohere around separate and distinct paper support, and that their paginations stand unaccompanied by any other pagination until the text receives a global sequence in
S6 through the combination of
P7, makes it difficult for us to choose between them with empirical certainty for the title of earliest extant segment in the typescript. My analysis bends me in the direction of the 18 pages marked
P1 (23-40), all using
coco paper.28 I indicate this choice in figure p as
Let me illustrate the way the graphic works using this example: Under the label
S1, the matte-colored cells represent only a total of 18 pages, the pages of
P1, starting with page
P1.4 have gray numbers next to an empty space surrounded by dashed lines, indicating in this case that they’re missing, but implied. Since I estimate that these 18/20 pages were the first to be written, all other cells in this column are empty below the colored cells. Because
P1.1, by definition has the number 1 written on it at the top, and because I want to emphasize the drastic forward shift of these pages at a later stage of composition, I placed the column right at the top, in the starting position of our left-to-right reading order.
The handwriting used for this pagination is different from Césaire’s, and it can be found on the top left of its pages, very close to the corner. To reiterate, the pagination of the extant pages is indicated on the table by the black numbers under the
P1 column. At this early stage, we have no evidence that Césaire envisioned his work in progress as a three-act drama—but despite his fib to Beloux, the early pages do suggest Césaire was writing a play meant for the stage. The segment begins without the heading “Acte” at the top of page 1, as all other pages marked 1 do in the other numeration schemes.
coco, the thin white paper, is also not present in any other pagination scheme. Only in one other case does a specific kind of paper correspond to a specific pagination scheme:
P2—the failed candidate for
Five features of the text suggest that
P1 was the earliest segment: a) Page 1 begins with stage directions that set the scene “à Saint-Domingue,” announcing the general setting for Act 1 and Act 2; b) The episodes in the segment roughly align with the early period of the Haitian Revolution; and following from b, c) Césaire provides and subsequently eliminates several specific passages in
P2 that refer to the mid-stage of the revolution; d) The verb tense in
P2 changes from Passé simple to Futur simple on several occassions; and finally, e) The segment contains the least amount of poetic interventions by Toussaint (Le Rebelle of the published versions), the chorus or the reciters of all the drama, providing the most straightforward episodes of the whole. If indeed
P1 was the first batch composed, this last feature suggests that the original orientation of the drama leaned towards a popular stage—even if it remains to be seen whether the drama is suitable for an actual theater or not.
If I’m correct, all the pages with
P1 (23-40) shifted down in the overall structure of the text after the re-arrangement of those pages marked
P2. The strongest evidence for this shift comes from the fact that, though both start their sequences close to or at 1, the pages of
P2 where the only ones to land in the final ordering close to where its own numeration indicated they should be. If we were to claim that
P2 was composed prior to
P1, then we would have to conclude that
P1 was not meant to be the beginning of Act 1. The evidence does not support this conclusion. The reader will remember that
P1 begins with the number 1, and at no point until
P6 does this change. Why would Césaire begin at number 1 what will be page 23 if he had meant for this new text to be a continuation of
One possible response to this line of reasoning is that he wrote both in tandem, undecided about their relationship to each other. This perhaps would explain the use of different paper stacks. Another possible response is that
P1 was written as an alternative beginning to
P2. After all, both retain their low numbers until
P6. Yet another is that
P1 was meant to be the beginning of a putative Act 2. The problem with these hypotheses is that the elements of the story and the verse tense that were revised within
P2, mentioned above, do not make much sense outside of the shift. A much simpler explanation is that
P2 was written after
P1, and received its pagination in the next stage,
S3. Furthermore, as we shall see in the next chapter when we take a closer look at the text of
P2, after its historical references and the tense fall prey to the mighty pencil,
P2 surrenders the clavis aurea for the typescript and then some.
We can neither prove with absolute empirical certainty that the
P2 pages were composed before any of the next segments before
P6, but the order of composition in figure p remains likely. Present in Act 1 only, the numbers of
P2 were written in pencil on the top-left corner, going sequentially and uninterrupted from 3 to 23 (2-22).29 Just as in
P1, and as I said above, the pages of
P2 correspond to one unique type of paper. In this case, the unapologetic pink
batata. The next pagination in the series,
P3, provides further reason to believe that
P2 should come second in the series. In indicate this in figure p as
S2. The numbers of
P3 were typewritten on the top-left corner of the page. This pagination can be found exclusively in segments belonging to Act 2 and Act 3. If
P2 was written after
P3, I don’t see why it wouldn’t have followed suit and marked its pagination in type as well. It seems probable that the pages of
P2 were written as those of
P1, before the structure started congealing, leaving the pagination blank during the typing, and adding it later in pencil, after the edifice started to take shape.
P3, the typewritten pagination, will eventually be replaced by
P5, with page numbers now written on the top-right corner. Since we can be fairly certain all other paginations inhabiting the same pages as
P3 are posterior to it, we can be confident that
P4, which overlap for the most part with
P3, mark close, subsequent stages of development in the structure of the text, giving us
S5. Top-right pagination for
P2 would have aligned it more with this middle period. The case being the opposite, the top-left pagination groups it with the earlier stages. Since
P3 was also marked in the top-left corner, albeit with type, the empty corners of
P2 could be filled in on the same spot as the type.
P3 pages begin at
P3.2 for Act 2 missing, and in Act 3 with
P3.2(74), with the ever-intriguing page 41 possibly in the role of
P3.1, leaving the number 1 out of the page because it begins the act.30 This numeration scheme, restarting in each act from 1, will soon be replaced by global continuous pagination. In that sense
S3 marks the stage of development when we know with certainty that the text takes the current three-act structure.
Regardless of the placement of the pagination, if
P2 was written after
P3, (still a possibility) this means that it was not written with a clear sense of where it belonged, even after the overall structure was becoming clear to Césaire. It would also entail that Césaire started using
atemoya to compose
P3, then switched to
batata to compose this strange section without a home, to return to
P5, leaving pink paper behind. This seems unlikely. Putting aside the lingering suspicion that Suzanne was at the typewriter, if Aimée was indeed using different paper types to divide possible segments/acts, why does Act 2 and 3 use mostly the same paper? Furthermore, the first page of the current witness, typed in
atemoya paper, replaces a now missing page of
P2, suggesting a timeline for the support materials. Based on this evidence and a dash of Occam, in the most likely scenario, the pages of
P2 were written before the composition of Act 2 and Act 3, and therefore before
Thus far, while arguing for the position of
P2 in the sequence, we managed to place
P5 as well, and with each a new stage. As we approach
S6—when Césaire unites all acts under one sequential numeration for the first time—we should note that all three acts follow a different genetic pattern (figure p). Act 1 and Act 3 are different from each other in that the first joined two blocks of text sequentially, like stacking a deck of cards, while the last intercalated text in the crevices of an earlier structure, like shuffling it. Act 2 evidences a much more complex genetic process. While Act 1 and Act 3 attain their stability soon enough, after
P6 the middle act continued to be reworked, prompting changes in what was clearly meant to be a final sequence. Notwithstanding, by the time we arrive at
S6, the text has clearly achieved a structural landmark.
Although the changes to Act 2 could be considered minor in relation to the whole text, they are substantial relative to Act 2 itself. As you can see from figure p, the changes after
P5 comprise about 1/4th of the final text of Act 2. Several of these changes are also attempts at reframing the act. Starting with
P6.68, and following with
P8.41'-41''' we see an effort to change the way the act begins and ends.
Determining which came first,
P8, has not proved to be an easy task. Two of the segments were revised with a writing instrument,
red pencil, and
dark ink. However, they both use the same kind of paper that comes into play after
durian. Moreover, while both have blocks of pages that relocate before the final organization, the transpositions of the former take place in the middle of the text, while the transpositions of the latter take place around the frame, making it difficult for us to determine their relative order of composition.
Complicating us further, the
P8.41'-41''' set includes characters not present in the rest of the drama, Les bonnes gens and the Déterreurs des pierres, and
P7.47 includes an all too common poetic exchange between the Reciters and Toussaint, making both the set and the single page relatively portable. All of these may have been written without a clear resting place in mind. The exeption to this mobility are both
P7.56-57, which fall under the episode of “des parlementaires.”
I end up placing
S8 after all because of one basic inference:
P6.42 was written during
S5 as the beginning of Act 2, and takes on the number 42 at the top of the page as part of the
P6 sequence, and it does so with the same stroke of the pen that erases the words “Acte II” from the header. That means that at this point, page 41 already had its number and current title, “Acte II.” Since P8 is nothing other than a three-page insert between these two, that gives us some reason to suspect they were written at a later stage. In the end we can be flexible ourselves and consider these late stages to be part of the same final push to get the pages in order and declare the drama done.
Page pagination adopts most of the numbering of
P6, with some from
P8. The process continuously shifts the overall numeration down to accommodate all extra pages added after
P6, right up until the last moment, when the transposition of
P8.41-41’’’ to the end of Act 2 tilts the sequence up a bit, and is the only major change of this stage. The final sequence in
Page is how the witness is ordered in a folder at the Fonds Claire et Yvan Goll near the German border today.
Hi Pierre-Marc, I’ll buy you a whiskey with your own money next time we run into each other. If you’re still not convinced you should part with your money based on these opening moves, please continue to the next chapter.
Now in print as Césaire, Aimé. Poésie, théâtre, essais et discours. Ed. Albert-James Arnold. Paris: CNRS, 2014. Planète libre. The volume includes my own diplomatic edition of the typescript of “…et les chiens se taisaient”. Some of the analysis in this chapter appeared first in that volume and elsewhere. ↩︎
‘Genetic’ here and throughout refers to the study of the production process of a given work—social or authorial. The term is borrowed from the French school of ‘la critique génétique.’ ↩︎
[But this first work, I never envisioned it “staged”; I wrote it above all as a poem. However, this text is of the utmost importance to me because it is a work that is both free and well situated in its environment—the Caribbean. It is a bit like the nebula where all the other future worlds that constitute my other works come from.] My translations unless otherwise indicated. ↩︎
I point here to David Scott’s Conscripts of Modernity: The Tragedy of Colonial Enlightenment. 1 edition. Durham: Duke University Press Books, 2004. Print. In this work David Scott makes a convincing argument that the move in CLR James from the 1st edition to the 2nd edition of Black Jacobins marks a transition from anti-colonial romance to a salutary postcolonial tragedy due to a shift in James’ “horizon of expectation.” The concepts developed in Scott’s volume resurface in my own work in various ways, not all cited. ↩︎
For a narrative of how this text was discovered and a plot summary see my article “Découverte d’un tapuscrit d’Et les chiens se taisaient.” (“découverte”). ↩︎
Césaire describes the work this way in an interview with Claude Stevens, “Pour un théâtre d’inspiration africaine,” La Vie africaine. 59 (juin 1965): 40-41. This generic definition has since then been accepted by critics. ↩︎
Quotation marks indicate specific unpublished versions of the text, usually clear from context. When followed by parentheses with dates, italics indicate published versions. When not followed by dates, italics indicate the work—that mysterious creature with many bodies and none at all. ↩︎
[The thick spit of the centuries/aged/after 306 years]. I owe the following observation in part to the French critic and editor Pierre Laforgue, one of our collaborators in Césaire, Aimé. Poésie, théâtre, essais et discours. Ed. Albert-James Arnold. Paris: CNRS, 2014. Print. Planète libre. In chapter 3, “You will assimilate to me”, and chapter 4, “A ghost poem,” I offer him my revision of his genetic analysis of Les Armes miraculeuses. ↩︎
The classic retelling of the story by Breton in “Un grand poète noir” can be found in his Martinique, charmeuse de serpents. Paris: Sagittaire, 1946. For some anecdotes about the time spent together in Martinique see Herzberg, Julia P. “Wifredo Lam: The Development of a Style and a World View.” Wifredo Lam and His Contemporaries. Ed. Maria R. Balderrama. New York: The Studio Museum in Harlem, 1993. pp.50-51 ↩︎
“Alors c’était un isolement assez complet, et la conséquence en a été aussi qu’il a fallu absolument que la population trouve elle-même des solutions à toutes les privations … C’est pour cela que je dis que pendant cette période les Martiniquais ont vraiment inventé—je pense que de ce point de vue c’est une période qui a développé l’esprit d’invention.” Britton, Celia. “Souvenirs des années 40 à la Martinique : interview avec Edouard Glissant.” L’Esprit Créateur 47.1 (2007) p.98 ↩︎
This explains in part Césaire’s article on Peguy and selections from his poetry in the first issue of Tropiques. In the article, Césaire defended Peguy for his nationalist love of the peasantry. Because Peguy had been appropriated by the Petainistes, Césaire could maneuver a message of Martinican particularity using him as a stand-in for a nationalism rooted on the peasantry. Let us not forget that it was Peguy who said “Je ne veux pas que l’autre soit le même, je veux que l’autre soit autre. C’est à Babel qu’était la confusion, dit Dieu, cette fois que l’homme voulut faire le malin” (Œuvres poétiques complètes. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 60. Paris: Gallimard, 1941.) These words echo Césaire’s own anti-assimilationism in the first issue of l’Etudiant noir: “Jeunesse Noire, il est un poil qui vous empêche d’agir : c’est l’Identique, et c’est vous qui le portez.” [Black youth: you are a hair away from acting: and that is the Identical, and it is you who carries it.] This reading is, of course, complicated by the fact that Césaire had already praised Peguy for his “heroïsme” in another article published in Paris in 1939 (“Le Message De Charles Péguy.” LʼAction Surréaliste 53 (1939): 2). That other article ends with the words, “à Suivre,” which imply that the Tropiques article is the announced continuation. The point remains, that the different reasons for praising him fall on different audiences, and that in both cases a peculiar reading is possible. See also, Malela, Buata B. “Aimé Césaire, Le « Fil Et La Trame ».” Critique Et Figuration De La Colonialité Du Pouvoir. Paris: Anibwé, 2009. 26-28. Print. ↩︎
[Death to the whites] ↩︎
Traffic seems to stop altogether in 1942 when the US ships cut off all access to the island for several months as the Germans intensified their campaign. This explains in part a gap in the correspondence between Césaire and Breton from April 20, 1942 to January 10, 1943. ↩︎
My gratitude to René Henane for allowing me to consult his copy of the transcriptions of the correspondence and for his generous friendship. ↩︎
I owe a great debt of gratitude to Nadine Ronsin, who has taken over the role of curator of the Goll collection after Albert Ronsin’s passing. She has welcomed me on two occasions to the peaceful small town in Lorraine—where town lore would have it, the word America was uttered for the first time in human history—with the sort of hospitality that inspires the best in others. I also thank her colleagues at the Bibliothèque Municipaple de Saint-Dié des Vosges for providing a comfortable work space and a pleasant atmosphere for the days of arduous scanning and research. ↩︎
We learn from the letters that “Un grand poète noir” was written at the behest of Goll as a possible introduction to the Cahier d’un retour au pays natal, by a somewhat unwilling Breton, who didn’t consider Hemisphères to be the appropriate vehicle for such a text. This short tribute to Césaire will go on to have a life of its own in several other publications since, most notably as the introduction of the Brentano’s edition of Cahier d’un retour au pays natal and as a chapter in Breton’s Martinique, Charmeuse de serpents. ↩︎
This dual-language edition was finally published three years later in 1947 by Brentano’s in New York. For the most accurate and up-to-date history of Césaire’s masterpiece, please see my essay “Bridging the Middle Passage: The Textual (r)evolution Of Césaire’s Cahier D’un Retour au Pays Natal.” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature. 38.1 (March 2011): 40-56. Print. ↩︎
This statement remains true in so far as we have not yet recovered his thesis on Black Southern writers in the United States, and can only speculate how much effort he put into it. Not much would be my guess. ↩︎
If you would like to verify my results or reconstruct my observations, here’s the the complete set of codicological tables as comma separated values, and the source data in lossy compression. ↩︎
Bügler, Jürgen H., Hans Buchner, and Anton Dallmayer. “Age Determination of Ballpoint Pen Ink by Thermal Desorption and Gas Chromatography-Mass Spectrometry.” Journal of Forensic Sciences 53.4 (2008): 982–988. PubMed. Web. I did not read the full article, but certainly enjoyed the abstract. ↩︎
I have not been able to establish the identity of the typist, despite inquiries to more senior scholars who knew the poet, or analysis of the typos. After Bruce Holsinger trended the hashtag #thanksfortyping on Twitter, though, the lingering suspicion that Suzanne Césaire is our mysterious typist has recently flared up. I put $5 on it. ↩︎
I thought of at least two bad Joyce jokes here, but I’ll spare you. ↩︎
As we will see shortly,
Pageinherits most of
P8until page 55. What I am calling
Pageis a combination of page numbers from
P6, a few pages of
P8, and page numbers written at the last stage of pagination. In Table A, in the column named
Page, the page numbers which are inherited are written in gray in order to distinguish them from those written at the time when the text received its final organization. ↩︎
Other numbering systems will be indicated by
pagination.page. Sometimes the
Pagenumber will follow in parenthesis when appropriate, or to disambiguate paginations by act. Ex.
P6.55(56) is the same as ‘the page with the number 55 in the number set labeled
P6, and the page with the number 56 in the set labeled
Today part of the Fonds Claire et Yvan Goll at the Bibliothèque Municipale à Saint-Dié des Vosges. ↩︎
Instead of presenting the full visualization here, I cropped the original to reduce load sizes and to help you get back to the text quicker, in case you want to skip it altogether. Design decisions like these are part of a certain minimalist bent in my work. ↩︎
As I indicated before, the numbers in parentheses represent the
Pagepagination. In this case, these pages were originally numbered 1, 2…20. That would be the
P1numbers. In the final ordering they became 23, 24…40. These would be the
We assume the existence at some point of
P2.2, but these have disappeared without a trace. ↩︎
Page 41 leans two ways. On the one hand the page is clearly marked as the beginning of Act 3 before a correction makes it the beginning of Act 2. The page also flows into
P3.2through a simple bibliographic accident: Page 41 ends with the speaker “La Recitante”, but no speech, close to the bottom of the page, having run out of space;
P3.2begins with a speech close to the top of the page, but no speaker. One objection to this bibliographic evidence, would be the speech itself, which places in the mouth of the Recitress the idea that Toussaint’s punishment was part of “une justice suprème,” a supreme justice. An attentive reading of the ethical ambivalence of CRR dismisses this quibble. A possibility is that the page was indeed written posterior to
P3as a replacement for the original
P3.1and the speaker without a speech at the bottom of the page was done to accomodate the speech on the next page.
Much stronger is the bibliographical evidence pulling page 41 in the other direction. The page is written on
durianpaper, with the page number 41 written with
dark ink, doubly grouping the page with
P8, which follow it immediately as
P8.41'-41'''. One thing is clear, the page was written before the
P6.49which replaces it as the introduction to Act 3. ↩︎