Mythologies

Roland Barthes' Mythologies is one of the books which looked guiltily at me from my bookcase, demanding why I had purchased it and yet failed to finish reading it. And yet, I was always sneakingly pleased he was there, waiting to be read, the spine on display hinting that I have. As an undergraduate his name would be brandished by better read folk than I, rolling his R's and coughing up his final syllables with a French accent I can only approximate in jest. I was intrigued and awed by the mere mention of his name, but the content of his writing was never discussed. He defined my interlocutors like a Facebook favourite music list: "I love R(rrr)oland Barthes". Conversations would gesture towards him, but never quite bring him in, and his relevance to these discussions would remain a mystery to me to be solved only by actually reading the book itself. I was too embarassed by my ignorance to ask.

Last week I finally picked it up. My sense of intellectual inferiority was compounded by having to retrieve my dictionary three times in one page ('The Occid ent', 'oecumenicity', 'syncretism'), but I (with a sense of pride) confess to quite enjoying the book. With trepidation I will try to paraphrase 159 pages in a paragraph, for those in my undergraduate shoes. In the first half Barthes describes 'myths of French daily life', he critiques everyday cultural entities which have been elevated by the petit-bourgeois from their everyday reality to the status of myth. Examples include wrestling, wine and milk, Einstein's brain, detergent. In the second half, Barthes unpacks the notion of myth. A myth is a mode of signification, it has symbolic status which is not defined by the object of its message (the sign) but what it refers to (the signified) in social usage.

I can think of no better example of myth than the intellectually insecure undergraduate invoking Roland Barthes. It doesn't matter what Barthes said, it doesn't matter what relevance his ideas has to the conversation, Barthes could have been Goedel for all the content of his work mattered to the use of his name. The important thing was what was signified by loving Barthes: that one was well read, intellectually superior, literate in subversive continental philosophy, possibly one even spoke French. Loving Roland Barthes was as symbolic as wearing a black polo neck and smoking rolling tobacco in a cafe: he was the myth of our chain-smoking, whisky drinking, petit bourgeois undergraduate days.

Harry Potter and the Prairie

If there was ever a cultural phenomenon worthy of study, Harry Potter is it. I’m not going to pretend I read it for any cultural insights though. I shut down all intellectual faculties and pigged my way through the last book in a weekend. I had given no serious thought to my secret literary perversions though until reading Philip Cushman’s Constructing the Self, Constructing America: A Cultural History of Psychotherapy. By describing different notions of the ‘self’ that have arisen across cultures and history and showing how these responded to social, economic and political needs, Cushman challenges American psychotherapy’s claim to define, discover and construct a transhistoric, decontextualised and apolitical ‘ideal’ self. Not having finished the book I won’t dwell on Cushman’s claims specific to psychotherapy, but want to consider his description of ‘The Self in America’ at the turn of the century. In particular I want to consider his claim that the Victorian notion of ‘Character’ was replaced at the turn of the century by the contemporary ideal ‘Personality’. I’m intrigued by the story Cushman tells, because I think the notion of Character has lived on in some places, and its ongoing appeal is epitomised by just such children’s books as Harry Potter.

Cushman paints a picture of American society in the late 19th Century as one lacking the structures of religion and cultural traditions used to define the self: how one should live and act. He argues that ‘the self’ in 19th century white bourgeois America was largely defined in terms of what it was not. This negative definition of white bourgeois society was given by racial and economic stereotypes of the ‘Other’ in America –African Americans and Native American Indians. He describes the portrayal of black Americans in popular theatrical minstrelsy as lazy, slow-witted, vain, jocular, sexually uninhibited and prone to dancing and singing. Native American Indians were portrayed as savages, slow-witted, requiring religious salvation and incorporation into the American labour force. By contrast therefore, bourgeois society was none of these things, the idealised self of was epitomised by the popular contemporary notion of Character: “a kind of moral toughness and integrity, could be “strengthened” through hard work, self-sacrifice, religious observance, adherence to strict moral laws, the postponement of gratification, frugality, the rejection of overweening pride and self-congratulation” (p64).

These ideals seem curiously naïve and dated in our secular, consumer-oriented, celebrity-loving society. Cushman claims that around the turn of the century, Victorian ‘character’ as a desirable self was replaced by ‘Personality’, “to be attractive to others, to stand out in a crowd… Personality was cultivated... could be ‘built’.” Grooming, charm, poise and health were important qualities, learned during leisure time and linked to consumption of consumer goods. Pick up any magazine or newspaper, look through the bestselling lifestyle books, examine what shows populate the TV listings, and it’s evident that these are the qualities we seek and which are promoted to us. Bestseller Bridget Jones’ Diary is a perfect example of a modern day woman seeking our contemporary ideal self.

And yet, the notion of ‘Character’ doesn’t seem to have died out completely. Given Cushman’s thesis, it’s no surprise really that the Ingalls family from the Little House on the Prairie books set in late 19th century America epitomise Character in the sense he describes. They are law abiding, religious, intelligent, hard-working, modest and reserved. Interestingly, the portrayal of Native American Indians and black-American minstrelsy in these books tie in exactly with the racial stereotypes of the time described by Cushman. Cushman also describes a contemporary romanticised ‘frontier myth’, of bringing bourgeois values to the wilderness and taming the savages, along the exact themes of these popular childrens’ tales. Interestingly, although set in late 19th century America, these books were not published until the 1930’s, but it could be argued their appeal stems from nostalgia, a kind of origin myth. Back in Victorian England, Frances Hodgson Burnett’s characters Mary Lennox (The Secret Garden) and Sara Crewe (A Little Princess) describe children of Character; unattractive ‘sickly’ girls, unpopular with their peers and seniors, who triumph through adversity through their intelligence, modesty, morality and lack of hysteria. These books positively drip with character building and improving advice for young readers; in accordance with Cushman’s thesis the popularity of these books reflects a desire to mould young minds into this idealised, bourgeois, Victorian self.

What is interesting is that these themes continued to exist in children’s literature far beyond the Victorian era, and are prevalent even today. Published in 1938, T. H. White's The Sword in the Stone describes the story of the (illegitimate, unpopular, unwealthy, unattractive, but modest, kind and hard-working) young Wart and his education under Merlyn, and his improbable accession to the rightful King of Britain. Once again, however, this book’s popularity could be attributed to nostalgia or a kind of nationalistic origin myth for Brits. However, this cannot account for the popularity of contemporary children’s books such as Michelle Magorian's Goodnight Mr Tom which have strikingly similar themes, concerning children of good and kind character triumphing over adversity. These children do not triumph because they are attractive, popular, wealthy; they triumph despite the fact they are not. Harry Potter is not portrayed as attractive or popular, or even especially talented, but as a child who exemplifies modesty, perseverance, and upstanding, self-sacrificing moral conduct.

Despite the fact we live in an age where bourgeois society aspires to Personality, and Character seems an outdated, untenable, childish notion, these books sell. What is interesting is that they are directed towards children, they are torn apart by the press, and adults confess only in whispers to enjoying them. But for many adult readers (myself included) there is something deliciously appealing about these books. Their straightforward morality, their promise of reward in return for hard work, the triumph of characters who fail in the modern world’s personality stakes. The fact their subjects lack Personality is central to their personal success, and arguably to the popularity of the books themselves. And yet, in our real world lives no adult would confess that they aspire to be a Sara Crewe or a Harry Potters (whereas plenty vocally aspire to be a Carrie or a Samantha, or empathise with Bridget Jones). Why do these themes continue to dominate children’s literature, and why do adults enjoy such a love-hate relationship with them?

Perhaps the literary myths surrounding Character can help one psychologically deal with the trials of the childhood, with unpopularity, loneliness and bullying, but it won’t land you a date or a well-paid job. The myth of Character has died out in adult bourgeois society, replaced by the myth of Personality promoting status, wealth and attractiveness. Cushman claims that the popularity of 19th century Minstrelsy and frontier living arose precisely because they enabled the bourgeoisie to step out of Character, as it were, and assumed identities and lifestyles which were repressed by contemporary society. The blacked up Minstrel could legitimately sing and dance and joke, and his audience could vicariously, because they were acting in the knowledge that this behaviour was of the ‘Other’ not of themselves. Americans (such as the Ingalls family) could partially escape the claustrophobia of bourgeois city living and enjoy the wilderness inhabited by ‘savages’, away from prying neighbours and social structures such as schools, churches and the press. In today’s world I admit only in a whisper to loving Harry Potter because it forms part of an anachronistic and derided ‘Other’, that which ‘modern’ society denies as a valid self. In Harry Potter modern relativism, liberalism and intellectual sophistication give way to this ‘Other’. Only in fiction can we enjoy vicariously this embarrassingly unsophisticated, unsecular, pre-modern moral and social code. We don’t believe in Character any more, but how we want to.