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Keywords for Travel Writing Studies: A Critical Glossary [Annotated]
 1783089229, 9781783089222

Table of contents :
01.0_pp_i_iv_Frontmatter
02.0_pp_v_x_Contents
03.0_pp_xi_xvi_Notes_on_Contributors
04.0_pp_xvii_xxvi_Introduction
05.0_pp_1_3_Abroad
06.0_pp_4_6_Adventure
07.0_pp_7_9_Aesthetic
08.0_pp_10_12_Affect
09.0_pp_13_15_Anthropology
10.0_pp_16_18_Arrival
11.0_pp_19_21_Beaten_Track
12.0_pp_22_24_Body
13.0_pp_25_27_Border
14.0_pp_28_30_Boredom
15.0_pp_31_33_Breakdown
16.0_pp_34_36_Cartography
17.0_pp_37_39_City
18.0_pp_40_42_Class
19.0_pp_43_44_Clothing
20.0_pp_45_47_Coevalness
21.0_pp_48_50_Colonialism
22.0_pp_51_53_Companion
23.0_pp_54_56_Contact_Zone
24.0_pp_57_59_Counterpoint
25.0_pp_60_62_Curiosity
26.0_pp_63_65_Dark_Tourism
27.0_pp_66_68_Death
28.0_pp_69_71_Diaspora
29.0_pp_72_74_Disability
30.0_pp_75_77_Domestic_Ritual
31.0_pp_78_80_End-of-Travel
32.0_pp_81_83_Ethics
33.0_pp_84_86_Ethnicity
34.0_pp_87_89_Exotic
35.0_pp_90_92_Extreme_Travel
36.0_pp_93_95_Fiction
37.0_pp_96_98_Form
38.0_pp_99_101_Gender
39.0_pp_102_104_Genre
40.0_pp_105_107_Ghosts
41.0_pp_108_110_Grand_Tour
42.0_pp_111_113_Hearing
43.0_pp_114_116_History
44.0_pp_117_118_Home
45.0_pp_119_121_Home_Tour
46.0_pp_122_124_Humour
47.0_pp_125_126_Identity
48.0_pp_127_129_Illustration
49.0_pp_130_132_Intermediaries
50.0_pp_133_135_Intertextuality
51.0_pp_136_138_Islands
52.0_pp_139_141_Local_Colour
53.0_pp_142_144_Margins
54.0_pp_145_147_Memory
55.0_pp_148_150_Migration
56.0_pp_151_153_Minority
57.0_pp_154_156_Mobility
58.0_pp_157_159_Monarch-of-All-I-Survey
59.0_pp_160_162_Money
60.0_pp_163_165_Motivation
61.0_pp_166_168_Nation
62.0_pp_169_171_Nature
63.0_pp_172_174_Nomadism
64.0_pp_175_177_Orientalism
65.0_pp_178_180_Pedestrianism
66.0_pp_181_183_Persona
67.0_pp_184_186_Picturesque
68.0_pp_187_189_Pilgrimage
69.0_pp_190_192_Place
70.0_pp_193_195_Poetics
71.0_pp_196_198_Politics
72.0_pp_199_201_Polygraphy
73.0_pp_202_204_Primitivism
74.0_pp_205_207_Psychoanalysis
75.0_pp_208_210_Psychogeography
76.0_pp_211_213_Reading
77.0_pp_214_216_Science
78.0_pp_217_219_Self
79.0_pp_220_222_Semiotics
80.0_pp_223_225_SexSexuality
81.0_pp_226_228_Skin
82.0_pp_229_231_Slowness
83.0_pp_232_234_Smell
84.0_pp_235_237_Solitude
85.0_pp_238_240_Subjectivity
86.0_pp_241_243_Sublime
87.0_pp_244_246_Taste
88.0_pp_247_249_Technology
89.0_pp_250_252_Time
90.0_pp_253_255_Tourism
91.0_pp_256_258_Trade
92.0_pp_259_261_Translation
93.0_pp_262_264_Transport
94.0_pp_265_267_Travel
95.0_pp_268_270_TravellerTravellee
96.0_pp_271_273_Utopia
97.0_pp_274_276_Velocity
98.0_pp_277_279_Vertical_Travel
99.0_pp_280_282_Virtual_Travel
100.0_pp_283_285_Vision
101.0_pp_286_288_War
102.0_pp_289_291_Water
103.0_pp_292_294_Wonder
104.0_pp_295_298_World
105.0_pp_299_347_Bibliography

Citation preview

Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Anthem Studies in Travel Anthem Studies in Travel publishes new and pioneering work in the burgeoning field of travel studies. Titles in this series engage with questions of travel, travel writing, literature and history, and encompass some of the most exciting current scholarship in a variety of disciplines. Proposals for monographs and collections of essays may focus on research representing a broad range of geographical zones and historical contexts. All critical approaches are welcome, although a key feature of books published in the series will be their potential interest to a wide readership, as well as their originality and potential to break new ground in research.

Series Editor

Charles Forsdick –​University of Liverpool, UK

Editorial Board

Mary Baine Campbell –​Brandeis University, USA Steve Clark –​University of Tokyo, Japan Claire Lindsay –​University College London, UK Loredana Polezzi –​Cardiff University, UK Paul Smethurst –​University of Hong Kong, China

Keywords for Travel Writing Studies A Critical Glossary

Edited by Charles Forsdick, Zoë Kinsley and Kathryn Walchester

Anthem Press An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company www.anthempress.com This edition first published in UK and USA 2019 by ANTHEM PRESS 75–​76 Blackfriars Road, London SE1 8HA, UK or PO Box 9779, London SW19 7ZG, UK and 244 Madison Ave #116, New York, NY 10016, USA © 2019 Charles Forsdick, Zoë Kinsley and Kathryn Walchester editorial matter and selection; individual chapters © individual contributors The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN-​13: 978-​1-​78308-​922-​2  (Hbk) ISBN-​10: 1-​78308-​922-​9  (Hbk) This title is also available as an e-​book.

CONTENTS

Notes on Contributors  Introduction  1. Abroad 

xi xvii 1

PAU L SM E T H U R S T

2. Adventure 

4

R IC HA R D P H I L L I P S

3. Aesthetic 

7

M A RY-​A N N C O N S TA N T I N E

4. Affect 

10

J OA N NA   P R IC E

5. Anthropology 

13

A E D Í N N Í L O I N G SIG H

6. Arrival 

16

S T EV E   C L A R K

7. Beaten Track 

19

SHA R O N   O U D I T T

8. Body 

22

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

9. Border 

25

T I M   YO U N G S

10. Boredom 

28

JOE MORAN

11. Breakdown 

31

R IC HA R D P H I L L I P S

12. Cartography  C L A I R E L I N D S AY

34

vi  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

13. City 

37

GÁBOR GELLÉRI

14. Class 

40

KAT H RY N WA L C H E S T E R

15. Clothing 

43

DÚNLAITH BIRD

16. Coevalness 

45

A E D Í N N Í L O I N G SIG H

17. Colonialism 

48

A L E X D R AC E -​F R A N C I S

18. Companion 

51

A L A SDA I R P E T T I N G E R

19. Contact Zone 

54

C L A I R E L I N D S AY

20. Counterpoint 

57

SIO B HÁ N SH I LT O N

21. Curiosity 

60

R IC HA R D P H I L L I P S

22. Dark Tourism 

63

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

23. Death 

66

A . V.   SE AT O N

24. Diaspora 

69

SH I N E   C HO I

25. Disability 

72

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

26. Domestic Ritual 

75

B E T T Y HAG G LU N D

27. End-​of-​Travel 

78

RU N E G R AU LU N D

28. Ethics 

81

C O R I N N E   F OW L E R

29. Ethnicity 

84

A E D Í N N Í L O I N G SIG H

30. Exotic 

87

V L A D I M I R   KA P O R

31. Extreme Travel  R O B E RT BU R R O U G H S

90

Contents vii

32. Fiction 

93

SCOT T CARPENTER

33. Form 

96

A L E X D R AC E -​F R A N C I S

34. Gender 

99

DÚNLAITH BIRD

35. Genre 

102

S TAC Y   BU RT O N

36. Ghosts 

105

A . V.   SE AT O N

37. Grand Tour 

108

A . V.   SE AT O N

38. Hearing 

111

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

39. History 

114

KAT H RY N WA L C H E S T E R

40. Home 

117

RU N E G R AU LU N D

41. Home Tour 

119

Z O Ë K I N SL EY

42. Humour 

122

SCOT T CARPENTER

43. Identity 

125

A L E X D R AC E -​F R A N C I S

44. Illustration 

127

KAT H RY N WA L C H E S T E R

45. Intermediaries 

130

ÁNGEL TUNINET TI

46. Intertextuality 

133

B E T T Y HAG G LU N D

47. Islands 

136

J O HA N N E S R IQ U E T

48. Local Colour 

139

V L A D I M I R   KA P O R

49. Margins 

142

Z O Ë K I N SL EY

50. Memory  R O B E RT BU R R O U G H S

145

viii  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

51. Migration 

148

A E D Í N N Í L O I N G SIG H

52. Minority 

151

H E AT H E R W I L L IA M S

53. Mobility 

154

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

54. Monarch-​of-​All-​I-​Survey 

157

C L A I R E L I N D S AY

55. Money 

160

A L A SDA I R P E T T I N G E R

56. Motivation 

163

KAT H RY N WA L C H E S T E R

57. Nation 

166

S T EV E   C L A R K

58. Nature 

169

C AT H E R I N E A R M S T R O N G

59. Nomadism 

172

C L A I R E L I N D S AY

60. Orientalism 

175

J U L IA   K U E H N

61. Pedestrianism 

178

A L A SDA I R P E T T I N G E R

62. Persona 

181

A L E X D R AC E -​F R A N C I S

63. Picturesque 

184

Z O Ë K I N SL EY

64. Pilgrimage 

187

M A RY BA I N E C A M P B E L L

65. Place 

190

RU N E G R AU LU N D

66. Poetics 

193

J U L IA   K U E H N

67. Politics 

196

PAU L SM E T H U R S T

68. Polygraphy 

199

E I M E A R K E N N E DY

69. Primitivism  A E D Í N N Í L O I N G SIG H

202

Contents ix

70. Psychoanalysis 

205

R O B E RT BU R R O U G H S

71. Psychogeography 

208

A L A SDA I R P E T T I N G E R

72. Reading 

211

C AT H E R I N E A R M S T R O N G

73. Science 

214

M A RY   O R R

74. Self 

217

S TAC Y   BU RT O N

75. Semiotics 

220

DAV I D   S C O T T

76. Sex/​Sexuality 

223

DAV I D   S C O T T

77. Skin 

226

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

78. Slowness 

229

SHA R O N   O U D I T T

79. Smell 

232

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

80. Solitude 

235

JOE MORAN

81. Subjectivity 

238

J OA N NA   P R IC E

82. Sublime 

241

SHA R O N   O U D I T T

83. Taste 

244

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

84. Technology 

247

G A RY   T O T T E N

85. Time 

250

JAC Q U E L I N E   D U T T O N

86. Tourism 

253

Z O Ë K I N SL EY

87. Trade 

256

G U I D O VA N M E E R SB E R G E N

88. Translation  A E D Í N N Í L O I N G SIG H

259

x  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

89. Transport 

262

G A RY   T O T T E N

90. Travel 

265

C HA R L E S F O R SD IC K

91. Traveller/​Travellee 

268

PAU L SM E T H U R S T

92. Utopia 

271

JAC Q U E L I N E   D U T T O N

93. Velocity 

274

G A RY   T O T T E N

94. Vertical Travel 

277

A L A SDA I R P E T T I N G E R

95. Virtual Travel 

280

MARGARET TOPPING

96. Vision 

283

MARGARET TOPPING

97. War 

286

C O R I N N E   F OW L E R

98. Water 

289

C A R L T HOM P S O N

99. Wonder 

292

M A RY BA I N E C A M P B E L L

100. World 

295

C AT H E R I N E A R M S T R O N G

Bibliography 

299

CONTRIBUTORS

Catherine Armstrong is senior lecturer in modern history at Loughborough University. She has published two monographs on travel narratives concerning colonial North America: Writing North America in the Seventeenth Century (2007) and Landscape and Identity in North America’s Southern Colonies (2013). Dúnlaith Bird is a senior lecturer in English at the Université Paris 13. She has publi­ shed on travel writing, gender identity and vagabondage in her monographTravelling in Different Skins: Gender Identity in European Women’s Travelogues, 1850–​1950 (2012), and in The Routledge Companion to Travel Writing (2015), Exiles, Travellers, and Vagabonds (2016) and Itinéraires (2018) among others. Robert Burroughs is a reader and head of English in the School of Cultural Studies and Humanities at Leeds Beckett University. His publications include Travel Writing and Atrocities (2011), The Suppression of the Atlantic Slave Trade (co-​edited with Richard Huzzey, 2015) and African Testimony in the Movement for Congo Reform (2018). Stacy Burton is professor of English and vice provost, emerita, at the University of Nevada, Reno. Her scholarly publications include Travel Narrative and the Ends of Modernity (2013) and articles in Modern Language Quarterly, Modern Philology, Comparative Literature, Genre and other venues. Mary Baine Campbell is a poet and literary historian, Professor Emerita at Brandeis University and 2019 Kennedy Professor of Renaissance Literature at Smith College. She has published two histories of travel writing in relation to the histories of fiction and the sciences: The Witness and the Other World and Wonder and Science. Scott Carpenter teaches literature and creative writing at Carleton College. His books include Acts of Fiction, Reading Lessons, The Aesthetics of Fraudulence in Nineteenth-​ Century France, Theory of Remainders: A Novel and This Jealous Earth: Stories. His travel writing has appeared in such publications as The Rumpus, Lowestoft Chronicle and Silk Road.

xii  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Shine Choi is a member of the Politics and IR faculty at Massey University School of People, Environment and Planning. Her publications include Re-​imagining North Korea in International Politics: Problems and Alternatives (2015) and journal articles and book chapters on love, the colour grey, conflict and aesthetics. Steve Clark is visiting professor at the Graduate School of Humanities and Sociology, University of Tokyo. Previous publications include Travel Writing and Empire (editor, 1999) and Asian Crossings: Travel Writing on China, Japan and South-​East Asia (co-​ edited with Paul Smethurst, 2008). Mary-​Ann Constantine is reader at the University of Wales Centre for Advanced Welsh and Celtic Studies. She works on the literature and history of Romantic-​ period Wales and Brittany, and has a particular interest in travel writing and in the cultural politics of the 1790s. She was joint general editor of the ten-​volume series Wales and the French Revolution (2012–​15), and jointly edited with Nigel Leask Enlightenment Travel and British Identities: Thomas Pennant’s Tours in Scotland and Wales (2017). She is currently writing a monograph on the Welsh Tour: 1750–​1820. Alex Drace-​Francis is associate professor of modern European literary and cultural history at the University of Amsterdam. He has published widely on European cultural history including several volumes on east European travel writing, most recently Where to Go in Europe, edited with Wendy Bracewell. He has contributed chapters to the forthcoming Cambridge History of Travel Writing and the Routledge History of East-​Central Europe. Jacqueline Dutton is associate professor of French studies at the University of Melbourne. She writes mainly about French and Francophone literatures and cultures, including travel writing, world literatures, comparative utopian studies, island studies and gastronomy. Her publications include a monograph on 2008 Nobel Laureate JMG Le Clézio, Le Chercheur d’or et d’ailleurs (2003) and a co-​edited volume Wine, Terroir, Utopia: Making New Worlds (2019). Charles Forsdick is James Barrow Professor of French at the University of Liverpool, and Arts & Humanities Research Council Theme Leadership Fellow for ‘Translating Cultures’. He has published on a range of subjects, including travel writing, colonial history and postcolonial literature. He is a member of the Academy of Europe. Corinne Fowler directs the Centre for New Writing and is an associate professor of postcolonial literature at the University of Leicester, United Kingdom. Among her publications is Chasing Tales: Travel Writing, Journalism and the History of British Ideas about Afghanistan (2008) and an edited volume, Travel and Ethics: Theory and Practice (2013), with Charles Forsdick and Ludmilla Kostova. Gábor Gelléri is lecturer in French at Aberystwyth University, specializing in travel in early modern France. He is the author of Philosophies du voyage: visiter l’Angleterre

Contributors xiii aux 17e-​18e siècles (2016). He is preparing a book on eighteenth-​century educational travel programs and co-​editing a volume on travel and conflict. Rune Graulund is associate professor at the Center for American Studies at the University of Southern Denmark. He is the co-​editor of Postcolonial Travel Writing (2011) and co-​author of Mobility at Large: Globalization, Textuality and Innovative Travel Writing (2012), as well as author of a wide range of articles and chapters on travel writing in desert and polar regions. Betty Hagglund is librarian and learning resources manager at Woodbrooke Quaker Study Centre in Birmingham, England; she also supervises MPhil and PhD students within the Centre for Research in Quaker Studies. Her publications include Tourists and Travellers: Women’s Non-​fictional Writing about Scotland, 1770–​1830 (2010) and four edited volumes of nineteenth-​century women’s travel writing. Vladimir Kapor lectures in French at the University of Manchester. He has authored two monographs, Pour une poétique de l’écriture exotique (2007) and Local Colour –​ A Travelling Concept (2009), and co-​edited the travelogue Voyage à l’île de France for the new scholarly edition of Bernardin de Saint-​Pierre’s complete works. Eimear Kennedy obtained her PhD in 2017 and is currently a lecturer in Irish and Celtic studies in Queen’s University Belfast. Her current research focuses on Irish-​ language emigration and travel literature and explores issues of representation, intercultural encounter and ethics in travel writing. Zoë Kinsley is a senior lecturer in English literature at Liverpool Hope University. Her work explores the literary representation of travel, space and landscape, and she has a particular interest in British home tour travel writing of the long eighteenth century. She has written widely on these themes and is the author of Women Writing the Home Tour, 1682–​1812 (2008). Julia Kuehn is professor of English at the University of Hong Kong where she teaches courses on nineteenth-​century literature and culture. She has published on women’s popular and Empire fiction, as well as on (China-​related) travel writing, in the Victorian era and beyond. Claire Lindsay is reader in Latin American literature and culture at University College London. She is the author of Locating Latin American Women Writers (2003) and Contemporary Travel Writing of Latin America (2010), which has been translated into Spanish as Escritura contemporánea de viajes de América Latina (2016). Aedín Ní Loingsigh is a lecturer in French at the University of Stirling. As well as articles and book chapters on African travel practices, she is the author of Postcolonial Eyes: Intercontinental Travel in Francophone African Literature (2009). Her current research is focused on travel and translation in the context of the 1966 First World Festival of Negro Arts held in Dakar.

xiv  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Guido van Meersbergen is a Leverhulme Trust Early Career Fellow at the University of Warwick, where he is a member of the Global History and Culture Centre. His current projects focus on early-​modern ethnography, cross-​cultural encounters, diplomacy and the Dutch and English East India Companies in South Asia. Joe Moran is professor of English and cultural history at Liverpool John Moores University. His books include On Roads: A Hidden History (2009), Armchair Nation: An Intimate History of Britain in Front of the TV (2013) and Shrinking Violets: A Field Guide to Shyness (2016). Mary Orr is Buchanan Chair of French at the University of St Andrews. Her research on intertextuality, the French novel and literatures of nineteenth-​century French science are encapsulated in Flaubert’s Tentation: Remapping Nineteenth-​ Century History of Religion and Science (2008). She is currently preparing the first study of the scientific traveler Sarah Bowdich (1791–​1856). Sharon Ouditt is head of English at Nottingham Trent University. She has written extensively on World War I, but more recently has published Impressions of Southern Italy: British Travel Writing from Henry Swinburne to Norman Douglas (2014). She is presently working on an edition of Evelyn Waugh’s Labels for Oxford University Press. Alasdair Pettinger is an independent scholar based in Glasgow, Scotland. He has published on travel literature, the cultures of slavery and abolitionism, and representations of Haiti. His books include the anthology Always Elsewhere (1998) and Frederick Douglass and Scotland, 1846 (2018). Richard Phillips is the author and editor of a number of books in cultural geography and cultural history. These include Mapping Men and Empire: A Geography of Adventure (1997), Sex, Politics and Empire (2006); Muslim Spaces of Hope: Geographies of Possibility in Britain and the West (2008); Liverpool ‘81: Remembering the Riots (2011) and Fieldwork for Human Geography (2012). He is professor of human geography at the University of Sheffield. Joanna Price lectures in English and American literature at Liverpool John Moores University. She has written about trauma, memory and mourning, for instance, in fiction about the war in Vietnam and in travel writing. She is currently exploring these topics in the context of the literature and culture of Antarctica. Johannes Riquet is associate professor of English literature at the University of Tampere. He is the author of The Aesthetics of Island Space: Perception, Ideology, Geopoetics (2019). He co-​founded the international Island Poetics project, and is on the editorial board of the Island Studies Journal. David Scott is emeritus professor of French (textual and visual studies) at Trinity College Dublin. His research focuses on travel writing, poetry and the visual arts,

Contributors xv graphic design and boxing. His creative writing includes a Utopian fiction (Dynamo Island, 2015), short stories (Cut Up on Copacabana, 2018) and poetry. A. V. Seaton is MacAnally Professor of Travel History and Tourism Behavior at the University of Limerick. He has taught and published widely for over 30  years on travel history, literary tourism, heritage and thanatourism. His recent research has been in the iconography and representation of travel in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Siobhán Shilton is reader in French studies and the visual arts at the University of Bristol. She has written about contemporary art and literature exploring cultural encounters between France and the Maghreb, sub-​Saharan Africa and Vietnam, and is currently working on art and the ‘Arab Spring’. Her most recent book is Transcultural Encounters: Gender and Genre in Franco-​Maghrebi Art (2013). Paul Smethurst recently retired from the University of Hong Kong where he taught travel writing, theory and contemporary fiction. His books include The Postmodern Chronotope (2000), Travel Writing and the Natural World (2012) and The Bicycle: Towards a Global History (2015), and he recently co-​edited New Directions in Travel Writing Studies (2015), with Julia Kuehn. He is currently completing a book on the ecocritical imagination in nature writing. He divides his time between Dorset and Bali, working with the environmental charity, Common Ground and growing orchids. Carl Thompson is reader in English literature at the University of Surrey. His publications include (as author) The Suffering Traveller and the Romantic Imagination (2007) and Travel Writing (2011); and (as editor) The Routledge Companion to Travel Writing (2016), Romantic-​Era Shipwreck Narratives (2007) and Shipwreck in Art and Literature: Images and Interpretations from Antiquity to the Present Day (2013). Margaret Topping is professor of French literary and visual cultures at Queen’s University Belfast. Her research trajectory has developed from an early disciplinary focus on one of France’s canonical writers, Marcel Proust, to a firmly interdisciplinary approach to debates linked to travel, tourism and migration, and to the ethics and aesthetics of cross-​cultural representation. Particular focal points are the ethical role and responsibilities of public spaces such as museums and archives in negotiating diversity, as well as the possibilities for creating enhanced connectivity, cohesion and social well-​being in postconflict or postcolonial societies through community-​based initiatives such as cultural festivals or urban art projects. Gary Totten is professor and chair of the Department of English at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, and editor of the journal MELUS: Multi-​Ethnic Literature of the United States. His most recent book is African American Travel Narratives from Abroad: Mobility and Cultural Work in the Age of Jim Crow (2015). Ángel Tuninetti is a native of Argentina. He obtained his PhD at Washington University in St. Louis, and currently teaches Latin American literature at West

xvi  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Virginia University (United States). His main area of research is travel literature to and from Latin America, especially the Southern Cone region. Kathryn Walchester is senior lecturer at Liverpool John Moores University. Her work focuses on women’s travel in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, northern travel and mountaineering. Her publications include ‘Our Own Fair Italy’; Nineteenth-​Century Women’s Travel Writing and Italy 1800–​1844 (2007), Gamle Norge and Nineteenth-​Century British Women Travellers and Norway (2014) and Servants and the British Travelogue 1750–​1837 (forthcoming). Heather Williams was Co-​I on the AHRC-​funded ‘European Travellers to Wales 1750–​2910’ project and is a research fellow at the University of Wales Centre for Advanced Welsh and Celtic Studies at Aberystwyth. She specializes in French studies and Celtic studies and has published Postcolonial Brittany (2007) and Mallarmé’s Ideas in Language (2004). Tim Youngs is professor of English and travel studies at Nottingham Trent University. He is founding editor of the journal Studies in Travel Writing (1997–​present) and the author or editor of several books on travel writing, including The Cambridge Introduction to Travel Writing (2013).

INTRODUCTION

Keywords for Travel Writing Studies: A Critical Glossary is a collaborative and cross-​ disciplinary response to what might be described as the ‘mobility turn’ in the Arts and Humanities (Greenblatt 2010), as well as in the social sciences more generally (Sheller 2011). In recent decades, the study of travel has become increasingly recognized as a serious area of enquiry; the study of travel writing itself, while still relatively young, is also now fully acknowledged as a multidisciplinary critical practice in its own right. This volume suggests that embracing the concept of the keyword is a way of federating the diverse areas that the study of travel writing encompasses, providing a common lexicon while at the same time inviting a differential approach to the ways in which particular terms are variously deployed. When Raymond Williams first published his seminal work Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society in 1976, he stressed that it was ‘not a dictionary or glossary of a particular academic subject’. Instead, he described the intention to create ‘the record of an inquiry into a vocabulary: a shared body of words and meanings in our most general discussions, in English, of the practices and institutions which we group as culture and society’ (Williams 1988 [1976], 15; emphases in the original). We have approached our own keywords project in very much the same way. Now that travel writing studies has reached a certain stage of disciplinary maturity, it seemed timely to reflect on the shared critical vocabulary that has emerged and is being used, adapted and reconsidered across a number of disciplines. Rather than ‘defining’ terms in any straightforward sense, what we and our contributors hope to do is to foster thoughtful consideration of the language and terminology we use collectively and in a variety of different contexts to express our ideas about the ways in which travellers write about their journeys. We consider travel writing in its widest senses to designate the textual recording of a variety of practices of mobility, spontaneously in the field or retrospectively on the traveller’s return, and as a form that lays bare the ways in which culture and cultural identities are fundamentally constituted by mobility (Clifford 1986, 96). In doing so, we hope to offer a snapshot of the critical and theoretical landscapes of our field of enquiry, tracing the origins of the vocabulary and concepts that have emerged as key and recurrent ones for travel writing studies, and –​acknowledging that keywords are constantly changing –​indicating emerging and possible directions for future work. We have found that ours is an area of enquiry that has been particularly influenced by developments in fields such as disability studies and postcolonialism. For example,

xviii  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies revising their influential Post-​colonial Studies: The Key Concepts for the third edition, Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths and Helen Tiffin (2013, viii) identified the increasing significance of ‘borders and borderlands’ in the negotiation of, and battle for, cultural identity, and it is evident that travel writing studies is a field which bears witness to such a development. At the same time as finding synergies with these current schools of thought, we also look to make connections back to Williams’s (1988, 23) original proposals about language, seeking to identify clusters of keywords for travel, and in so doing ‘reassert the facts of connection and interaction from which this whole inquiry began’ and ‘make possible the sense of an extended and intricate vocabulary, within which both the variable words and their varied and variable interrelations are in practice active’. As Noel Salazar and Kiran Jayaram (2016, 4–​7) have pointed out, Williams’s work has left a significant legacy, and his project is increasingly being revised and continued as he hoped it would. These ongoing enquiries are in evidence, for example, through the Keywords project run by the Universities of Cambridge and Pittsburgh, and in the work of the Raymond Williams Society. And in 2005 Tony Bennett, Lawrence Grossberg and Meaghan Morris edited New Keywords, a revision of Williams’s work, in an attempt to reflect changes that had occurred in the vocabulary of culture and society in the years since Williams’s original study was published. We are also conscious that this book follows the publication of a number of recent works which apply Williams’s critical and conceptual framework to particular areas of literary and cultural study. Some of those texts, such as the ‘Keywords’ volumes published by Wiley Blackwell, focus on particular historical periods, revealing the at times radical ways in which the usage and meaning of particular terms can be transformed under the pressure and influence of particular political, social and economic conditions. Introducing Romanticism: Keywords, for example, Frederick Burwick (2015, ix) identifies the Romantic period as one in which ‘literary terms and concepts that had been in use since classical times, or had emerged in the Renaissance, took on new meanings and significance, and newer terms were introduced’. Other volumes, such as those in the series published by New York University Press, emerge from research and debates within specific disciplines, yet also, as the editors of Keywords for Disability Studies point out, seek to influence and engage ideas beyond their own field (Adams et al. 2015, 4). There are additional collections such as with Other Press, which includes titles on ‘experience’ (Tazi 2004a), ‘gender’ (Tazi 2004b), ‘identity’ (Tazi 2004c) and ‘truth’ (Tazi 2004d) that seek to explore these keywords from a range of different cultural perspectives. Keywords of Mobility: Critical Engagements makes a specific and important contribution to discussions about the language and paradigms used for discussing travel and movement, primarily through an anthropological lens. By placing welcome emphasis on ‘motility’ –​one of the nine keywords covered in the collection –​the authors highlight the significance of an individual’s potential to travel, their ‘agency to be mobile and to choose whether to move or to stay put’ (Salazar and Jayaram 2016, 6). The volume challenges the straightforward association of mobility with positive values related to improvement and ‘access to capital’, arguing that ‘the movement of people and the various translocal connections may, and often do, create or reinforce difference and inequality, as well as blending or erasing such differences’ (2). Keywords

Introduction xix of Mobility is deliberately focused upon a small number of ‘general’ terms, whereas our project in some ways operates very differently, tackling a much larger group of ‘keywords’ ranging from the general –​‘class’, ‘history’, ‘politics’ and of course ‘travel’ itself –​to more specific terms that carry very particular meanings for the albeit interdisciplinary field of travel writing studies. And yet there are ways in which our efforts here share the aims and objectives of Noel Salazar and Kiran Jayaram. Like them, we have been heavily influenced by –​and seek to engage actively with –​the ‘mobility turn’ in social theory and beyond; and just as they challenge the assumption that all mobility demonstrates positive, upward movement in social and economic terms, by including terms such as ‘exile’, ‘death’ and indeed ‘mobility’ within our own corpus, we have intended to develop the work of others in the field of travel writing studies who emphasize that not all who travel do so by choice, or for reasons that have anything to do with pleasure and leisure. Like Keywords of Mobility and Keywords for Disability Studies, we ask what it actually means to be ‘mobile’ –​and in particular to record textually the experience of mobility. Keywords relevant to travel are not particularly prevalent in Williams’s original Keywords; the greater prominence of the language of travel and movement in the later New Keywords volume draws attention to the increasing significance of mobility in contemporary cultural and academic discourse. For example, terms included in New Keywords which relate explicitly to travel are ‘diaspora,’ ‘tourism’, ‘globalization’ and ‘space’. However, there are linguistic and cognitive rhythms and echoes which connect our work to that of Williams, as well as to the more recent New Keywords volume. Williams (1988, 173) devoted an entry to ‘isms’, the uses of which include the formation of nouns identifying the ‘actions and beliefs characteristic of some group […] or tendency […] or school’, and it was necessary to include a number of such terms in our own work (‘colonialism’, ‘tourism’, ‘orientalism’, ‘nomadism’, ‘primitivism’, ‘pedestrianism’). There are also precise, travel-​related terms included here, which were chosen by Williams for his original consideration of the keywords for understanding culture and society. ‘Class’, ‘history’ and ‘science’, for example, are present in Keywords, in New Keywords and in our own volume. And beyond those direct resonances, there are threads of meaning and significance which have been important for those studying travel writing, just as they were for Williams, although they might now be framed in slightly different ways. For example, Williams wrote on ‘capitalism’ and ‘wealth’, and we have included entries on ‘money’ and ‘trade’; one of Williams’s keywords was ‘ecology’, and after much discussion we decided to explore critical ideas about travellers’ representation of the natural landscape and environmental concerns –​with a nod towards the increasingly evident intersections between travel writing and nature writing –​under the heading ‘nature’. Taken as a set of keywords, we hope that the group of 100 terms we present recognizes the disciplinary stability that has emerged in the study of travel writing, while at the same time avoiding any sense of ossification. Like Williams (1988, 27), we acknowledge the ‘necessarily unfinished and incomplete’ nature of this endeavour; we share his desire to initiate a living project that prompts further analysis and discussion and hope this ‘inquiry remains open’ as his has (26). The glossary encompasses three interlacing chronologies: with Williams’s insistence on the significance of semantic history in mind, the first addresses the

xx  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies discussion of etymology in each entry. As Williams (1976, 17) asserts, the ‘history and complexity of meanings […] are masked by a nominal continuity so that words which seem to have been there for centuries, with continuous general meanings, have come in fact to express radically different or radically variable, yet sometimes hardly noticed, meanings and implications of meaning’. Entries seek to include reference to such changing patterns of use and meaning, making visible the relationship of each term to travel and travel writing. Some of the terms encapsulate a rich history of shifts and manoeuvres in meaning. The entry on ‘travel’ is indicative in this regard. As Charles Forsdick shows in his discussion of ‘travel’, the meanings of both ‘travel’ and ‘writing’ ‘have evolved considerably, and belong to complex semantic fields’. Other entries, such as ‘contact zone’ and ‘end-​of-​travel’, pertain specifically to, and have emerged from, recent developments in travel writing studies. The second frame of reference includes the range of critical and theoretical texts from travel writing studies and its concomitant fields, such as sociology, literary studies, history and geography, to which the authors of the entries make frequent reference, and which largely come from scholarly developments in the past 30 years. The third and final chronological frame arises from the focus on the critical and theoretical texts mentioned above, but also in the examples of illustrative texts alluded to in the entries. This range of primary texts has a much wider temporal frame than the first, deliberately echoing the interests of each author and illustrating the enormous variety and scope of travel writing. As Carl Thompson (2011, 34)  notes, ‘[T]‌ravel writing has a long history, stretching back into antiquity’, and, ‘if we expand our definition of the genre to include tales of travel passed on by word of mouth, it doubtless extends into prehistory’. The scope of the primary texts addressed in Keywords for Travel Writing Studies complements such historical depth by including recent trajectories in contemporary travel. Alasdair Pettinger’s entry on ‘vertical travel’, for example, addresses the phenomenon of ‘deep mapping’ and the detailed description of Italian cities in the Contromano series. The volume also goes beyond the contemporary, anticipating travels of the future and new modes of depicting them. By way of example, Margaret Topping’s entry on ‘virtual travel’ points towards the increasing use of virtual technologies in leisure travel and describes the ‘borderlessness’ of cybertravel with the world’s first virtual tour operator, while Paul Smethurst notes the emergence of ‘multimodal’ travel writing and increased self-​reflexivity in travel writing in his entry on ‘traveller/​travellee’. The range of reference in the short essays that follow reflects the fact that studies in travel writing is a relatively young field of academic study, emerging as part of wider debates in the humanities including postcolonialism, gender studies and the ‘spatial turn’. Since scholarly interest in the area emerged in the 1980s, the focus of critical attention on travel writing has itself travelled considerably. Often challenging conventional conceptions of canonicity and tradition, early approaches addressed the generic status of travel writing and its relationship to other, more widely analysed, forms. In recent years, emphasis has been retained on the significance of theory, not least taking into account ‘complex issues of globalization, cultural hybridization and the large-​scale flow of populations both within and across national borders’ as Carl Thompson (2016a, xvi) acknowledges. Recent texts such as The Routledge Companion to Travel Writing (2016) edited by Carl Thompson and New Directions in

Introduction xxi Travel Writing Studies (2015) edited by Julia Kuehn and Paul Smethurst feature the re-​conceptualization of key concerns, including postcolonialism, gender and genre. Although travel writing studies has kept sight of its early preoccupation with genre, as Kuehn and Smethurst (2015, 2) note, the essays in their collection ‘will not explain what travel writing is, but they will reflect on where it might extend through permeable borders and margins’ (emphases in the original). A postcolonial approach is reworked, for example, by the writing of Kuehn on cosmopolitanism in Hong Kong, and in the analysis of a corpus of texts which ‘write back’, such as the work of Swaralipi Nandi (2014) on Bengali travellers and Sam Knowles (2014) in his study of the ‘transnational’ travel writer. Other recent directions include the influence of the sensory humanities; the effect of travel on bodily and sensory perception and the corporeality of mobility are explored in a range of recent publications, supplementing or challenging earlier emphases on ocularcentrism and the visual. Studies examining different modes and means of travel have drawn attention to the significance of the materialities of travel and the ways in which the paraphernalia that accompanies and permits mobility are integral to its experience in the field. Scholars continue to widen the corpus of travel writing through the recovery of forgotten texts and through projects addressing the history of the book. The typology of the traveller and travel writer has also been extended as studies address new forms of travel, and the accounts of journeys made by people who had previously been ‘excluded from the role of proper travellers because of their race and class’ are considered (Clifford 1997, 33). Recent scholarship on queer travel by Mark DeStephano and Churnjeet Mahn has drawn attention to the extent of heteronormativity in travel and travel writing and the sexual identity of the traveller (DeStephano 2015; Mahn 2016). Contributions from cognate disciplines have also revealed valuable insights and new directions. Anthropologists Noel Salazar and Nelson H.  H. Graburn draw attention to the nexus of social practices which coalesce to construct objects of tourism in their Tourism Imaginaries: Anthropological Approaches (2014), while Professor of Latin American culture Ilan Stavans and writer on Jewish culture Joshua Ellison (2015) argue that journeys and their purpose need to be reimagined as searches for meaning in a global context. As suggested above, eco-​criticism and the new nature writing have formed important additions to the range of approaches for scholars of travel writing, alongside those considering ideas of vertical travel, microspection and ‘place’. Despite such articulations of new critical and theoretical approaches, including accounts of innovative practices of recording travel, many recent publications have continued to rely on historical and geographical emphases. The distinctiveness of the keywords approach is that it permits travel writing studies to be considered thematically, cutting across boundaries of time and space and enabling new intersections to be made. Such intersections are central to another new development in studies of travel writing, a shift from a traditional comparatism that juxtaposes national and linguistic traditions relating to the production and consumption of the travelogue towards an actively transnational approach that acknowledges the cross-​cultural entanglements that the form encapsulates. The study of travel writing –​which, like other strands of literary analysis, has developed along cultural, linguistic and even national lines –​reflects such complexities and reveals the limitations and blind spots

xxii  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies of any approach that pretends to universality: in its Anglophone manifestations, for instance, postcolonial studies has had a major influence on the field, whereas French-​ language scholarship has often focused more on questions of genre and imagology (Forsdick 2005a). Published in English and locating itself within a primarily English-​ language tradition, the current volume is characterized by an Anglocentrism and even Anglonormativity that we acknowledge. As editors, we assume the collection will be used primarily (but certainly not exclusively) by students and scholars with an interest in Anglophone travelogues. By actively including entries by specialists of travel writing in languages other than English, and by ensuring that our contributors extend where possible their range of reference in primary and secondary literature beyond the Anglosphere, we have sought nevertheless to pay attention to questions of transnationalism and multilingualism. This approach is associated with an attempt to underline elements intrinsic to the subject matter in question as well as being based on grounds of analytical method: travel writing often captures experiences that are inherently cross-​cultural and multilingual, despite the tendency of some travel writers to downplay the overtly translational elements of their practices in the field and on the page (Cronin 2000). We would argue that these aspects inherent in the very generic make-​up of travel writing require reading practices that are open to multiple perspectives, in particular those of places visited; acknowledge that journeys often occur in ‘contact zones’ (Pratt 1992) or ‘translation zones’ (Apter 2006) where multiple cultures and languages meet; and understand that approaches to the travelogue that are linguistically insensitive fail to capture these dimensions. As Carol Gluck and Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing (2009) have recently suggested in their discussion of the possibility of a ‘global lexicon’ –​in a study of 16 different terms that have emerged in particular locations before taking on more complex transnational lives –​words themselves are often ‘in motion’, subject to processes of travel in their own right. For Raymond Williams (1988), keywords tend to travel transhistorically within a single language rather than transculturally across languages. He nevertheless called Keywords ‘a book in which the author would positively welcome amendment, correction and addition’ (26), and in that spirit accepted the limitations of his own approach in a 1977 interview with the New Left Review: ‘What would be really interesting is […] to pursue this research across languages and see whether there are, as there must be, certain shared semantic changes in certain kinds of social orders’ (2014 [1976], 177). From a contemporary perspective, we may suggest that Williams gestured here towards a convergence between his own conception of Keywords and a more recent project, Barbara Cassin’s Dictionary of Untranslatables. Although ‘travel’ does not feature in the latter, philosophical and ethical concerns central to the term feature in a number of entries, not least that on ‘autrui’ where the exploration of alter and alius leads to a reflection on questions of alterity and identity central to critical readings of the travelogue across cultures (2014, 76). We are not aware of another attempt to study the keywords relating to travel writing in another language, although a collection edited by Jérôme Godeau and Madeleine Volcouve, Les Mots du voyage (2001), offers a whimsical, essayistic alphabet book of terms relating to travel more generally, a number of which (e.g., ‘eaux’ (water), ‘Grand Tour’, ‘missionaires’ (missionaries)) match or are at least closely cognate to words we have selected. Thomas Höniger adopts a different approach and offers a wide selection of Mots du voyageur

Introduction xxiii (2013), again a number of which relate to those in the current volume, but illustrates each by a quotation drawn from travel literature. Christian Noack (2011)  –​in a volume of essays on travel beyond the Iron Curtain –​proposes a German-​language A-​to-​Z of tourist-​related  terms. Cassin’s increasingly influential work on questions of (un)translatability was anticipated by an earlier study by Anna Wierzbicka (1997) that sought to explore ways of ‘understanding cultures through their keywords’. Her argument is not only that key concepts evolve in specific cultural and linguistic niches, reflecting the concerns and priorities of the often-​national frames in which they are to be understood, but also –​ much in the unspoken logic of Williams –​that keywords can operate as a telling way into a culture for outsiders. In terms of etymology, semantic field and wider cultural or ideological resonance, the majority of the terms we have selected are, in Cassin’s terms, ‘untranslatable’, that is, not resistant to translation but containing meanings whose complexity is revealed by the unfinished, unfinishable process of their translation. ‘Travel’ does not mean the same thing as ‘voyage’, which in turn does not equate to ‘Reise’ (we could, of course, go on, beyond this predictably narrow range of languages). Had we sought to factor in the wider implications of such an apparently obvious observation, as made explicit in the work of both Wierzbicka and Cassin, this book would have been a very different one –​and we hope that the collection might trigger further reflection along these lines about a genuinely cross-​cultural, cross-​ linguistic praxis of travel writing criticism. Our aim remains the more modest one of providing a practical and at times possibly provocative selection of what we consider to be some of the shared vocabulary of studies in travel writing, with the hope that embedded in and often made explicit through the entries is an awareness of the inevitable transformations these terms undergo in their much wider existence as they are translated between languages and cultures. The limitations of the volume are linked not only to these questions of cultural specificity and the changing meanings of keywords as they cross various borders, but also to the potentially subjective and certainly selective range of terms we have limited ourselves to including. A number of recent keywords projects have deployed the techniques of digital humanities –​not least text mining to identify the frequency of use of particular terms –​to determine the concepts on which they focus. The criteria for selection in this volume have deliberately avoided any such emphasis on the scientific or the systematic. Our final list of keywords has developed over a number of years, since the conception of this collection initially emerged via an iterative process of consultation among the contributors and the wider community of travel writing scholars. Informal exchanges as well as more formal presentations at conferences and seminars have allowed us to test the range of entries in the glossary, focusing on which words should be included or excluded, but also exploring (and then determining the most appropriate keyword that encapsulates) the cognate terms that circulate around the core concepts, ideas and phenomena we have identified. There is a deliberate eclecticism to the result, with a core of our chosen terms (e.g., ‘aesthetic’, ‘colonialism’, ‘gender’, ‘sex’) belonging quite obviously to the ‘vocabulary of culture and society’ that Williams’s conception of the ‘Keyword’ implies, while others (e.g., ‘coevalness’, ‘contact zone’, ‘counterpoint’, ‘polygraphy’) are clearly more specific and specialized, often even associated with a particular critic and not as saturated in

xxiv  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies meaning as those in the former category. This juxtaposition is deliberate, bringing together the macro and the micro, that is, terms with a general resonance beyond the field of travel with those with a particular pertinence for new understandings of journey narratives. Other recent collections that have similarly associated terms encompassing these different, even divergent understandings of the keyword have ultimately distanced themselves from Williams’s example, anxious about the extent to which newly coined or emergent terms are ‘not so crucial or so established’ (Hayot and Walkowitz 2016, 5). A ‘dictionary’, ‘lexicon’ or ‘vocabulary’ is seen as an alternative, but we have retained ‘keywords’ as a result of the close attention to the shifting semantics and to the materiality of language this term allows. Throughout the production of this collection, we have anticipated the criticism that our selection might elicit: we acknowledge as a result that although certain terms we include have an indisputable place in the critical vocabulary relating to travel writing, the selection of others may be seen as more subjective. It is our contention that such issues are intrinsic to the subject matter of the volume, and that such debates about inclusion and exclusion illustrate the richness of studies in travel writing as an area of enquiry. At the same time, as was the case with Williams’s own Keywords, we accept that the final list of terms we have included provides a particular snapshot, and that the nature of a critical vocabulary is that it is subject to organic development. In the 1983 revised edition of his collection, Williams noted his ‘sense of the work as necessarily unfinished and incomplete’ –​that is, as a work of scholarship, he saw the project as much as an invitation for collaboration, extension and correction as it was a finished product in its own right. We submit the words we have selected to the same logic, aware that other editorial teams are likely to have determined alternative lists, and hope as a result that the volume will solicit discussion among readers, scholars and students about the keywords best suited not only to analysing individual travel narratives, but also to allowing dialogue across often very different texts, whether these might approach the same place but at different historical moments, or engage simultaneously with diverse locations. Such engagement will, we hope, be twofold, corrective and expansive, critiquing decisions we have made about the relative importance of terms, but also identifying others we have omitted and suggesting additional words that might extend the constellations we have designed. It is likely, at the same time, that the keywords we have proposed, and the reflections on them that our contributors have outlined, perform a particular understanding of travel writing that, with its transhistorical reach and Eurocentric points of reference, will require progressive renewal as twenty-​first-​century travel writing seeks to factor in new mobilities and open itself to new voices (Clarke 2017). Again, we would welcome extensions of the project in teaching and research that underline the extent to which this task is –​to borrow again from Williams –​‘necessarily unfinished and incomplete’. These introductory comments have already given a clear sense as to how we expect readers will use this volume: through its selection of a range of keywords, Keywords for Travel Writing Studies has no intention of trying to be exhaustive or comprehensive. The decision was taken to propose a wider range of terms to which shorter essays are devoted rather than to concentrate in more detail on a limited range of terms, as has been the case in several other collections inspired by a Keywords approach

Introduction xxv (MacCarthy 2013). The chapters in this volume are designed to be indicative rather than prescriptive; they are an invitation to further reflection in the light of the specific historical and geographical contexts of the particular travelogues those reading this book seek to study. We have asked our contributors to write in the light of their own interests and expertise instead of attempting any encyclopaedic overview. The approach and style are not, therefore, standardized, an aspect evident in methodological and theoretical assumption as well as in the eclectic body of primary texts with which entries engage. Also, in practical terms, given the various etymological and semantic points that contributors make, we have not specified the use of a particular dictionary, although the Oxford English Dictionary is inevitably a recurrent point of reference; unless otherwise stated, all translations are also the authors’ own. As a result, given their relative brevity, entries seek to be suggestive of additional avenues of enquiry, inviting the reader –​through engagement with the recommended further reading, or by reflecting comparatively on references to the primary material –​ to interrogate each keyword on their own terms, finding evidence of the observations that follow in the travelogues that interest them, or reflecting on different tendencies and traditions that might attenuate our own contributors’ reflections. Although a linear, alphabetical reading of the collection is wholly feasible, and will, given the essayistic approach of the volume, be instructive (and at times entertaining) in its own right, we anticipate a more selective use of the volume as readers will explore the terms specific to the particular travelogues they wish to understand and analyse, creating their own personal itinerary through the keywords that follow. Where appropriate, we have sought to identify resonances with or divergences from cognate and related terms in Williams or in the subsequent New Keywords volume, and some readers might wish to expand on the entries in this volume by referring to these other works. We also suggest that this book be read in conjunction with different but wholly complementary recent collections focused more on questions of keywords and critical vocabularies of mobility presented from a social science perspective. Keywords of Mobility, cited at the opening of this introduction, fulfils this role, reminding students and scholars of the advantages of understanding studies in travel writing as an inherently cross-​disciplinary field, accordingly enriching the arts and humanities with perspectives from a wider range of disciplinary area. Useful also are the two volumes edited by Mark B.  Salter (2015, 2016)  on ‘making things international’, collections with a focus on mobility and materiality that may be seen to diverge in this specific emphasis from our own more diverse range of keywords, but which nevertheless provide a telling illustration of the ways in which culture and cultural production are increasingly to be understood in terms of mobility. Essays in Salter’s collection on, for instance, ‘bodies’ and ‘currency’ resonate directly with entries in our own glossary, underlining an aspect of travel writing that also emerges from study of the keywords that follow –​an acknowledgement that the mobility of texts and ideas is associated closely with the circulation of bodies and objects. Travel writing, as it is presented in this volume, is a reminder of the centrality of movement not only to the study of literature but also to the arts and humanities more generally. As Stephen Greenblatt (2010, 250) claims in Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto, reading critically the literatures and cultures of travel is, initially at least, to explore mobility in a highly literal sense: ‘Boarding a plane, venturing on a ship, climbing onto the back of a wagon, crowding

xxvi  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies into a coach, mounting on horseback, or simply setting one foot in front of the other and walking: these are indispensable keys to understanding the fate of cultures.’ Travel writing can serve as a complex and comprehensive repository of reflections on such empirical experiences, capturing the journey with spontaneity in the field, or processing it retrospectively and at a distance on the author’s return. Reading the travelogue depends on multifaceted and cross-​disciplinary approaches, encompassing the material cultures, ideological assumptions and competing subjectivities in the light of which the traveller’s encounter with the world is constructed, but attentive also to the poetics of the travel narrative and the strategies employed by the author to transform the often-​ephemeral traces of the journey into text. The discussion of the keywords that follow will serve, we hope, as a vade mecum in this task.

1 ABROAD Paul Smethurst

The word ‘abroad’ is first recorded in English in the fourteenth century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, which states that it was originally used as an adverb to mean spread over a wide area, widely scattered, widely known or at large. Its connections with travel and travel writing are more pronounced in later denotations of outdoors, elsewhere or away from one’s home. From the sixteenth century onwards, as Britain and its neighbours engaged in voyages of exploration and the boundaries of nation states became more defined, the term would gain more specific reference to being overseas, or out of one’s country. The modern sense of ‘abroad’ as a noun that refers to the world beyond one’s own country, and thereby opposite to ‘home’ in a patriotic sense, is more commonly found after the nineteenth century. Then it begins to have connotations of the foreign, especially for British travellers, often with negative associations. As a generic site of otherness, ‘abroad’ is also used to describe a desirable, exotic site. Mark Twain’s travel book The Innocents Abroad (1869) uses ‘abroad’ in the earlier sense of being at large, in general circulation or spread out, and not as Robinson Crusoe uses it in resolving ‘not to think of going abroad any more, but to settle at home’ (Defoe 2001 [1719], 7). Although, once on his island, Crusoe uses the word in the more local sense, of ‘going abroad with my gun and my dog’, meaning outside the quasi-​home of his fortified hut (Defoe 2001 [1719], 58). The wider sense of ‘abroad’ in opposition to home and in association with foreign places had particular resonance during the colonial era, when the political and economic life of European nations was increasingly dependent on people and goods either going ‘abroad’ or coming from ‘abroad’, and thousands of diplomats and colonial administrators were also posted ‘abroad’ (Macaulay 1979 [1849]). In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, ‘abroad’ referred to a generic place for adventures, enterprise and fame (Defoe 2001 [1719], 1), and in English writing it was often a collective term to describe colonial territories overseas as a distant and shadowy topos. For example, in Dombey and Son, the name ‘Dombey’, the Major tells us, ‘is known and honoured in the British possessions abroad’, and the plot of the novel hinges on people sent ‘abroad’ and on news from ‘abroad’, although there is only the vaguest sense that this might refer to the West Indies or India (Dickens 1883, 135). Travel writers would follow Dickens in exploiting the idea of ‘abroad’ in the British psyche, already weighted with mystery and extraordinary possibilities for transformation.

2  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Since the twentieth century, ‘abroad’ has had more to do with tourism than with colonialism. In his book on literary travel writers between the wars, Paul Fussell (1980) remarks on how the idea of ‘abroad’ came to represent a place of escape and exile, especially for British writers traumatized by the horrors of World War I. The tropical motif would become a ‘compensatory principle’ to the imagination of soldiers like H. M. Tomlinson who, ‘all but frozen to death at Ypres and the Somme’, left London for the Spice Islands, later to record his experiences in his travel book Tidemarks (1924, 7). The end of the war saw previously pent-​ up literary travellers like Ernest Hemmingway, Patrick Balfour and Robert Byron suddenly released and free to explore France, Spain and countries further afield. Soon, there would be a great exodus of British and American writers whose horizons were now unrestricted, allowing them paradoxically to write from abroad while making their home there. D. H. Lawrence and Laurence Durrell would spend most of their lives abroad as exiles, partly out of necessity in Lawrence’s case. As Fussell (1980) observes, while ‘abroad’ takes on positive associations after the war, there is a corresponding repulsion towards home on the part of writers like Robert Graves, who went abroad resolving never to make England his home again. For writers like Lawrence, Durrell, Isherwood and Auden, abroad was no longer an alternative topos, only to be visited or used as the basis for imaginative exploration, but was rather the only realistic option since the war had ruined England for them and made it ‘uninhabitable’ (15). While Fussell has promoted a notion of ‘abroad’ as a site of opportunity for British writers of the 1920s and 1930s, the travel writing they produced while ‘abroad’ often displayed a sense of Anglo-​Saxon superiority. The travel writing of Evelyn Waugh, for example, has been criticized for producing racist caricatures, while reflecting on the bloated tastes and prejudices of a generation of English travellers. Worse, as Nicholas Shakespeare points out, Waugh maintained his racial and ethnic prejudices on his travels, famously remarking that ‘[w]‌hen we go abroad we take our opinions with us’ (Waugh, cited in Shakespeare 2003, xvi). Like other terms in travel writing studies, ‘abroad’ has particular Eurocentric or Anglocentric implications which are challenged in cross-​cultural and postmodern approaches where the dialectics of home and abroad are problematized. For example, in nineteenth-​century America, vast open spaces could constitute an idea of going abroad while staying at home (Caesar 1995). In other words, abroad was on the doorstep while home expanded into the far distance. Sometimes writers travel abroad with the intention of getting new perspectives on home. American writer Margaret Fuller, for example, embarked on a ‘transnational odyssey’ to test the idea of American exceptionalism (Capper and Giocelli 2007). And while Waugh made a literary career out of humorously resisting foreign influences abroad, for American intellectuals like Ezra Pound and E. E. Cummings, travel abroad (literally and imaginatively) produced experiences and writing that would transform literary modernism (Farley 2010). Traditional and touristic notions of ‘abroad’ are strategically disrupted by postcolonial writers, such as V. S. Naipaul, Salman Rushdie and Caryl Phillips, for whom the categories of ‘home’ and ‘abroad’ are not fixed. On first ‘meeting Africa’, Phillips (2002) can say that ‘I recognise the place, I feel at home here, but I don’t belong. I am of, and not of, this place’. He repeats this almost as a mantra on arrival in America,

Abroad 3 on his return to St. Kitts where he was born, and to England where he was brought up (1–​6). In an increasingly mobile age, where home is a contested place (or nowhere), the condition of ‘abroad’ is equally problematic. Some writers go so far as to suggest that the topos of ‘abroad’ is disappearing in the digital world and pseudo places of postmodernity. As Pico Iyer (2001, 11) writes, ‘Everywhere is so made up of everywhere else  –​a polycentric anagram.’ This is familiar territory for a ‘global soul’ who finds in Hong Kong not an exotic East, but the rude shock of the familiar and the cultural mish-​mash produced by global capitalism. In a further postmodern twist, ‘abroad’ is emptied of desire and otherness in Jean Baudrillard’s America. Experienced at speed (see velocity), the desert produces an ‘ecstatic form of disappearance’, a vanishing point at the end of desire –​the erasure of ‘abroad’ (Baudrillard 1988, 5).

Further Reading Baudrillard, J. 1988 [1986]. America. Trans. by C. Turner. London: Verso. Farley, D.  G. 2010. Modernist Travel Writing: Intellectuals Abroad. Columbia and London: University of Missouri Press. Fussell, P.  1980. Abroad: British Literary Travelling between the Wars. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Phillips, C. 2002. A New World Order. London: Vintage. Waugh, E. 2003. Waugh Abroad: Collected Travel Writing. New York: Knopf.

2 ADVENTURE Richard Phillips

The term ‘adventure’ has been applied to ‘a series of events, partly but not wholly accidental, in settings remote from the domestic and probably from the civilised’ (Green 1979, 23). The breadth of this definition indicates the scope and volume of travel and travel writing that can be read through the lens of adventure. Adventure is now associated with a branch of tourism, a niche in a growing and crowded market for travel, in a world where few geographical stones appear to remain unturned and where a premium is accordingly placed on the apparently undiscovered and unpredictable. As one anthology and guidebook puts it, ‘Do something different. Escape the everyday. That’s the essence of adventure travel –​whether you set your sights on the summit of Everest or spend an hour or two wafting about in a hot-​air balloon’ (Gray 2008, 6). Adventure travel, encompassing ecotourism and active vacations, has spawned literatures of its own, including guidebooks and niche travelogues such as Online Adventure (http://​www.adventure-​travel-​hut.co.uk/​). Adventure travelogues –​ranging from chronicles to coffee table books –​are exemplified by Mary Dinan’s (2014) interviews with ‘intrepid’ travel writers and extracts from their work and Colin Cox’s (2009) collection of ‘true adventure stories’ which depict ‘close encounters with armed guards, the Greenland ice cap’ and ‘the Arctic Ocean’. Modern mass-​market adventure literature, though stronger on anecdote than analysis, does sometimes gesture towards its literary history and cultural tradition (Laing 2014). Fodor’s Adventure Travel introduces a number of adventurers, ranging from television celebrities to explorers such as Christopher Columbus, Ibn Battuta (1304–​68), the ‘amazingly widely travelled Muslim geographer’ (Gray 2008, 6), and Xuanzang (602–​44), the ‘Buddhist pilgrim and pioneer of travel writing’ (6). Some of the diversity of adventure travel is also illustrated through the inclusions on a list of modern British adventure stories, compiled by Arthur Ransome, the author of one such work, Swallows and Amazons (1930). Titles on the list ranged across the spectrum from fiction to non-​fiction, encompassing action tales, moral fables, survival stories and psychological adventures. The collection included Robinson Crusoe (Daniel Defoe’s 1719 classic), Robert Ballantyne’s The Coral Island (1858), ‘the works of Joseph Conrad’ and Richard Hakluyt’s compilation of exploration narratives, The Voyages (1598–​1600). These diverse works exhibit the exotic settings, which are central to Martin Green’s (1979, 23)  definition of adventure, quoted above, as events taking place ‘in settings remote from the domestic and probably from the civilised’. This definition is indebted to Joseph Campbell (1949, 58), who explained that ‘[t]‌his

Adventure 5 fateful region of both treasure and danger may be variously represented: as a distant land, a forest, a kingdom underground, beneath the waves, or above the sky, a secret island, lofty mountaintop, or profound dream state; but it is always a place of strangely fluid and polymorphous beings, unimaginable torments, superhuman deeds, and impossible delight’. The remainder of this entry concentrates on two themes that have been prominent in discussions of adventure literature: the genre’s embroilments with gender and imperialism. In the modern period, adventure was transposed from a mythical to a tangible realm, which corresponded with the imperial dreams and colonial realities of an expansive European world. Adventure stories chronicled and charted colonial geographies, and inspired and legitimated colonial outreach (Phillips 1997). This worked on a variety of levels, ranging from the generic space of Daniel Defoe’s famous island story to the specifically South and Central American settings of the story on which it was based –​A Cruising Voyage Round the World by Woodes Rogers (1712). Adventures also encompass different forms of imperialism (Dixon 1995). Robinson Crusoe spans the mercantile colonialism of the modern period, represented through the brushes with slavery and trade that appear in the early chapters of the book, to the agricultural colonialism, founded more on emigration, settlement and practical work, which the protagonist adopts and practices as the story progresses (Phillips 1997; also see migration). The close relationship between adventure and empire has been traced, beyond the most tangible expressions of each, to a broader ‘culture of adventure’ which is particularly associated with colonial empires, and capitalist economies and societies (Nerlich 1987). In this context, adventure and discovery became a symbol of enlightenment and modernity (Ulmer 1994). But, while adventure literature has been closely bound up with imperialism, it has also been mobilized in the opposite direction. This has worked through a variety of literary strategies, which range from ridiculing the colonial adventure and debunking the certainties of the adventure hero to appropriating adventure’s conventions within anti-​ colonial and postcolonial interventions (Phillips 1997). Others endeavour to move beyond the colonial adventure by taking adventure and related practices and ideologies such as exploration and discovery in new directions (Naylor and Ryan 2010). For example, encouraging adventurous practices, the Geography Collective (2010) offers a playful take on adventure. The Collective introduces itself, in its manuals for young explorers, as ‘a bunch of Guerrilla Geographers’ including ‘geography explorers, doctors, artists, teachers, activists, adventurers’ who ‘think it’s really fun and important to get exploring and questioning the world’ (2010, 196; Smith 2008). Adventure, like imperialism, has also been gendered. Martin Green (1997) labels adventure a ‘masculinist’ literature (see also Bristow 1991; Dawson 1994). This claim can be textured in recognition of the different forms that masculinities take. For example, British Victorian adventurers tended to conform to contemporary ideals of ‘muscular Christianity’, while their twentieth-​century counterparts have been remade in the images of new and changing forms of masculinity (Phillips 1997). And yet, claims about the masculinity of adventure should not be overstated or oversimplified. Though this travel literature is male-​dominated, girls and women also appear as authors, protagonists and/​or readers. Bessie Marchant, who lived and worked in Edwardian England, was one of a number of women who wrote adventure stories

6  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies about and for girls; more recent works in this vein include the world-​famous Pippi Longstocking and Famous Five series (Bratton 1989; Phillips 1997; Smith 2009, 2011). The presence of female characters and recognition of female readers does not necessarily undermine Green’s claim that adventure is a masculinist literature since, as Judith Halberstam (1998) has argued, it is possible to be female and masculine at the same time. Still, girls’ adventure stories have not simply appropriated masculinities; they have also expanded femininities and created new prospects and possibilities for women (Moruzi and Smith 2014). Adventure stories for adult audiences have done similar things. Elizabeth Banks (1895), an American journalist, wrote ‘journalistic adventures’ in London that took ‘the reader to unconventional sites off the beaten track’ (Schriber and Zink 2003, xxxiv). Doing so, she challenged simplistic claims about the gendering of adventure literature more generally. Adventure can therefore be recognized as a strong tradition within the history of travel writing. It has been manifest in some unsubtle and objectionable forms, including masculinist and imperialist popular culture. Still, there is more to adventure than the cruder or gaudier British Victorian boys’ stories might suggest, and there is something vital about this genre, which makes it important to salvage, reclaim and take seriously.

Further Reading Campbell, J. 1949. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. New York: Pantheon. Geography Collective. 2010. Mission: Explore. London: Can of Worms Kids Press. Phillips, R. 1997. Mapping Men and Empire: A Geography of Adventure. London: Routledge. Smith, K. 2008. How to Be an Explorer of the World. New York: Perigee; Penguin. Zweig, P. 1974. The Adventurer. London: Dent.

3 AESTHETIC Mary-​Ann Constantine

‘Aesthetic’ is an uncomfortable word, coming late into English and, judging from some rather tetchy examples in the Oxford English Dictionary, taking a while to naturalize. Coined in German (from the Greek aesthesis) by the philosopher A. G. Baumgarten in 1735, the word encompassed both the concept of perception through the senses (now more evident in anaesthetic) and ‘the art of beautiful thought’. By the 1790s, it became particularly associated with Immanuel Kant, whose Critique of Pure Reason (1781) and Critique of Judgement (1790) contained influential discussions of aesthetics, the subjective self and the nature of sensory perception. Filtering into other European languages, the word has primarily come to denote ‘that which pertains to the appreciation of beauty’. ‘Aesthetic’ is thus highly relevant to travel writing, and in particular to texts which encourage the reader to appreciate a landscape or a scene –​it speaks to the painterly aspects of the genre, and overlaps with the territories of the picturesque and the sublime. But the word also carries a chilly penumbra of detachment, since appreciation of beauty has long been associated with an intellectual, abstracted stance involving the ‘higher’ faculties of taste. A truly ‘aesthetic’ vision thus requires a distancing from the particular, the gross and the utilitarian; by the end of the nineteenth century, indeed, the ‘aesthete’ in pursuit of beauty is characterized as risibly abstracted from ‘real’ life. The inner tension of the word lies in an oscillation between proximity and distance –​ between the sensuous desire to encounter beauty and the intellectual need to frame it, critique it, hold it at arm’s length. The added twist, of course, is that encounters with beauty, especially in travel writing, are frequently evoked through descriptions of intense emotional and even bodily response (tears, giddiness, the racing pulse) which seem the very converse of the ‘disinterested’ aesthetic gaze. Although the word itself is virtually absent from the literary language of eighteenth-​century English (it arrives through translations of Kant late in the1790s), debates about the nature of beauty and taste are so much a part of this period that it can be claimed as the cradle of the aesthetic in British thought. Writers such as Henry Home (Lord Kames), David Hume, Adam Smith, Lord Shaftesbury, Edmund Burke, Joshua Reynolds, William Gilpin and Richard Payne Knight raised questions about the inherent qualities of ‘taste’ and its ethical, social and moral implications in contexts from visual art and poetry to landscape gardening and the appreciation of natural scenery (Andrews 1989; Ashfield and De Bolla 1996; Leask 2006). The

8  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies eighteenth-​century ‘discourse on the sublime’, it has been suggested, ‘creates the subject of aesthetics’ (Ashfield and De Bolla 1996, 6). The above roll-​call of writers reminds us of the extent to which aesthetic notions of ‘universal taste’ were in fact produced by an educated, propertied, male élite. Yet travel writing, a genre with close links to the more intimate forms of the journal or epistolary exchange, could provide alternative perspectives, particularly through women’s writing. Though only a relatively small proportion of them ever saw their tours in print, women travellers could and often did approach their subject with a different kind of eye (Bohls 1995). Drawing on a critical tradition initiated by John Barrell’s seminal work on class and perceptions of landscape (Barrell 1972, 1983), Elizabeth Bohls uncovers in authors such as Dorothy Wordsworth, Helen Maria Williams and Mary Wollstonecraft strategies which actively disrupt the ‘universal’ gaze –​engaging with the lives of inhabitants of ‘scenic’ landscapes, or using traditionally conservative landscape tropes as metaphors for revolutionary change. The concept of the white, male, aestheticizing gaze has played a key part in postcolonial analysis of the travel writing of empire (Pratt 2008; Greenblatt 1991; and colonialism). Mary Louise Pratt (2008, 201) memorably analyses Richard Burton’s 1858 ‘discovery’ of Lake Tanganyika as ‘an explicit interaction between esthetics and ideology’; the scene ‘is deictically ordered with reference to his vantage point, and is static’. That imperial gaze can be translated to less exotic views –​a typical Gilpin landscape is, after all, similarly controlled and voided of ‘natives’, unless they provide aesthetic interest. Yet, in a recent study of Indian travellers to Victorian England, Pramod Nayar (2012) frames ‘aesthetics’ in more liberating terms, returning some agency to the colonial subject. Nigel Leask’s (2006) exploration of the ‘aesthetics of curiosity’ similarly argues that the dynamics of power can be more complex than postcolonial criticism often allows, warning against retrospectively applying colonial attitudes to earlier Enlightenment exploration, and highlighting the extent to which distant foreign travel rendered Europeans themselves ‘vulnerable’ (see curiosity). One might note that Burton’s companion, Speke, is seriously ill and literally blind at the moment of ‘discovery’ discussed by Pratt. We should be wary, then, of unthinkingly allocating a compassionate, informed aesthetics of landscape only to subaltern voices (women, non-​Europeans, minorities). Thomas Pennant’s Tour in Scotland and Voyage to the Hebrides 1772 (1774), though largely written from a comfortably pro-​Union perspective, has its own more troubled moments. Arriving at the island of Canna, Pennant at first sees only beauty: ‘pleasing to humanity; verdant, and covered with hundreds of cattle’ it gives ‘a full idea of plenty’: ‘but a short conversation with the natives soon dispelled this agreeable error: they were at this very time in such want, that numbers for a long time had neither bread nor meal for their poor babes’ (311). At the end of the volume, Pennant conjures the spirit of a long-​dead Gaelic chieftain who ironically ‘felicitates’ himself on his ‘aerial state, capable of withdrawing from the sight of miseries I cannot alleviate, and of oppressions I cannot prevent’ (428). Recalling Ashfield and De Bolla’s (1996, 3) claim that the British tradition of the sublime entails ‘a constant refusal to relinquish the interconnection between aesthetic judgment and ethical conduct’, this is a striking formulation of the travel writer’s moral dilemma –​‘aesthetic’ detachment from the scenes which have provided material for the literary or visual record. The

Aesthetic 9 dilemma has, if anything, intensified in our time, and speaks particularly to the complex moralities of war reportage. As notions of beauty change, so do aesthetics. Romantic individualism (itself feeding on Kantian aesthetics), modernism and postmodernism have all complicated the idea of universally applicable rules and forms of the beautiful (Prettejohn 2005). This more haphazard, subjective aesthetics is nicely exemplified in the serendipitous meanderings of today’s psychogeographers, such as Iain Sinclair or Robert MacFarlane (Coverley 2010; see psychogeography) –​writing which shares surprising affinities with the pre-​disciplinary, omnivorous jumble of ‘curious’ antiquarian travel writers like Pennant himself.

Further Reading Andrews, M. 1989. The Search for the Picturesque: Landscape Aesthetics and Tourism in Britain. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Ashfield, A.  and P.  De Bolla. 1996. The Sublime: A Reader in Eighteenth-​Century Aesthetic Theory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Barrell, J. 1972. The Idea of Landscape and the Sense of Place 1730–​1840. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bohls, E. 1995. Women Travel Writers and the Language of Aesthetics 1716–​1818. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leask, N.  2002. Curiosity and the Aesthetics of Travel Writing 1770–​1840. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

4 AFFECT Joanna Price

The noun ‘affect’ derives from the Latin affectus, past participle of the verb afficere, meaning ‘to influence’. The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) compares it to the Old French affet, meaning ‘desire, passion’, and the Middle French affect meaning ‘state, disposition’. The connotations of affectus include physical, mental and emotional states and an ‘influence or impression’ (OED). Since the end of the eighteenth century, scholarly contemplations of ‘affect’ have been characterized by consideration of the relationship between mind and body, and between sensation, feeling, emotion, thought and action. For instance, in 1799, Kant distinguished between ‘affects’ and ‘passions’, commenting that ‘the former belong to feeling, so far as it, preceding reflection, renders it more difficult, or even impossible’ (OED). In 1891 J. M. Baldwin observed: ‘Affects […] are the feeling antecedents of involuntary movements; as motives, including affects, are the inner antecedents of acts of will’ (OED). Baldwin’s comment draws out the idea of movement inherent in the etymology of ‘affect’: the term indicates both the impetus to movement and its effect, as one thing ‘influences’ or ‘impresses’ itself upon another. Affect has remained a contested concept since the critical debates generated by the ‘affective turn’ (Clough 2007) that took place in the mid-​1990s in the humanities and other disciplines. But studies of affect share a focus on the relationship between the body and feelings, elucidating ‘both our power to affect the world around us and our power to be affected by it’ (Hardt 2007, ix). This relationship is the subject of the two works published in 1995 which are widely agreed to have established the two main areas of enquiry about affect in the humanities: Eve Sedgwick and Adam Frank’s essay, ‘Shame in the Cybernetic Fold’, which discusses Silvan Tomkins’s ‘psychobiological’ Affect, Imagery, and Consciousness: The Positive Affects (1962); and Brian Massumi’s ‘The Autonomy of Affect’, which draws on Gilles Deleuze’s ‘Spinozist ethology of bodily capacities’ (Gregg and Seigworth 2010, 5). Theorists working in these areas frequently return to Darwin, Spinoza or Freud to explore the relationship between external, bodily and pre-​cognitive energies and forces, and how they are both ‘captured’ in emotion and ‘escape’ into what Massumi (1995, 96) argues is ‘unassimilable to any particular, functionally anchored perspective’ (emphasis in the original). Phenomenology, with its focus on ‘the whole sensing-​thinking body’ (Crouch 2015, 240) and how it makes sense of the world, also affords insight into how the embodied subject experiences affect. Recent studies of travel writing, informed by

Affect 11 phenomenology, attend particularly to haptic and other non-​visual forms of sensory perception. This allows for a rethinking of the dominance of the visual in discussions of travel writing which was established by Mary Louise Pratt’s (1992, 206) seminal identification and critique of the ‘monarch-of-all-I-survey’ trope in colonial travel accounts (see colonialism). Kathryn Yusoff (2007, 222), for instance, argues that in The Worst Journey in the World, Apsley Cherry-​Garrard’s account of travelling on foot through the total darkness of an Antarctic winter during R. F. Scott’s British Antarctic Expedition, his body becomes a ‘landscape of affect’. Barely able to see without his spectacles, he perceives the landscape through the sensations of his hands and feet, listening to the sounds of the ice, and his experience of pain in the extreme cold. In another example, Robert Macfarlane reads Nan Shepherd’s (2011, xiv, xxi and xxix) The Living Mountain, a reflection on walking in the Cairngorms, as an account of ‘how mind and mountain interact’, an evocation of ‘bodily thinking’ that resonates with Merleau-​Ponty’s theories of embodied, pre-​cognitive knowledge of the phenomenal world. Macfarlane’s and Shepherd’s reflections on the act of walking foreground the attainment of embodied knowledge through movement in the environment. This knowledge is also the subject of Tim Ingold’s (2011) ethnographic and phenomenological exploration of how we experience elements of the environment such as air, earth and weather affectively as we walk through a landscape. The travel writer’s focus on movement through, and encounters with, the environment is conducive to registering affect. In their evocation of everyday or extraordinary encounters with people, cultures and landscapes, travel writers afford insight into the unstated affective contexts which inform the more readily apparent emotions, opinions and ideologies of peoples and societies. John Steinbeck (1997 [1962], 81–​82), for instance, in Travels with Charley, notices how his impression on driving through the American Midwest ‘was of an electric energy, a force, almost a fluid of energy so powerful as to be stunning in its impact’. Here, as in the other states, he sets out ‘to listen, to hear speech, accent, speech rhythms, overtones and emphasis’ (82) and, from these ‘attunements’ (Stewart 2010, 5), to interpret the mood and preoccupations of a particular region of America. Reciprocally, he also documents how the people, landscapes and scenes to which he bears witness affect him as he travels from the familiarity of New York to the estrangements of the southern states in the Civil Rights era. The travel writer may also record the ‘systematic engineering of affect’ in, for example: the locations s/​he visits, such as urban spaces designed ‘to produce political response’ (Thrift 2004, 57 and 67); tourist destinations constructed to stimulate intense emotion, as, for instance, through the memorial sites of ‘dark’ tourism; or high-​risk tourist activities that produce ‘the compensatory currency of affect’ sought by people accustomed to the risk-​taking world of late capitalism (Huggan 2009, 6). Some travel writers also set out to explore how the embodied, affective experience of travel counters the ‘engineered’ affect of tourism, for example, the philosopher Alphonso Lingis (1994) in his accounts of encounters with human and non-​human others. While an agreed definition of affect has yet to emerge, the critical discourse around it often draws on a cluster of evocative concepts associated with process and potential, emergence and becoming, and the barely perceptible impact that other people,

12  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies places and atmospheres have on us. These concepts continue to resonate with the travel writer’s representation of the embodied experience of, and movement through, natural and cultural spaces.

Further Reading Gregg, M. and G. J. Seigworth (eds). 2010. The Affect Theory Reader. Durham, NC; and London: Duke University Press. Ingold, T.  2011. Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London and New York: Routledge. Massumi, B. 1995. ‘The Autonomy of Affect’. Cultural Critique, 31.2: 83–​109. Stewart, K. 2007. Ordinary Affects. Durham, NC; and London: Duke University Press. Thrift, N. 2004. ‘Intensities of Feeling: Towards a Spatial Politics of Affect’. Geografiska Annaler. Series B, Human Geography, 86.1: 57–​78.

5 ANTHROPOLOGY Aedín Ní Loingsigh

As suggested by its Greek roots (anthropos meaning humankind; logia meaning ‘study’ or ‘science’ of), ‘anthropology’ refers to the broad disciplinary study of peoples and cultures. Anthropology as a subject of intellectual curiosity coincides with the earliest encounters of European travellers and explorers with cultural difference (see, e.g., The Histories of Herodotus). As anthropological inquiry developed, its purview remained overwhelmingly non-​Western peoples, with the explanation of ‘other’ cultures serving as its primary intellectual motor. In Europe, the amateur beginnings of ‘anthropology’ were formalized during the second half of the nineteenth century with the formation of learned societies such as the Société d’Anthropologie de Paris (1859), the Anthropological Society of London (1863) and the Berliner Anthropologische Gesellschaft (1869). By the beginning of the twentieth century, anthropology had achieved status as a distinguished field of scientific inquiry. Since then anthropology’s varied institutional histories have seen it branch in directions rooted in both the sciences and the humanities. It is often used interchangeably with ethnography, although the latter term describes more precisely the modes of writing used to describe cultural difference. Anthropology is significant to travel writing for a number of reasons. First, from the late 1960s critical examination of the discipline’s historical development began to signal anthropology’s complicity with the imperial project and its contribution to the construction of a colonial and frequently racist ‘knowledge’ of elsewhere (see Asad 1973; and colonialism). In his seminal Orientalism (1978), Edward Said subsequently lays bare convergences between the representational practices of anthropology and the ‘othering’ of nineteenth-​century travel writing. Said demonstrates how ‘scientific’ and ‘aesthetic’ engagement with cultural difference resolved into a single authoritative discourse that dominated as it reified the ‘Oriental’ other (see orientalism). The mutually self-​serving relationship between the aesthetics of travel writing and the ‘scientific’ practices of anthropology is further explored by Mary Louise Pratt (1992, 63), for whom the ‘ethnographic gesture’ is one of the ‘standard apparatuses’ travel writing deploys to produce authoritative knowledge about the other. This relationship is also highlighted by Johannes Fabian (2000, 7)  who shows how, during the colonial exploration of Africa, ‘travel began to serve ethnography more directly to the extent that the latter became methodologized and professionalized’. More recent methodological and conceptual developments in anthropology are also helpful for understanding certain critical approaches to travel and travel writing.

14  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies From the late 1960s, accusations of anthropology’s compromised past are widely acknowledged to have triggered a full-​blown disciplinary crisis. Part of the response to this disciplinary predicament has been a renewed critical focus on the rhetorical aims and ‘partial truths’ of anthropology’s writing culture (Clifford 1986). The notion of the anthropologist as an impartial conduit observing and describing difference has been supplanted by acknowledgement that ethnography ‘describes processes of innovation and structuration, and is itself part of these processes’ (3). Critical considerations of travel have also been at the forefront of efforts to reorient the discipline. James Clifford’s (2007, 68) emphasis on ‘fieldwork’, the sine qua non of anthropology, has been concerned with demonstrating this to be an experience of displacement that ‘ “[takes] place” in worldly contingent relations of travel’. He notes how in the past anthropology, alongside colonial travel practices, promoted a world vision ‘in which one section of humanity was restless and expansive, the rest rooted and immobile’ (Clifford 1997b, 78). However, by insisting on the anthropologist as a traveller engaged in a network of travelling relationships –​including those of anthropology’s supposedly immobile interlocutors  –​Clifford has moved anthropology away from ‘understandings of culture that depend on a notion of a rooted body that grows, lives, and dies, and sees cultures instead as sites of displacement, interference and interaction’ (Forsdick 2014, 98). Travel writing’s ongoing efforts to liberate itself from its tainted past echo anthropology’s reflexive turn in a number of important ways. First, writing produced by ‘counter-​travellers’ offers ‘frames of reference that exist outside the boundaries of European knowledge production’ (Edwards and Graulund 2011, 3). A frequently cited example is Amitav Ghosh’s 1992 In an Antique Land. Here, ethnographic authority eludes the text’s main character because of his positionality as an Indian anthropologist. His off-​centre perspective, however, allows him to highlight the constructed nature of anthropology/​travel writing’s traditional accounts of difference at the same time as he uncovers alternative histories of travel in the Egyptian site of his fieldwork. The diversification of travelling subjects and destinations that has characterized more recent approaches to travel also resonates with anthropology’s efforts to broaden its horizons. In this respect, the development of ‘indigenous’ anthropology (see Fahim 1982) and ‘reverse ethnography’ (see N’Djehoya and Diallo 1984) has been useful for contesting simplistic dichotomies separating dynamic travellers from sessile travellees and the familiar ‘here’ from a foreign ‘elsewhere’. Elsewhere, anthropology’s shift of focus to its own backyard  –​another consequence of the discipline’s crisis –​can be seen to influence travel writing’s own inward gaze in terms of form and content. It is in this sense that an ‘ethnography of proximity’ (Urbain 2003) informs the decision of certain travellers to slow down their speed of movement and to turn their gaze towards underexplored domestic locations. For Peter Hulme (2009, 133), ‘geology […] as well as topography’ begin to matter more to travel writing as it decelerates to develop ‘deep’ understanding of the local and familiar. Last, the preponderance of anthropological studies that take up travel itself as their object of inquiry continues to reshape understandings of travel writing. Acknowledgement of the anthropologist as traveller means that the scientific register of traditional ethnography has had to open up to the more literary concerns of other

Anthropology 15 forms, including autobiography and travel writing. This interjection of personal experience into ethnographic writing blurs generic distinctions and their associated registers. At the same time, anthropology’s and travel writing’s interconnected development has opened up spaces for neglected travelling figures and auto-​ ethnographers such as tourists and the ‘illegal’ travellers of modern day migration (see Khoshravi 2010). Although the critical processes involved in bringing anthropology ‘home’ have reinvigorated travel writing, they have also generated new tensions or prompted old ones to resurface. For example, Tim Youngs (2013, 184) points to the return of a certain nostalgic ‘salvage ethnography’ in certain forms of ethical and eco-​travel writing. The persistent and pervasive influence of anthropology’s historical obsession with difference in travel writing is also troubling. For this reason, it is important to recognize that even as anthropology’s relationship to travel is being redrawn, the more suspect habits of their shared history must still be confronted.

Further Reading Chambers, E. 2009. Native Tours: The Anthropology of Travel and Tourism. 2nd ed. Long Grove, IL: Waveland Press. Clifford, J. 1988. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-​Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Culbert, J. 2011. Paralyses: Literature, Travel and Ethnography in French Modernity. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Miller, C.  L. 1990. Theories of Africans: Francophone Literature and Anthropology in Africa. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Thomas, N. 1994. Colonialism’s Culture: Anthropology, Travel and Government. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

6 ARRIVAL Steve Clark

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, ‘arrival’ can refer to (1) the act of disembarkation, (2) a landing-​place, (3) the act of coming to the end of a journey, (4) a cargo, (5) the coming to a state of mind or (6) one who arrives. Yet does it also signify a new beginning? It may seem to indicate a point of origin, but arguably in travel writing, the reverse is the case. Arrival presupposes previous departure and future assimilation. The latter occurs both in the location of the visit, and in the ultimate reception of the travelogue. Somebody, or something, must have already returned to make the story publicly available; if the unexamined life is not worth living, the un-​narrated journey is equally undeserving of attention. It could be argued that confirmation that a travel writer has truly arrived requires the signing of a contract, the delivery of a manuscript or topping a bestseller list. When does travel begin? In the physical motion of a body through space? In the preliminary preparations for the trip? In the restlessness that prompts the initial decision to leave, or arduous preliminary acquisition of necessary competence? The past self might be discarded out of voluntary relinquishment or enforced expulsion. Arrival brings the possibility of entering a ‘brave new world’, with attendant experiences of astonishment and wonder. Yet delight in novelty, curiosity as gratified desire, is always mediated by prior expectation: Columbus reading Marco Polo on La Santa Maria, or Jonathan Raban ruminating on Huck Finn while sailing down the Mississippi. Arrival at various kinds of border crossings  –​beach, harbour, coaching-​inn, railway station, airport  –​always involves an act of intrusion in the ‘contact zone’ (Pratt 2007 [1992], 292, 895), potential seizure and appropriation, inviting a reciprocal display of antagonism. The ethics of originary encounter therefore frequently oscillate between hospitality and confrontation. There is always the possibility of territorial claim, the threat of displacement or competition for resources (water in the Sahara, food supplies in the Pacific, queuing for late-​night taxis in Paris). The stranger may bring symbolic or even literal contamination. As is recorded in Thomas Harriot’s (1588) account (A Brief and True Report of the New Found Land of Virginia (translated from Latin by Richard Hakluyt)), some of the Algonquain Indians of Virginia believed that the newly arrived European travellers were striking them with ‘invisible bullets’, such was the death toll from newly introduced diseases. A  pre-​ emptive strike, such as that carried out by native Hawaiians against Captain James

Arrival 17 Cook, who on his previous visits had been hailed as the reincarnation of their deity Lono, may have been the logical option for some native communities. Yet, if the individual traveller fails to return (e.g., Magellan from the first circumnavigation of the globe (1519–​22)), the travel-​book possesses its own self-​perpetuating afterlife, which preserves the testimony of the deceased. In narratological terms, the absence that motivated the quest has been appeased with the cessation of wandering. Psychoanalytically, the organism has returned to an original state of equilibrium: the primal imperatives of the death instinct overcome the detours of the pleasure principle (as expounded in Freud’s Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1922)). The traveller only exists for the sake of the journey; marriage, family bonds, even sexual relationships become of secondary importance, ultimately dispensable. Somewhere has been left, deserted, and someone has been relinquished, betrayed, such as Crusoe’s aged parents (Robinson Crusoe, 1719) and Gulliver’s wife (Gulliver’s Travels, 1726). As the termination, even if temporary, of the journey, arrival has intimations of mortality, a final crossing of the Styx or a fatal glimpse of the Promised Land. Medieval pilgrim narratives omit any description of return from Jerusalem (see pilgrimage); Chaucer gives no account of travel back from Canterbury. In the most popular (if library-​composed) travelogue of the Middle Ages, narrative can only continue because of perpetual deferral of destination: the incessant refrain of The Travels of John Mandeville (c.1357–​71) is ‘[o]‌f paradys ne can not i speken propurly, for I was not there’. Similarly, in postmodern travelogue, the impact of arrival is primarily one of bathos. Exploration in the sense of revelatory discovery (e.g., James Bruce’s Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile (1790)) is no longer possible. It is not a question of whether it is better to travel hopefully; one can no longer expect to arrive. If a moment of completion is posited, can the travel writer ever return? Even narratives of migrancy, diaspora and permanent exile, such as those documented in James Clifford’s Routes (1997b), represent an implicit appeal that the right of readmission not be withheld; the challenge of reincorporation poses the inevitable risk of rejection. The Travels of Marco Polo (c.1300) was dictated in a prison cell after the traveller’s return to Venice 24 years later, and the authenticity of many of its descriptions is still disputed. Rebecca Solnit (2014, 250), in ‘Arrival Gates’, compares ‘how moving through space takes on meaning’ in a ballet. The dance may last two hours, but rehearsal may have taken six months, and acquiring the necessary ability a lifetime of training. There is no simple way to define ‘that elusive sense of arrival’; it may be regarded as ‘the culmination of a sequence of events, the last in the list, the terminal status, the end of the line’. She concludes: ‘What does it mean to arrive? The fruits of our labour, the reward. The harvest, the home, the achievement, the completion, the satisfaction, the hour, the recognition, the consummation. Arrival is the reward, it’s the time you aspire to on the journey, it’s the end’ (252).

Further Reading Clifford, J.  1997b. Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

18  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Pratt, M.  L. 2007 [1992]. Imperial Eyes: Travel-​Writing and Transculturation. New  York: Routledge. Sahlins, M. 1995. How ‘Natives’ Think: about Captain Cook, For Example. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Said, E. W. 1975. Beginnings: Intention and Method. New York: Columbia University Press. Solnit, R. 2014. ‘Arrival Gates’. Granta, 127: 245–​53.

7 BEATEN  TRACK Sharon Ouditt

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the term ‘beaten’ as ‘struck or pressed by frequent feet; trodden; worn hard, bare or plain by repeated passage’, and notes that it is often to be found in figurative phrases, of which ‘beaten track’ or ‘path’ would be central to travel writing. The definition suggests that repetition, familiarity, imitation and, potentially, meaninglessness might arise from adhering to the beaten track. Travel writing criticism has played with these negatives often concluding that the travelled road is prized by the ignorant tourist rather than the sensitive traveller, but conversely suggesting that the tourist/​traveller distinction is deceptive, or that in the fertile imagination the familiar can generate an original response. James Buzard’s The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature and the Ways to ‘Culture’ 1800–​1918 (1993) provides the best starting point for a discussion of the term. Buzard sets up the (derogatory) grounds on which the tourist is pitted against the traveller: ‘The tourist is the dupe of fashion following blindly where authentic travellers have gone with open eyes and free spirits’ (1). Thence springs a number of associations: tourists are products of the leisure industry, easily herded, lacking judgement, eager to be told what to see and what to like. The beaten track, waymarked by travel companies, guide books, hotel chains and transport links, is where those tourists feel most secure and least challenged. The Grand Tour of Europe, typically undertaken by the sons of aristocrats in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, laid down a track through France, Switzerland and Italy that was to be much followed. After the Napoleonic Wars and aided by Thomas Cook, Baedeker, Murray and their kind, nineteenth-​century tourists sought social and cultural accreditation by embarking on journeys once available only to the elite. Guidebooks construed roads, steamer routes and railway lines through European towns and cities into manageable excursions, and helped to democratize travel by reducing fear of the unknown, of unanticipated expense and of lacking the language in which to appreciate art and architecture. There were travellers, though, who explicitly sought to remove themselves from the crowds of Cook’s tourists in reaction to the vulgarizing, urban values that they seemed to represent. Robert Louis Stevenson’s canoe trip in inland France and his travels with a donkey to the Cevennes provide examples of this from the later nineteenth century. The shared preoccupations with ‘pedestrian’ and ‘slow’ travel speak to the search for a selfhood untarnished by the banalities of mass consumption (see pedestrianism and slowness).

20  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies The perceived danger of pursuing the beaten track is that it might lead to inauthenticity, whether personal (an inability to respond to anything without a guide) or in terms of place (the tourist spot becomes commodified, ‘unreal’). Some striking literary examples of the problem are to be found in the novels of E. M. Forster. The perils of entering a Renaissance church without a Baedeker, or of reacting spontaneously to landscapes, architecture or local Italians (A Room with a View; ‘The Story of a Panic’), are explored, as the negotiation of a fine line, which might lead to liberation or disaster. Philip Heriton in Where Angels Fear to Tread (1905) exhorts his sister Lilia to leave the beaten track. Her marrying the son of an Italian dentist, however, is not what he had in mind, and he finds that he has to confront his own illusions regarding authentic Italy by admitting that his sister’s daring choice exposes his apparent ideals as trite and over-​romanticized (Buzard 1993, 310). Barbara Korte (2000), however, questions the qualitative distinction between tourism and ‘real’ travel, suggesting that the tourist industry is complicit in travellers’ self-​delusion according to which they are more motivated and adventurous than their conventional counterparts. All tourists, she suggests, want to seek a deeper connection with culture: that is part of the basic motivation for travel, and it is structured into the industry (131). Moreover, much modern travel, even if not on prescribed routes, is mediated by literary precedent. In one sense this is nothing new: grand tourists would often read the landscapes of Italy through the lens of the classics. Eustace’s (1818, 492) Classical Tour is a clear example of this: his version of the Elysian Fields near Naples is coloured by his ‘boyish fancy’ that the reality might reflect the Virgilian ideal. A  century later George Gissing (1905, 8), going much further south and much more literally off the beaten track, wandered off in order to ‘dream [him]self into that old world which was the imaginative delight of [his] boyhood’ in which Alaric the Goth was every bit as real to him as an innkeeper or a goatherd. A further century on, and we find that Gissing’s journey is itself foot-​ stepped by another writer keen to trace his hero’s tracks, to see what he saw, feel what he felt (Keahey 2000). As Korte (2000, 146) puts it, ‘[T]‌he experience of travel is thus fundamentally intertextual.’ Critics of contemporary travel writing are keen to point out that one of the problems facing the genre is that there can be no exciting, undiscovered destinations left on our well-​networked globe (Holland and Huggan 1998; Lisle 2006, 3). But the fact that the paths are worn does not mean that the traveller is unable to perceive them freshly, or that the neglected routes will yield good writing. Evelyn Waugh (1930, 16) tells us that he has called his travel book Labels ‘for the reason that all the places I visited on this trip are already fully labelled. I was no adventurer of the sort who can write books with such names as Off the Beaten Track in Surrey or Plunges into Unknown Herts’. Shirley Hazzard (2008, 2), reflecting on her time in Naples, says, ‘I was reminded that immemorial outsiders had followed that same cisalpine path. Yet we trusted to the private revelation.’ The distinctiveness of such private revelations becomes the point of interest in enterprises no longer dominated by the need to take the path less trodden.

Beaten Track 21

Further Reading Buzard, J. 1993. The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature and the Ways to ‘Culture’ 1800–​ 1918. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Holland, P. and G. Huggan. 1998. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflections on Contemporary Travel Writing. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Korte, B. 2000 [1996]. English Travel Writing: From Pilgrimages to Postcolonial Explorations. Trans. by Catherine Matthias. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Lisle, D.  2006. The Global Politics of Contemporary Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Youngs, T.  2013. The Cambridge Introduction to Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

8 BODY Charles Forsdick

Raymond Williams did not include ‘body’ as a keyword in either of the editions of his Keywords, although the corporeal is inevitably implicit across a range of the terms that he does discuss, including ‘human’, ‘man’ and ‘sex’. The concept is selected, however, for New Keywords in 2005, where an essay by Maureen McNeil underlines its importance in philosophical discussions (primarily as part of the mind-​body split), as well as its key role in modern and contemporary debate (especially in the area of body politics). The Oxford English Dictionary defines the body as the ‘complete physical form of a person or animal; the assemblage of parts, organs and tissues that constitutes the whole material organism’, and it is this physicality –​in contrast to, for example, any emphasis on the soul –​that is central to the term’s status as a keyword in the study of travel writing. Other meanings of body –​relating, for instance, to the ‘body’ of the text as opposed to paratextual elements such as maps and illustrations  –​are also relevant, and the functioning of the (dead) ‘body’ as a synonym of ‘corpse’ (from the French equivalent corps) can also be important in texts associated with particular forms of ‘extreme’ travel (Huggan 2009) or ‘dark tourism’. Travel writing operates, however, as one of the most (if not the most) corporeal of literary genres (Bouvier 2000), and with several rare exceptions, the travelogue invariably describes –​in its most pared back definition –​the passage of the human body through place and space, with varying degrees of resistance and with various forms of assistance, mechanical or otherwise. It is consequently surprising that criticism of the form pays relatively sparse attention to analyses of the travelogue as a representation of the body in motion. The body is not only the vehicle thanks to which travel traditionally occurs (often as a result of self-​propulsion, as with walking and cycling), and via which it is variously experienced and freighted. The limits of the body can also, at moments of exhaustion and dysfunction, serve as an impediment to the progress of the journey. Any celebration of physicality (or definition of travel in relation to figures of youth and health) is accordingly tempered with an awareness of the potential fallibility (or at least unpredictability) of the travelling body. Indeed, a small number of travel narratives explore the implications of bodily illness for the traveller (e.g., Eric Newby, in A Short Walk in the Hindi Kush (2010 [1958]); Bernard Ollivier, in Longue marche (2000); and Nicolas Bouvier, in his account of a journey to the Aran Islands (1990)), while the evolution in the work of others permits a focus on the challenges of ageing (Ferlinghetti 2015). These tensions between capacity and

Body 23 incapacity –​evident since the emergence of travel writing as a form, and deployed in subgenres such as pilgrimage narratives –​are prominent in the work of a traveller such as Jacques Lacarrière, one of the pioneers in a rich corpus of twentieth-​century accounts of pedestrian journeys (Forsdick 2005a, ­chapter 6). Lacarrière (1992 [1977], 2)  opens his best-​known text, Chemin faisant, a travelogue narrating a walk from Alsace to the Mediterranean, with an elegy to the foot, a telling evocation of the point of contact between the body and the earth. The intrinsic meaning of ‘body’ has remained relatively constant across different historical moments and cultural contexts. The shift from an etymological understanding (relating more generally to the trunk or main portion of a person, animal or plant) to a more nuanced idea of the person emerged in the thirteenth century, when the contrast to ‘soul’ became apparent. This emphasis on duality has significant implications for cross-​cultural travel, where differing religious, ideological and philosophical systems can create a contrast between, for instance, the Western travelling body and the bodies of the ‘travellees’ encountered en route (and often –​in the context of colonialism or slavery –​rendered soulless and even denied their humanity). Modernity has also seen a growing awareness of the ways in which bodies in motion are constructed as racialized, gendered, sexualized and otherwise subject to forms of social control. Farai Chideya (2014) and Teju Cole (2016) have both described the challenges of ‘travelling while black’, and a number of women authors (e.g., Stone 2002) have narrated –​often from intersectional perspectives –​the implications of the gendering of the body in the field of travel. Many travelogues take for granted the centrality of the body to the journeys they describe, and the attention paid by critics to the place of the corporeal in the genre has often been equally patchy (Forsdick 2015c). It is arguable, however, that a definitional emphasis on corporeality and even on physical ordeal differentiates travel from other more neutral keywords relating to mobility such as ‘movement’ or ‘displacement’. Foregrounding the role of the travelling body and the intricacies of its representation benefits nevertheless from rigorous historicization, not least because the mechanization of transport since the Industrial Revolution (and the acceleration this implies) has increasingly disembodied the experience of travel (Duffy 2009; Pichois 1973), meaning that journeys dependent on arduous, physical encounters with the terrain can be a choice when associated with certain types of leisure travel but are more often a necessity when related to migration (Jack 2001). Michel de Certeau (1984 [1980]: 111), in The Practice of Everyday Life, associates modern journeys with a ‘travelling incarceration’ in which the traveller is ‘pigeonholed, numbered and regulated’, and David Le Breton (2000: 82) emphasizes the sensory implications of such disembodiment, claiming that the traveller in an automobile is little more than a ‘hypertrophied eye’. If the evolution of travel writing allows us to track the growing historical passivity of the body in the field of mechanized transport, there is little evidence of the logical outcome of the absolute acceleration of journeying, seen by thinkers such as Paul Virilio as an elision of time and space from which the corporeal ultimately evaporates (James 2007). The travelogue has indeed become a site of resistance to such disembodiment, or at least to such rendering passive of the travelling body. This is particularly apparent in the recent resurgence of accounts of walking on foot

24  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies (Gros 2014 [2009]; Solnit 2000), and also in the emphasis on contingency, unpredictability and self-​reliance inherent in the productive potential of what Jacques Meunier (1993 [1987]) sees as physical and mechanical ‘breakdown’ (see breakdown) or what Rebecca Solnit (2005) dubs ‘getting lost’. The body in the travelogue  –​mobile or sessile; functioning or impaired; self-​propelled or reliant on mechanized transport; stimulated by its surroundings or shut off from them –​persists.

Further Reading Bouvier, N.  2000. Le Corps, miroir du monde: voyage dans le musée imaginaire de Nicolas Bouvier. Geneva: Zoé. Forsdick, C.  2015. ‘Travel, Corporeality and Technology’. In Carl Thompson (ed.), The Routledge Companion to Travel Writing. London: Routledge: 68–​77. Hillman, D.  and U.  Maude. 2015. The Cambridge Companion to the Body in Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McNeil, M. 2005. ‘Body’. In Tony Bennett, Lawrence Grossberg and Meaghan Morris (eds), New Keywords: A Revised Vocabulary of Culture and Society. Oxford: Blackwell: 15–​17. Solnit, R. 2000. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. New York: Viking.

9 BORDER Tim Youngs

‘Border’ has two principal meanings. The first denotes an edge, margin, limit or boundary; the second a frontier between two states. These two senses create an ambiguity, for the first definition suggests the outer reaches and the second a way across to another place. On the one hand, then, there is the implication of getting as far as one can go; on the other, of coming to a line that separates and joins, thus offering the opportunity for further travel in a different region. The concept of the border thereby introduces to travel writing a tension as it points to both the circumscription and the possibilities of travel. The idea of crossing also implies transformation, another important feature of many travel narratives. As Bill Aitken (2002 [1999], 4) puts it: ‘To the traveller borderlands always intrigue with their potential for cultural initiation quite apart from the magic of being on the threshold of the new that all frontier situations involve.’ The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) traces ‘border’ to the late fourteenth century, to the Middle English and Old French bordure and earlier Old French bordeüre, thence back to the late Latin bordatura, meaning ‘edging’. The medieval usage recorded by the OED does not relate specifically to a line between countries. The earliest quotation showing that sense is from the late sixteenth century. Between these two dates the first usage of borders to signify territories is from around 1425. In both their literal and symbolic senses, borders are central to journey accounts. Most obviously, borders refer to the limits around nations. They both define territories and place them in relation to one another, but the physical movement of travellers from one site to another is often metaphoric, also. Travel literature is frequently populated with the representation of borders between the known and the unknown, the civilized and the savage, the domestic and the wild, the land and the sea, the cultivated and the desert. In addition, there are borders between the past and the present which give travel texts their (often problematic) temporal texture. For example, Peter Matthiessen exclaims of the journey recounted in The Snow Leopard that ‘[w]‌e walked 250 miles over the Himalaya up to the Tibetan plateau. It was like walking into the Middle Ages –​just amazing’ (Shapiro 2004, 356). In historic cities or on ancient trails those borders between the ages dissolve and different centuries seem to coexist (Dalrymple 1994 [1993]; Genoni 2011). There are boundaries, too, between the interior and exterior realms, whether the former is psychological, moral, ethical, religious or a combination of these things (Pirsig 1974). The parallel journey narrative depends upon a dual movement through the external landscape and one’s inner world (e.g., Greene

26  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies 1936) in which the usual boundaries may break down. In such writing, the country through which the protagonist passes is imbued with an imposed symbolic value since it is made to serve as a foil to the exploration of the self. The powerful symbolic associations of the idea of the border thus invest travel writing with multiple layers of meaning. Early critical studies of travel writing tended to deal with borders in their more literal sense, often taking a biographical approach to transnational travel. Following the lead of Edward Said (1978), several scholars (e.g., Pratt 1992) demonstrated the complicity of some travel texts with imperialism, focusing on exposing how travel writing accompanied the expansion of capital and empire across borders, as well as its role in drawing or redrawing colonial boundaries (see colonialism). More recent work, building on Pratt’s notion of the contact zone, has stressed native agency, resistance and exchange rather than unchallenged domination. Discussions influenced by psychoanalysis, poststructuralism or postmodernism have also complicated the idea of borders, in travel writing as well as in studies of it. They address, for example, the existence of multiple selves, with no fixed boundary between them, or the dissolution of a single point of authority or truth (Benterrak 1984). Such works challenge the binaries upon which analyses of borders often depended. There are also borders between genders, gendered behaviour and sexualities (Mills 1991). Sometimes these are strictly observed and policed; other times they are relaxed or blurred. Much postcolonial and travel criticism purported to extend or circumvent fixed ways of thinking. Many titles punned on their being in a state of movement across or around borders, either by dint of their innovative approach or through their object of study lying outside the established purview. One early and influential such collection was titled Traveling Theories/​Traveling Theorists (Clifford and Dhareshwar 1989), while a book series, edited by Kristi Siegel for Peter Lang, was labelled ‘Travel Writing across the Disciplines: Theory and Pedagogy’, which signals the appropriateness of a cross-​disciplinary approach to a genre often regarded as composite. Some critics and travellers celebrate the erosion or surmounting of borders, proclaiming that in a globalized world borders are losing their potency. Such pronouncements testify to the privileged status of those who are able easily to engage in international travel and whose mobility may be facilitated by multiple, hybrid identities: ‘those of us who live between categories’ (Iyer 2001 [2000], 11). By contrast, recalling childhood memories of journeys from St. Louis along Route 66, African American writer Colleen J. McElroy (1997, 21) exclaims: ‘It was the first road where I learned how to push against the black/​white limits of anyone’s map.’ In the late twentieth and early twenty-​first century, critical attention has turned more towards migrants and refugees fleeing conflict in countries such as Iraq, Syria and Afghanistan. Their narratives attest to the difficulties and dangers in attempting to cross borders, but also, for those who make it, the effects on settler and host (Harding 2012; Marfè 2012). Given the growing political and popular appetite for the reinforcing and extension of borders (and the willful violation of others), the function of travel writing as a means to meet, understand and empathize with the Other becomes increasingly vital. So, too, the developing field of border studies assumes more than academic urgency.

Border 27

Further Reading Betteridge, T. (ed.). 2007. Borders and Travellers in Early Modern Europe. Aldershot: Routledge. Brambilla, C., J. Laine, J. W. Scott and G. Bocchi (eds). 2015. Borderscaping: Imaginations and Practices of Border Making. Farnham: Ashgate. Nail, T. 2016. Theory of the Border. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schimanski, J. H. 2015. ‘Reading Borders and Reading as Crossing Borders’. In Inga Brandell, Marie Carlsson and Önver Cetrez (eds), Borders and the Changing Boundaries of Knowledge. Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul: 91–​107. Turner, F. J. 1921. The Frontier in American History. New York: Henry Holt. Especially ­chapter 1. Also at: http://​www.gutenberg.org/​ebooks/​22994.

10 BOREDOM Joe Moran

The word ‘boredom’ arrived in the English language, along with the word ‘bore’, only after about 1750. Its origins are unknown. The Oxford English Dictionary more or less rejects the obvious figurative association between boring a hole and persistently annoying someone or piercing them with boredom. Based on the eighteenth-​century phrase ‘French bore’, it suggests that the word might be of French origin, possibly from bourre, meaning padding and (by association) triviality, and bourrer, meaning to stuff or satiate. Boredom is thus a relatively modern idea. Patricia Meyer Spacks (1995, ix) traces a shift from eighteenth-​century notions of boredom, which saw it as an individual’s personal responsibility or moral failing, to more sociological and fatalistic nineteenth-​ century notions, which situated the sources of boredom outside the self. By the mid-​ nineteenth century, it was often seen as an illness: in Bleak House, Dickens (1948 [1853], 392)  refers to it as a ‘chronic malady’. Spacks (1995, 13)  argues that this ‘reflects a state of affairs in which the individual is assigned ever more importance and ever less power’. This notion of boredom might thus be seen as a specific response to modernity: the repetitiveness of factory and office work, the monotony of bureaucratic procedures, the regimented time of clocks and timetables. If this is the case, then the antithesis of boredom should be travel, with its pursuit of the marvellous and exotic which Stephen Greenblatt (1991, 79–​80) identifies as a recurring element of travel writing, one which constructs ‘abroad’ as a land of adventure distinguished by its otherness from ordinary life. One can see this in mementos of travel like the postcard, which could be viewed as an example of the ‘tourist gaze’, a way of experiencing exotic cultures which developed initially with new forms of travel based on eyewitness observation in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (see Urry 1990, 1–​4). The postcard and other kinds of holiday souvenir are thus about acquiring and displaying cultural capital and marking one’s significant life experiences as non-​boring. And yet the distinction between boredom and travel is more complicated than this. When Walter Benjamin (1999, 108)  marks the 1840s as a period in which ‘boredom began to be experienced in epidemic proportions’, he means a particular kind of boredom afflicting the frequenters of the new arcades, built in the fashionable quarters of Paris in the first half of the nineteenth century. Benjamin seems to be referring here to that more glamorous subset of boredom, ennui, which is the luxury of people whose lives have become relatively comfortable.

Boredom 29 Spacks (1995, 27, 12) suggests that, while boredom is usually seen as a temporary and trivial state, ennui is seen as ‘a state of the soul defying remedy, an existential perception of life’s futility’ which ‘belongs to those with a sense of sublime potential, those who feel themselves superior to their environment’. As she suggests, this distinction is both class-​ and gender-​specific, since ennui is likely to be felt by those who can delegate the tedium of mundane tasks to other people such as wives or servants, and have the leisure time to dwell on unfulfilled promise. While leisure and travel provide the illusion of individualistic escape from the monotony of life and work in capitalist societies, in other words, the conspicuous idleness of the flâneur or leisured traveller underlines the fact that he has nothing useful to do. Ideas about boredom also change over time. Martin Parr’s (1999; 2000a) witty collections of ‘boring postcards’ are made up of cards, produced mainly in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, of mundane sites in Britain, the United States and Germany: photographs of new towns, motorway service stations, truck stops, motel rooms, toll bridges and interstates. From our perspective, it is hard to imagine that anyone could have found the pedestrianized town centre in Basildon, the departure lounge at Manchester Airport or the M1 near Newport Pagnell visually interesting enough to capture on a postcard. Such ‘boring’ postcards subvert conventional visual codes about what is noteworthy and picturesque. Postcards are not meant to be boring because travel is meant to be exciting. And yet these postcards once formed part of semi-​touristic cultural practices, suggesting that ‘boredom’ is always a relative concept. Motorists on the first UK motorways, for example, bought postcards at vending machines in the service station cafeterias, and sent them to friends and family with scrawled accounts of strange new customs on the back: ‘We are having a cup of coffee on our way back along the motorway’ (Phillips 2000, 286). Travel is increasingly a boring experience, partly because the increasingly quotidian nature of air travel, at least in the West, has routinized and deglamorized it, and partly because the complicated logistical, security and safety arrangements of mass travel now require long periods of waiting and transit. In his book Non-​ places, Marc Augé (1995) analyses a new kind of space produced by the accelerated movement of people and goods in advanced capitalist societies. For Augé, non-​places are everyday sites such as chain hotels, airports and motorways, in which faceless, contractual obligations replace human interaction: ‘get in lane’, ‘queue this side’, ‘have your boarding cards ready’. In the transit lounge at the Charles de Gaulle airport, he argues, the ‘organically social’ has been replaced by ‘solitary contractuality’ (94). But if the experience of travel is now often boring, representations of travel that map this boredom are rare. One exception is a work by the photographer Shirley Baker, who in 1987 was commissioned to photograph a typical day at Manchester Airport, and pictured people propped up against the walls, resting on luggage trolleys or standing around in check-​in queues. The poet Christopher Reid (2012) covers the same ground in his 2012 poem ‘Professor Winterthorn’s Journey’. A widower on his way to a conference on the subject of futility has to ‘submit to the twin powers of commerce and tedium’. Picking up a ‘nice, fat, sedative paperback’ from the airport bookshop rack, he ‘joins the abattoir shuffle towards baggage inspection and body frisk’ and ends up in ‘the usual bland asylum’ of an anonymous hotel room: ‘Nothing, of course, to tell you who has stayed here before, or who will in the future’ (7, 9,

30  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies 18–​19). The contemporary Western traveller immediately recognizes these lines as capturing the authentic boredom of modern travel.

Further Reading Dalle Pezze, B.  and C.  Salzani (eds). 2009. Essays on Boredom and Modernity. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Goodstein, E. S. 2008. Experience without Qualities: Boredom and Modernity. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Kracauer, S.  1995. ‘Boredom’. In T.  Y. Levin (trans. and ed.), The Mass Ornament: Weimar Essays. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press: 331–​34. Svendsen, L. 2005. A Philosophy of Boredom. London: Reaktion. Toohey, P. 2012. Boredom: A Lively History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

11 BREAKDOWN Richard Phillips

Some of the most compelling moments in travel literature occur when things go wrong, when the journey or the traveller breaks down. The term ‘breakdown’ has a series of meanings relevant to travel: most obviously, the breakdown of the travelling vehicle; more interestingly, that of the traveller, through a collapse in mental or physical health; and the breakdown of some wider cultural or social order, perhaps ‘due to widespread transgression of the rules’ (Oxford English Dictionary). In each case, breakdown is not necessarily an end point; it may be a point of departure. In travel, the most literal form of breakdown is associated with the failure or refusal of a vehicle, mechanical or otherwise, which may be brought on by external pressures such as storms, difficult surface conditions or human interference or non-​ cooperation. Shipwrecks, for example, take place in a wide range of travel chronicles and fictions, including such classics as Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe (1719) and more recent titles like Jonathan Raban’s Hunting Mister Heartbreak (1990). Other literary journeys are broken by the failure of trains, depicted in travel fictions such as Jules Verne’s classic Around the World in Eighty Days (1872), and in non-​fiction such as the personal memoirs of the unreliable Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, which were recorded by passengers in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Baker 2013). Journeys also break down when horses, elephants and other beasts of burden, human operatives and carriers fail or refuse to cooperate, as, for example, in British India, when elephants strayed and rebelled, and when palanquin carriers asserted themselves in similar ways (Baker 2016). More recently, travels have been punctuated and sometimes terminated by the failure of car or aircraft engines, as, for example, in Colin Cox’s book Short Hops across the Atlantic (2009). The mechanics of breakdown are rarely the whole story. Breakdown gives the author something interesting to write about, providing otherwise smooth and potentially dull stories with ‘somewhere to go’. Though some travel writers have been content to describe comfortable journeys through pleasant places (Guerts 2014), their smooth journeys may be in the minority, since interrupted and broken journeys can be more interesting to read and challenging. At very least, breakdown can draw travellers out of their own comfortable passage, prompting deeper engagement with the places through which they are travelling and the lives they are leading (see Trentmann 2009). The breakdown and halting progress of the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway in British India gave passengers time to gaze, roam about and immerse themselves in the scenery (Baker 2013).

32  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies The broken journey can also be a catalyst for deeper and more urgent forms of exploration on the part of the traveller. It can function as a chronicle or allegory of a mental, emotional and/​or physical breakdown. The travel narrative can follow the traveller in his or her descent. Jonathan Raban’s Passage to Juneau (2000), in which the author sails from Seattle through the Straits of Juan de Fuca, up the Inside Passage and into Alaska, provides the backdrop for the breakdown of his marriage. Joseph Conrad’s literary adventure, a journey from the Thames Estuary, near the heart of London, into what Conrad famously termed the Heart of Darkness (1899), mirrors the protagonist’s personal journey and psychological unravelling (White 1993). The dreams and order of the metropolitan point of departure give way to the darkness and disorder that the Congo represented to contemporary Europeans. This story resonates with one definition of mental breakdown, which highlights the failure of the ‘self ’ to cope with a predicament by ‘dealing with it, experiencing it, integrat[ing] it, giving it meaning [and forming] a recognizable memory of it’ (Ribas 2005, unpaginated; after Winnicott 1974). This speaks to the experiences of travel, specifically, because travel can provide the ‘predicaments’ with which individuals can struggle to cope, and can therefore be the catalysts for their breakdown. Heart of Darkness and Passage to Juneau have no happy endings or easy resolutions, but other travel narratives also structured around breakdowns, which also end in failure, salvage something more positive. Stories of heroic failure, such as Alan Moorehead’s (1963) retelling of the ill-​fated journey of the explorers Burke and Wills into the heart of the Australian continent, salvaged tragic heroes and iconic figures, offering these up to a nation in search of both. Cooper’s Creek retells the story of these explorers, who set out from Melbourne in 1860. Their disastrous journey, expressed through the breakdown of the heroes’ relationships and ultimately their health, can be located within a genre of travel and exploration literature, in which breakdown is final for those involved, but not entirely meaningless, or fruitless for others (Phillips 1997). In some other travel books, the traveller’s breakdown represents the stage through which they must pass in order to complete a rite of passage. In the liminal space, described by anthropologists, youths would be taken away from their homes to live in the wilderness, where they might be stripped, endure hunger and cope with trials of strength before they were permitted to return to their village, with the rights and respect accorded to men (Turner 1969). Some forms of travel and travel writing present counterparts to this journey to and within liminal zones, where the travellers’ original identities may unravel, ultimately to be replaced or renewed. James/​Jan Morris provides an example of this in the story of her sex change and the autobiographical account of her experiences as a transsexual. Conundrum is at once an autobiography and a kind of travel book, describing a kind of journey –​a ‘quest’ for ‘identity’ (Morris 1974, 15), which leads the protagonist down a ‘long, strange path’ (54; see also Fenwick 2008; Phillips 2001). While the journey depicted in Conundrum was important to Morris personally, it also spoke of something broader: the wider changes experienced in Britain, as the British Empire was dismantled, and its values and certainties were questioned (Phillips 2001). This illustrates how the breakdown of a journey and a traveller can symbolize a broader, societal rebirth of some kind, which can only take place after

Breakdown 33 a kind of letting go has occurred. Rebecca Solnit (2006) illustrates the way in which travel and its geographies can facilitate this process, personally and more widely, through an essay on getting lost. Here, breakdown is not a negative thing, but a positive and seductive experience, ‘a psychic state achievable through geography’ (6). Travellers usually get lost by accident rather than design, since being lost is a precarious and dangerous condition, but Solnit encourages us to ‘leave the door open for the unknown’ (4). This places breakdown and being lost at the very heart of travel.

Further Reading Conrad, J. 1899. ‘Heart of Darkness’. Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine CLXV, February–​April. Solnit, R. 2006. A Field Guide to Getting Lost. Canongate: Edinburgh. Winnicott, D. W. 1974. ‘Fear of Breakdown’. International Review of Psycho-​Analysis, 1: 103–07.

12 CARTOGRAPHY Claire Lindsay

Cartography is the science and/​or practice of drawing maps. From the French cartographie (combining carte, card or map, and -​graphie, denoting drawing), it refers to the theorization and execution of spatial representation, a practice that dates back to antiquity and works such as Eratosthene’s Geographika (c.200 B C ). In cartography, spatial data is usually articulated in visual form in images of the earth’s surface, either as a whole or of its constituent parts, in an attempt to make the world knowable. Recently, however, cartography has been mobilized to explore other territories, in the production of cognitive maps in psychology, for example, or of ‘affective geographies’ in cultural studies (Bruno 2002; and also affect). In this regard, the vocabulary associated with mapping has passed into widespread metaphorical and vernacular usage, so that now ‘[a]‌dministrators and politicians “map strategy”, teachers use “an English curriculum map” and diplomats follow a “road map” toward peace’ (Akerman and Karrow 2007, 2). Whether as a science, conceptual tool or figurative vocabulary, cartography is fundamental to travel writing: maps are indispensable for travellers’ negotiation of the world (with their very creation, and absence, motivating journeys ancient and new), and they have become familiar illustrative features of guides and travel books. While ordinarily of secondary importance to the prose, these visual ‘surrogates of space’ (Robinson and Petchenik 2011, 18) often possess a degree of (inter)textual and aesthetic complexity that belies their purported simplicity as ‘non-​narrative’ plans in and outside travel writing. Indeed, as Carl Thompson (2011, 25) (following Zweder von Martel) suggests in a discussion of that genre, ‘insofar as they are artfully constructed representations of the world that are often ideologically charged and laden with larger cultural meanings […] one might plausibly include maps […] as a form of travel writing’ (emphasis in the original). Cartography, to the extent that it creates tools to provide an understanding of political, social, economic and geographical relationships, simplifies the real to make the representation of space accessible and legible to a map’s users. That it rests on selection and generalization (Akerman and Karrow 2007) means that there is a close connection between mapping and power: the cartographer’s organization and legitimation of data is akin to, indeed often a branch of, the nation-​state’s exercise of order and control; ‘in that the state in its premodern and modern forms, evolves together with the map as an instrument of polity, to assess taxes, wage war, facilitate communications and exploit strategic resources’ (Craib 2000, 14). The correlative

Cartography 35 tendency to anchor the authority and identity of nations in maps of their territory is motivated by practical and ideological concerns. It is not only that they are reciprocally constitutive. The nation’s reproducibility in cartographic form (in, inter alia, advertising, games, toys and other ‘cartifacts’) is seemingly infinite. As Ricardo Padrón (2004, 9) observes: ‘[I]‌mages of national territories are even lifted off paper maps to make earrings, paperweights […] and all sorts of bric-​a-​brac attesting to our topophilia as citizens of nation states.’ It is precisely because of this close and seemingly inexorable affiliation that the metaphorical proliferation of cartographic terms, to which I referred above, is problematic. ‘Mapping’ and ‘space’ have accreted a universality and banality that have largely divested them of their critical valence, one of the risks of which is the insinuation that they are somehow transparent and neutral phenomena (Craib 2004). Notwithstanding their multiple usages across history as technical, scholarly, didactic or allegorical tools, the assumption that maps are objective and transparent has been commonplace and persistent. While in the medieval and early modern periods maps (such as the monumental mappae mundi) were regarded as spatial stories rather than purely navigational tools, the application of Enlightenment thought and technologies underscored cartography’s utility and objectivity and consolidated an understanding of maps as truthful, natural representations. During this era of ‘scientific cartography’, when improvements in surveying techniques enabled the establishment of principles of design and aesthetics, mapping ‘was figured as a form of literacy, a sign of civilization’ (Cosgrove 1999, 8). In the twentieth century, however, perhaps most notably since the 1980s and 1990s, there has been a shift towards a ‘critical cartography’. The ‘deconstructive’ work of J. B. Harley (1996 [1989]), for example, coinciding with the expansion of postcolonial studies’ interrogation of the colonial heritage of travel writing, drew on ideas from Foucault and Derrida to shed light on cartography’s intrinsic power relations (see colonialism). While the work of Harley and others proved useful in disentangling the map’s ‘deceptive simplicity’, it in turn attracted criticism for clinging to the idea of a possible truth in the map (see, however, Bonnett 2014) and failing to consider the technical aspects of its creation and/​or the implications for professional mapmaking practice, where the impact of such ideas has been negligible (Crampton 2001). More recently, however, theorists such as James Corner have started to rethink maps radically from a ‘post-​representational perspective’. In this line of thinking, maps are divested of their previous ontological security, as fixed immutable objects, and are regarded as ontogenetic in nature, as ‘of-​the-​moment […] always re-​made every time they are engaged’ (Dodge et al. 2011, 109; emphasis in the original). Corner (1999, 225) argues that ‘mappings do not represent geographies or ideas; rather they effect their actualization’ (emphasis in the original); the two are co-​constructed. Maps are thus dynamic, ‘mobile subjects’ whose meaning emerges through usage and intertextual dialogue in different temporal and spatial contexts (see also Del Casino and Hanna 2003). This ‘denaturalizing’ view of cartography moves away from concerns about accuracy and power to emphasize the complex encounters it involves between cartographers, maps, users and the world (Dodge et al. 2011). Maps are now a ubiquitous feature of our everyday lives and advances in information technologies, the proliferation of satellite and computer-​generated images,

36  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies and sources like Google Earth/​Maps have all made their availability greater than ever before. Indeed, digital cartography affords today’s users and consumers of maps the power to adapt and modify them on mobile hand-​held devices, for example, yielding a haptic pleasure that has transformed what was once an elitist, imperialist affair into a potentially more democratic and playful endeavour (Dillon 2007). Such developments have ‘normalized’ cartography and destabilized its conventional architecture and traditional assumptions about authorship (Cosgrove 1999, 6): in turn, they might just also breathe new life into travel writing.

Further Reading Bonnett, A. 2014. Off the Map: Lost Places, Invisible Cities, Forgotten Islands, Forgotten Islands, Feral Places and What They Tell Us about the World. London: Aurum Press. Corner, J. 1999. ‘The Agency of Mapping: Speculation, Critique and Invention’. In D. Cosgrove (ed.), Mappings. London: Reaktion: 213–​51. Cosgrove, D. (ed.). 1999. Mappings. London: Reaktion. Dodge, M., R. Kitchin and C. Perkins (eds). 2011. The Map Reader: Theories of Mapping and Cartographic Representation. London: Wiley. Harley, J. B. 1996 [1989]. ‘Deconstructing the Map’. In J. Agnew, D. Livingstone and A. Rogers (eds), Human Geography: An Essential Anthology. Oxford: Blackwell: 422–​43.

13 CITY Gábor Gelléri

Both as physical entity and as symbol –​of the human mind, or of possible human destinies –​the city has always occupied a prime position in travel. Scott and Simpson-​ Housley (1994) categorize images of the city as Eden, Babylon or the New Jerusalem. A more challenging task is to identify a working definition of the ‘city’ as a physical reality within travel studies: as shown by the recent collective volume on the image of the Muslim city in travelogues, this might require a rethinking of what could be considered a ‘city’. It suggests that the Weberian definition of concentration of administrative functions cannot be applied in all cultural spheres (Gharipour-​Ozlu 2015). Cities attract visitors almost inevitably, since worldly or religious sights either appear in the city or see a city taking shape around them. Pilgrimages thus often became visits to cities, and in many cases the visit to the shrines will be coupled with that to other types of monuments. But the sheer concentration of human population, and the variety of human pursuits –​intellectual, commercial, artistic –​within the city cannot fail to attract visitors with an interest in these. Stagl (1995) shows that many early works of the art of travel (ars apodemica) are questionnaires for the observation of the city, and may contain an ‘ideal’ city description, created as an example to be followed. Until the rise of curiosity towards the landscape, cities could be the only points of interest in a travel: the logic of the itineraria, offering sequences of inhabited places, provides the mindset of most travel until the eighteenth century. Capital cities were of particular importance. Swiss traveller Muralt (1726) could claim that, having visited London, he had gained a representative image of England, since people from all parts of the British Isles could be found there. Many other capitals could be seen in the same light, as a summary of their country and its nation. Porter (1991, 143) reminds us that major cities, and in particular capitals, could also act as images of ‘patriarchal potency’ for some authors. Rousseau is one of the first to criticize this view in his theory of travel as developed in Emile (1762): to him, capitals are all similar, places of cosmopolitan exchange, homogenized by globalization; but the real spirit of the nation can only be found in the countryside. Similar debates continue to this day, regarding which cities are to be visited and described: those of the Euro-​American sphere, ‘archetypes of urban existence’, might exist in their form only for the gaze of the tourist –​true cities, suggests, for example, Sam Miller (2009, 1), are the ‘new and ancient cities of Asia that are the pulsating giants of the twenty-​first century’.

38  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Discussions of travels to the city are often debates on the image of the tourist, with all its positive and negative connotations (Urry 1990). Forerunners of ‘city tourism’ can be spotted from the late seventeenth century onwards, and they prevail from the nineteenth century. The very functioning of a city, with its machines, schools and hospitals, is a major point of interest for any type of traveller. Starting in the eighteenth century, cabinets of curiosities held in private houses are replaced by museums created in cities, offering an overview of the natural and human world. The city, offering no pathways to the visit except the ‘tourist trail’ that many authors are eager to avoid in order to distance themselves from these ‘tourists’, is a difficult object for a description. Bantman (2013, 195) shows that in places such as London, the superposition of generations of visitors and inhabitants can create ‘palimpsests’; each new description of a city has to face not only the actual space, but all texts previously written about it. Purcell (1992) shows that one possible approach for such a description is that of the ‘arithmetic splendour’, the compulsive reproduction of the number of various edifices. These numbers could very well be exaggerated, serving various agendas, as in the case of the tenth-​century Arabic visitors to Rome who counted 20,000 markets. Metaphors, such as the ‘sea’ of green roofs in Rome and the ‘forests of masts’ of boats on the Thames, serve similar purposes. In order to create a representative survey, some travellers choose a particular ‘itinerary program’: Sam Miller decides to visit Delhi on a spiral movement, providing both an itinerary and a metaphor for his trip. Authors of city travelogues are often former or current inhabitants of the city. Wanderers of their own city, such as Baudelaire’s flâneur, are also, in most respects, city travellers. Scholarly approaches of a specific city –​Lefebvre creating the ‘rhythm analysis’ of Paris looking out from his window; Augé (2002 [1986]) riding its Métro –​ occasionally attempt to recreate the feeling of being a perfect, non-​tourist visitor to the city. Wilson (2002, 257) shows that the saturation of the ‘disneyfied’ city centres leads authors either towards a lamentation in front of its non-places (Augé 1992), or, in a more constructive way, towards a rediscovery of various indeterminate and interstitial places (such as in Maspero’s Roissy Express). The symbolism of any given city is constantly changing. Taking the example of Rome, Joachim Du Bellay’s ‘Rome is only the ruin of Rome’ is followed by Stendhal’s celebration of the city’s more modern layers. Harding’s (2003, 2–​3) analysis of Freud’s image of Rome shows how the psychologist dreaded visiting this city for which he also had an obsessive fascination, as he felt repelled by its Christian aspect –​but, upon visiting, he was delighted to discover its Antique past, and could use it as an opposition to his own, oppressive Vienna. Crush’s (1994) study of visits to Johannesburg shows a succession of ‘uses’ of the city: a ‘better’ version of the imperial city, without the slums and workhouses that characterize its European counterparts; later a European city with no relationship to its continent; finally, the hedonistic and possibly dangerous city of the apartheid era, showing no awareness of the suffering that surrounds it.

Further Reading Gharipour, M. and N. Ozlu (eds). 2015. The City in the Muslim World: Depictions by Western Travel Writers. London: Routledge.

City 39 Harding, D. 2003. Writing the City: Urban Visions and Literary Modernism. London: Routledge. Porter, P.  1990. Haunted Journeys: Desire and Transgression in European Travel Writing. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Preston, P. and P. Simpson-​Housley (eds). 1994. Writing the City: Eden, Babylon and the New Jerusalem. London: Routledge. Urry, J. 1990. The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies. London: Sage.

14 CLASS Kathryn Walchester

Class is one of the entries this anthology shares with Williams’s Keywords. Williams begins the entry by noting, ‘Class is an obviously difficult word, both in its range of meanings and in its complexity in that particular meaning where it describes a social division’ (Williams 1983, 60). Pertaining in Roman times to education and the development of an ‘authoritative’ Classical education, its modern usage referring to social divisions emerged in the late eighteenth century (Williams 1982, 60–​61). Class, as a malleable and nuanced constituent of the self, is indeed a complex attribute of both the identity of the traveller and that of other people encountered on their journey. Furthermore, the interaction of different social classes occurs prevalently during travel by removing people from their immediate social context and hastens comparisons and contrasts with the class divisions of the traveller’s own country. In her 1796 account of Sweden, Mary Wollstonecraft (1796, 27, 28) reflects on the fact that Swedish servants are given poorer food than their masters and notes that it ‘appears to me a remnant of barbarism’, before conceding that ‘[t]‌he treatment of servants in most countries, I grant, is very unjust; and in England, the boasted land of freedom, it is often extremely tyrannical’. From the time of pilgrimages, travellers have noted how in Montaigne’s (1957, 747) words ‘rubbing up against others’ is a feature of mobility (see Williams in Elsner and Rubiés 1999, 101–​23). In his essay ‘Traveling Cultures’, James Clifford (1997b, 33) identified the exclusive typology of the ‘traveller’ in academic study, writing: ‘A host of servants, helpers, companions, guides, and bearers have been excluded from the role of proper travellers because of their race and class, and because theirs seemed to be a dependent status in relation to the supposed independence of the individualist, bourgeois voyager.’ Following from Clifford, there have been repeated calls for, and attempts at, opening up the focus of the field of travel writing studies to include a more expansive typology of the ‘traveller’ (Lisle 2002, 5; Hutnyk 1999; Kilcup 2002; Thompson 2011, 5). Particular attention on the class of the traveller has focused on studies of the Grand Tour; identified by John Towner (1985, 298) as ‘that circuit of western Europe undertaken by a wealthy social elite’. The conventional focus of the upper-​class Grand Tourist, as Chloe Chard (1999, 20) indicates, is a topography ‘which has been rendered familiar either by male classical education or by a more general diffusion of knowledge of classical civilization’. Accounts of identical routes by authors from different social classes viewed stereoscopically draw attention to different emphases and

Class 41 opportunities. Thus, travelogues by servants reveal more emphasis on relationships and encounters with the foreign on a practical and everyday perspective than their upper-​class counterparts. Manservant Edmund Dewes’s observations on his arrival in Calais reveal both his rural upbringing and his reflections on everyday items of clothing. In his 1776 manuscript journal he describes how ‘the Mamsols caps fly to and fro like the withers of cart horses muslin calico looks just as dismal and dirty as usual and the inhabitants not a bit cleaner’ (9). On his part Dewes is ill-​disposed to the mixing of social classes on the Channel crossing, noting that ‘glad was I, as we escap’d the woollen headed jabbering gentry, as affords the boats at sea’ (9). Dislocated from the structures of society which reinforce their identity, travel permits individuals to disguise their social class. Such transformation often causes confusion and unsettles fellow travellers. On her travels to Norway, nineteenth-​ century traveller Violet Crompton-​Roberts (1888, 31) notes how a fellow passenger, Colonel—​, ‘was much amused at the sight of a middle-​aged woman, got up something like “Little Buttercup” in H.M.S Pinafore, [and] whom he believed to be bringing home the sailors’ washing, but she turned out to be a Miss. Poppinjay, and a first-​class passenger!’ In critical work, as here, accusations regarding such social shape-​shifting have largely been levelled at the figure of the tourist. In his account of interwar travel and the death of ‘real travel’ in favour of tourism, Paul Fussell (1980, 42) sees a primary motive of the tourist as deriving ‘secret pleasure from posing momentarily as a member of a social class superior to one’s own’. The elitism of a group of more recent travellers, those from the twentieth century, is identified by Patrick Holland and Graham Huggan. In their discussion of Redmond O’Hanlon’s Into the Heart of Borneo (1985), they identify a number of British travel writers including Robert Byron, Eric Newby and Patrick Leigh Fermor, who typify ‘the privileged status’ of the travel writer and portray ‘an idealized, thoroughly class-​ bound idea of Englishness’ (Holland and Huggan 1998, 31, 32). The implied audience for these travelogues are similarly exclusive; the texts, according to Holland and Huggan, ‘cater to an (upper) middle-​class English reading public’ (32). Influenced by sociologist Dean MacCannell’s (1976) analysis of the commodification of ghettos and their construction as touristic sites, in conjunction with the work of Mary Louise Pratt (1992, 7), the class of the ‘travellee’ has drawn particular interest for travel writing studies. Scholarly attention has turned to present-​day slum tourism in the Global South with discussions of tourist visits to townships in South Africa and favela tours in Brazil (Rolfes 2009; Meschkank 2011). Slum tourism is not a modern phenomenon, however, as Malte Steinbrink (2012, 213–​ 34) demonstrates. Focusing on the ‘roughly 150-​year-​old tradition of this kind of tourism’ in the major cities of Europe and North America, Steinbrink illustrates how there are ‘long-​established’ modes of constructing, presenting and perceiving slums as ‘places worth touring’ (215). In travel writing studies, class –​as a primary constituent of human identity and a key factor in the mode and destination of the journey –​has always been an important focus of scholarly attention. In recent years as the scope of ‘travel writing’ and the typology of the traveller are broadened critically and theoretically, the social class of traveller, travellee and reader becomes of increasing significance.

42  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Further Reading Clifford, J. 1997b. ‘Travelling Cultures’. In Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press: 17–​47. Frenzel, F.  and K.  Koens. 2015. Tourism and Geographies of Inequality: The New Global Slumming Phenomenon. London: Routledge. Holland, P. and G. Huggan. 1998. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflections on Contemporary Travel Writing. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

15 CLOTHING Dúnlaith Bird

Clothing, derived from the Old English clāth or cloth, is a collection of garments used to cover the body. Beyond this practical function, it can be seen as a form of sartorial semantics, communicating cultural identity, class affiliation or gender (Bird 2012, 120). Clothing’s crucial relation to travel is reflected in the sartorial choices of the traveller, the costume of the inhabitants of the host country and the representations of both within the travelogue, dressed up for the delectation of readers back home. Clothing for travel should be practical, adapted to the climate, environment and culture of the host country. In The Art of Travel; Or, Shifts and Contrivances Available in Wild Countries (2000 [1872], 111), Francis Galton devotes an entire section to the subject, and insists that when determining clothing the traveller ‘looks more to serviceability than to anything else’. Galton pretends to impartiality, yet the guidebook is dedicated uniquely to the male European traveller and native clothing is ridiculed, which is consistent with the logic of a text that presents everything outside of Britain as ‘wild countries’ to be discovered and conquered (112). Although Galton is a particularly egregious example, the choice of ‘serviceable’ clothing for the traveller is rarely anodyne, even when presented in practical terms. T. E. Lawrence (1973 [1926], 662) claims his use of Arab robes not only protects him from the intense desert heat, but allows him to infiltrate enemy territory as ‘an unconsidered Arab’. In temperatures of -​30° in Spitzberg, the French nineteenth-​century traveller Léonie d’Aunet (1995 [1854], 16) feels more than justified in adopting men’s clothing, which she describes as ‘very convenient and perfectly disgraceful’. Discourses of race and gender are often interwoven in the traveller’s choice of clothing. Clothing can be seen as a form of performance art, signalling identity and cultural belonging, as Marjorie Garber (1992) notes. Garber particularly focuses on ‘the way in which clothing constructs (and deconstructs) gender and gender differences’ (3). Nineteenth-​century French traveller Jane Dieulafoy (1887, 133)  almost creates a diplomatic incident when the Persian Shah takes her disguise as a young, smooth-​faced Frenchman for reality. Such cross-​cultural cross-​dressing can send dangerously mixed messages, with clothing becoming the catalyst for new forms of gender trouble. Susan Bassnett (2002, 239) also examines the link between clothing and gender, arguing that the attention to ‘details of clothing, accounts of domestic life, or the inclusion of romantic episodes’ in the work of nineteenth-​century women travel writers can be read as ‘a clear assertion of femininity’. When performing gender norms, or constructing an identity calculated to appeal to a paying public, clothing is an effective prop for the traveller.

44  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies The clothing of the inhabitants of the host country is also key. Depictions of native clothing are often linked to an exotic eroticism, a trend particularly prevalent in Orientalist travelogues as Edward Said (2003, 187–​88; also see orientalism) demonstrates. Gustave Flaubert (1991, 24–​25) pictures himself seduced as much by the robes of Egyptian dancer Ruchiouk-​Hânem as by her body, while Gérard de Nerval (1998 [1851], 207) describes the sensual pleasure of regarding the robes on sale in the bazaars of Cairo and contemplating how they will feel to slip on. Meanwhile their contemporary, Olympe Audouard (1865), elects to preface her travelogue with a portrait of herself in harem robes, inviting the acquisitive eye of the reader. Jennifer Yee (2000, 45) considers the role of visual representations of native people, in particular the cliché of the ‘exotic woman’ in postcards and photographs, as constructing an ethnographic narrative of racial superiority and sexualized submission. The fetishizing of the Other’s clothing is a form of both cultural appropriation and European wish fulfilment, ‘placing the object [Other] in a time other than the Western present’ (Behdad 1994, 6). In his work on travel and ethnography, Joan-​Pau Rubiés (2002, 255)  explores the extent to which depictions of indigenous clothing can perpetuate racial or nationalist stereotypes of inferiority and become ‘a justification, or a tool, for empire’. The precisely detailed drawings of clothing and castes in the monumental Description de l’Égypte (1809–​26) serve as a prelude to France’s wider designs of empire building under Napoleon Bonaparte. Similarly, Victorian traveller Isabella Bird’s (2006 [1880], 4) depiction of Japanese fishing garb as ‘only an apology for clothing’, and her disgust at the tendency of the Korean elite to ape European fashions (1985 [1897], 90), can be linked to wider concerns over the role of imperial Britain in Japan after the end of sakoku and the potential consequences for Britain of Japan’s military victories over her neighbours. Culture can be condensed into clothing, becoming part of wider discourses of knowledge, appropriation and exchange, as Nupur Chaudhuri (1992, 232) shows. The convergence of clothing and culture is central to the traveller, and the theme features heavily in travel writing: should the traveller use their unchanged dress to signal their nationality and imperial credentials, as British traveller Gertrude Bell (1985 [1907]) opines? Should they adopt the clothing of the host country, as T. E. Lawrence does for the purposes of practicality and spying? Can clothes be used to pass in another country, not just as a native but as a native man, as Jane Dieulafoy, Isabelle Eberhardt and many other women travellers explore? Finally, can descriptions of the traditional clothing of the host country be used as a kind of shorthand for cultural identity, or irredeemable Otherness? The symbolic significance of clothing is particularly evident in travel writing, signalling belonging or exception, transmitting core messages on identity to host and home countries. As such it should be considered a keyword for travel.

Further Reading Chaudhuri, N. and M. Strobel (eds). 1992. Western Women and Imperialism: Complicity and Resistance. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Garber, M. 1992. Vested Interests: Cross-​Dressing & Cultural Anxiety. London: Routledge. Tseëlon, E. (ed.). 2001. Masquerade and Identities: Essays on Gender, Sexuality and Marginality. London: Routledge.

16 COEVALNESS Aedín Ní Loingsigh

Coevalness is a temporal concept that refers to the existence or origins of people and objects in the same time. The term has become associated with anthropology and the retooling of that field’s conceptual vocabulary since the 1960s. Johannes Fabian’s Time and the Other (1983) is the seminal work on this subject. In it, Fabian highlights a key paradox, or ‘schizogenic use of Time’ (21), framing the practice of anthropology. On the one hand, dialogue between anthropologists and their referents clearly constitutes ‘coeval research’ (60) as it takes place in contemporaneous, shared time. On the other, theoretical interpretations of that dialogue in written reports and anthropological discourse more widely are said to be allochronic because they routinely situate anthropology’s objects of study in another time. This temporal distancing is achieved by presenting as the norm the West’s ‘present’ and its conception of evolutionary time. In this way coevalness is denied to the Other. Instead, their time is portrayed as ‘cyclical rather than linear, qualitative rather than quantitative […] encapsulated in history rather than constituting the motor of history, […] oriented to stability rather than change’ (Adam 1994, 504). As a result, the invariably ‘traditional’, ‘uncivilized’, ‘premodern’ Other lags behind her/​his Western counterpart culturally, morally and intellectually. As a fundamental element in the construction of the Other, the ‘denial of coevalness’ (Fabian 1983, 35) is key to making sense of travel writing. It serves as a reminder in the first instance that travel writing textualizes a spatiotemporal practice: to travel is to move across space and time, but also, frequently, travel has meant bearing witness to the otherness of place and time. The denial of coevalness is particularly evident in colonial travel writing (see colonialism). It is described although not conceptualized in the same way by Edward Said (1995 [1978], 72) when he highlights the ‘timeless eternal’ tense employed in Orientalist writing (see orientalism). Mary Louise Pratt (1992, 64) identifies it explicitly in her reading of John Barrow’s 1801 ethnographic portrait of the South African !Kung people. So too does Robert M. Burroughs (2010) in his analysis of repeated references to the ‘barbarity’ of indigenous peoples by European travellers to the Congo during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The practice is not, however, limited to Western portrayals of non-​Western cultures. Charles Forsdick (2005b) notes a temporal ‘othering’ of France’s peripheral regions in the classic Bécassine comic strips depicting a young Breton housemaid during the first half of the twentieth century. And Michael Cronin (2014, 21) shows how contemporary travel narratives describing minority language communities in

46  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Europe and North America can also engage in spatiotemporal distancing by situating these places and people ‘beyond the pale of schismatic modernity and global mobility […]. Time stands still and minority language speakers become the prisoners of the picturesque landscape lovingly articulated in their disappearing languages’. An emphasis on the relevance of coevalness to travel writing also brings into focus an important overlapping temporal concept: nostalgia. Nostalgic travel accounts depend heavily on a denial of coevalness. Many may do so in order to romanticize rather than denigrate the ‘backwardness’ or ‘timeless present’ of other cultures. In this way, the apparent absence of signs of modernity in ‘less developed’ cultures is celebrated as evidence of a cultural ‘purity’ and ‘authenticity’ that has remained frozen in time, untouched by the deleterious effects of civilization or globalization. Yet, as critics have insisted, to view as progressive such concern with the uncontaminated time of the other is to ignore the ways in which it reiterates forms of colonial discourse. As Debbie Lisle (2006, 204)  observes, ‘[I]‌t is only the most historically “evolved” […] who are able to map their own progress retroactively, and judge the progress of others through a linear, plotted history’. For Patrick Holland and Graham Huggan (2004), the nostalgia of the belated traveller, or the traveller who mourns the lost past of destinations that appear to be catching up with modernity, is equally problematic. This figure repeats anthropology’s muddled use of time in ‘its tendency to bypass history in search of (spurious) universals and “timeless” truths’ (148). Coevalness is also important for shedding light on the complex reality of the time-​ spaces of travel’s encounters. That these can be conflictual and, in certain contexts, even violent is not in doubt. But they can also be characterized by contestation and (re)negotiation. In An African in Paris (1994 [1959]), the Ivorian writer Bernard Dadié refuses to accept the uncomplicated linear narrative of French progress as he tours the capital’s historical monuments. Instead, he emphasizes the cyclical nature of violence and oppression defining France’s past and disputing the notion of a smooth path to modernity. Dadié also shows it is possible to reposition ‘traditional’ Africa and ‘modern’ Europe on anthropology’s stream of time with regard to certain cultural practices. The French are thus said to be insufficiently sophisticated to master African habits of eating with one’s hands, and Dadié also pokes fun at the very temporal mainstay on which their culturally superior view of themselves depends: ‘If they were as old as they think they are, their skin would have darkened with age. But they’re barely even tan! There’s no way in the world they can say they’re the oldest people in the world’ (86). However, perhaps Dadié’s most striking challenge to the temporal distancing strategies of so much Western travel writing is his insistence on coevalness. His balanced and comparative observations of France’s cultural difference remind his readers that all human societies undergo processes of evolution and change at the same time. Recognizing that time stands still for no place is key, then, to restoring a coeval relationship with the Other in the context of travel. In this regard, Ahmed Idrissi Alami (2013, 16)  shows how travel writing by nineteenth-​ century Moroccan diplomats in Europe successfully ‘document[s]‌dynamic negotiations with the ideal of European “modernity” from the parameters of their own historical, religious, and social particularities’. Although critical of the moral degeneracy of Western secular time, these travellers refuse to play ‘catch up’ by abandoning their ‘traditional’ notion

Coevalness 47 of sacred time and in so doing demonstrate that there are more ways than one to be ‘modern’. These non-​Western examples of travel writing also suggest that alongside a relativized conception of time, the reestablishment of coevalness also requires that obscured histories of travel be brought to light.

Further Reading Fabian, J.  2006. ‘The Other Revisited: Critical Afterthoughts’. Anthropological Theory, 6.2: 139–​52. Holland, P. and G. Huggan. 1998. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflections on Contemporary Travel Writing. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Rosaldo, R. 1993. Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis. Boston: MIT Press.

17 COLONIALISM Alex Drace-​Francis

The terms ‘colonialism’ and ‘imperialism’, widely used in travel writing studies, derive from ‘colony’ and ‘empire’, but did not always have a strong ideological meaning. ‘Colony’ (mid-​sixteenth century, from Latin colonia) denoted a farmstead or settlement established by a fixed body of settlers. ‘Colonial’ came into use in English in the late eighteenth century, particularly with reference to the North American colonies and their changing relationship with Great Britain. In other European languages, it often referred to goods produced in colonies and marketed in Europe (notably coffee, cotton, rice, spices, sugar, tea and tobacco). ‘Colonialism’ as an abstract noun did not appear for another century, and referred initially to informal styles and practices, such as linguistic peculiarities in spoken English (‘To use a colonialism, “the place was going ahead” ’, 1863 (Oxford English Dictionary)). Even ‘imperialism’ initially had a fairly neutral meaning in English. An ‘imperialist’ was a representative or other person in the service of an empire –​especially, in a European context, the Holy Roman Empire. In mid-​nineteenth-​century France, impérialiste denoted a supporter of Napoleon III’s Second Empire, without notable emphasis on overseas expansion. It was only during the late nineteenth century, and principally in Britain, that the sense of a specific project or system of ‘imperialism’ developed. The prestige both of advocates such as John Seeley (The Expansion of England, 1883) and of critics such as John Hobson (Imperialism, 1902) influenced the global spread of the term from Russia to Japan (Koebner 1964; Brewer 1980). As such, ‘imperialism’ remained the more consecrated term. Paradoxically, it was only in the mid-​twentieth century, when the Western colonial empires were coming apart, that the term ‘colonialism’ began to gain real prominence. Some applied it to a particular type of imperial system, one which involved population settlement and economic exploitation rather than a broader system of dominion over distant lands; ‘Western’ (Dutch, British, French and Iberian) empires were thus distinguished from ‘Eastern’ ones (Russian, Ottoman, Mughal, for example). Numerous writers in the mid-​twentieth century related colonial governance not just to political domination but to mental attitudes. A key work which both attacked colonialism as a mindset and consecrated the term was Aimé Césaire’s Discours sur le colonialisme (1955 [1950]). Around the same time, Frantz Fanon (1961) sought to analyse the predicaments of colonized or recently decolonized societies from a psychological viewpoint. More broadly, the realization that literary discourses played a

Colonialism 49 significant role in sustaining ‘hegemony’, in the sense used by Gramsci (1971 [1935]), meant to some extent a redefinition of ‘colonialism’ from being a straightforward practice or advocacy of colonization in an imperial context, to a broader set of attitudes and structures informing both dominant and dominated societies. All these strands of thought fed into the rise in the academy of ‘postcolonial studies’. The term ‘postcolonial’ was initially used in the United States to refer to the post-​independence period of the country’s history (first recorded usage is in 1883). It was applied in a greater range of contexts after World War II, and as a consolidated academic paradigm from the late 1970s onwards. This involved both the promotion and study of the literatures of newly independent states (albeit with an emphasis on writings in metropolitan languages); and the critical analysis of Western literatures to assess the presence and impact of ‘colonial discourse’. The latter approach is widely agreed to have been consecrated with the publication of Edward Said’s Orientalism in 1978, although the concept was also developed in other disciplines, notably anthropology (Asad 1973; Fabian 1983; also see orientalism). Later literary and anthropological approaches also unmasked the ambivalences and contradictions of the colonial mindset (Bhabha 1994; Cooper and Stoler 1989). As literary studies extended its domain beyond the prescription of aesthetic and formal values to the analysis of discursive practices and social attitudes, travel texts gained a new prominence. Numerous scholars (e.g., Hulme 1986; Spurr 1993; Thomas 1994) sought to identify a rhetoric of colonialism in travel writing, while Mary Louise Pratt (1992) saw travel writing as a key site for investigating imperial mentalities and intercultural contact between peoples. From a gender perspective, critics also asked fruitful questions about the relationship between women travel writers and colonial discourses (Mills 1991). As a result, colonialism and imperialism have been central concepts in informing analysis of travel writing, and formed the starting point for identifying more specific tropes such as the Monarch-​of-​all-​I-​survey narrative perspective (Pratt 1992), and what Johannes Fabian (1983) has termed the denial of coevalness. Postcolonial theory has manifested itself not only in academic texts about travel writing, but also within travel writing itself. Works by authors such as V. S. Naipaul, Doris Lessing, Vikram Seth, Caryl Phillips and others in English; Bernard Dadié and Calixthe Beyala in French; or Aya Zikken and Marion Bloem in Dutch can be considered not only as source texts but also as significant theoretical reflections which have contributed to the wider debate about the postcolonial condition. As such they exemplify the genre’s flexibility and its capacity to act as a mediator between theory and practice, and between the academy and a wider audience. While postcolonial studies traditionally confined itself to the study of literary interrelations between the major West European post-​imperial nations and their former colonies, travel writing studies has recently turned its attention to texts and traditions from other regions, including Latin America and Eastern Europe. These lands were in fact decolonized long before the mid-​twentieth century, and bear similarities to but also differences from the ‘classical’ models of postcolonialism. Research on travel texts from these regions poses interesting challenges for the postcolonial paradigm in general (Lindsay 2003; Bracewell and Drace-​Francis 2008, 2009).

50  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Further Reading Griffiths, G. 2012. ‘Postcolonial Travel Writing’. In A. Quayson (ed.), The Cambridge History of Postcolonial Literature. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: I, 58–​80. Mills, S. 1991. Discourses of Difference: An Analysis of Women’s Travel Writing and Colonialism. London and New York: Routledge. Pratt, M. L. 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. New York and London: Routledge. Said, E. 1978. Orientalism: Western Representations of the Orient. London; New York: Penguin. Spurr, D. 1993. The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing and Imperial Administration. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

18 COMPANION Alasdair Pettinger

If most histories of Western travel and exploration tend to be organized around heroic individuals, these were but leaders of expeditions that involved many others, without whom their achievements would not have been possible. Accounts of these ventures acknowledge their presence, but (often merging them in an undifferentiated ‘we’) seldom accord them any individuality. Their authors are ‘largely silent about the rank and file who accompanied them’, and when they do refer to them, their comments are often disparaging (Kennedy 2013, 76). Only recently have historians begun to retrieve their voices and analyze the social relations in which they were embedded (e.g., Maddison 2014). From the late eighteenth century, solitary travel, for a long time considered dangerous, or at least eccentric (especially for women), became increasingly common as roads were made safer (see solitude). The lone (but still typically male) traveller emerged as the paradigmatic figure of an emerging culture of anti-​tourism (Buzard 1993), whose characteristic expression is a first-​person narrative recording the unique experiences of a specific individual. Moralistic essays (e.g., Hazlitt 1824) recommended one travel alone, arguing for the benefits of silence, the freedom to make one’s own choices and walk at one’s own pace, and the ability to attend to one’s surroundings (rather than to the needs and opinions of companions). It is a preference that remains common. As Jonathan Raban (2004, 76) remarks: ‘Traveling with a companion, with a wife, with a girlfriend [...] You’re never going to see anything; you’re never going to meet anybody; you’re never going to hear anything. Nothing is going to happen to you.’ Even those travel writers who choose not to travel alone often appear to do so, rarely making more than a passing reference to their companions in their accounts. In the preface to The Traveller’s Tree, Patrick Leigh Fermor (1984 [1950], 11)  is more transparent than most by naming his two companions before noting that while they are ‘constantly present in the following pages’, they are ‘whittled now to shadows’. The role of these shadows in travel narratives is rarely examined by critics, but Farhad Idris (2003) has identified the fluctuating orientalist impulses and generic conventions that govern the entrances and exits of the unnamed ‘companion’ in V. S. Naipaul’s An Area of Darkness –​actually the author’s first wife, Patricia Hale –​ who appears only sporadically, is described just once and whose opinions we never hear (see orientalism). Modern travel books that foreground companions stand out because they are relatively unusual. Perhaps the most obvious cases are jointly authored narratives in

52  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies which individual accounts alternate (e.g., Gottlieb and Graham 1993) or are merged (e.g., Price and Price 1992). But there are also a significant number of single-​authored accounts in which the narrator’s relationship with his or her companion(s) is more than incidental; in many cases it is one of the main subjects of interest, performing an important rhetorical function by helping to define (often by contrast) the persona of the narrator (see Mee 2014, 136–​41). Notable examples include Redmond O’Hanlon’s (1985; 1988; 1997) accounts of his journeys to Borneo, the Amazon and the Congo. The unusual cases where companions publish separate accounts of the same journey offer tempting opportunities for comparison, especially if they are of the opposite sex or different nationality. Valerie Kennedy (2015) makes much of the contrast between the ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ styles of Graham and Barbara Greene in the narratives of their travels in Liberia in the 1930s, while Charles Forsdick (2009b, 208) is more cautious in his reading of the accounts of the contemporaneous Chinese journey undertaken by Peter Fleming and Ella Maillart, arguing for a ‘stereoscopic’ approach that attends to ‘the interplay, overlaps and contradictions’ between the two texts. Catherine Mee (2014) has remarked on the formal strategies which travel writers use when representing companions in terms of personal pronouns. She notes how the first-​person plural ‘absorbs companions, making them invisible and denying them the separate identity afforded by the third person’ (130). She also pays particular attention to more unconventional uses of pronouns. In Chambres d’ailleurs Nicole-​ Lise Bernheim refers to her unnamed partner as ‘you’ which ‘draws the reader towards the narrator, creating closeness between them, as though speaking over the shoulder of toi the companion’ (Mee 2014, 132). A different approach is adopted by François Maspero in Roissy-​Express who refers to both himself and his collaborator, the photographer Anaïk Frantz, in the third person, which ‘places the two protagonists on an equal footing and give the text the tone of a novel’ (Mee 2014, 132). As Jones (2009, 338) points out, by creating the author as a character, ‘the travelling I is decentred’, thus facilitating ‘the inclusion of other viewpoints, voices and intertexts’. As well as the companions whom a traveller may bring from home, travelogues often feature more temporary friendships or commercial relationships with people encountered en route, such as guides, hosts, drivers, prostitutes, beggars, who often give rise to troubling emotional responses and ethical reflections on the part of the narrator (Mee 2014; also see ethics). On the other hand, when depicted as sharing experiences (e.g., on public transport), we may find the subject decentred in another way, merged with strangers in a ‘we’ that registers others as travellers too (Pettinger 2012 [2002]). However, even when companions figure prominently in travellers’ accounts, they are rarely granted much of a back-​story –​a reticence that often extends to the author. As Mee (2014, 135) argues, ‘[I]‌t suggests wariness about divulging too much of one’s own life and the lives of those who are not only characters in texts, but also real people.’ But it may be more than a question of protecting privacy. To the extent that we can generalize about such a fluid and hybrid form, this restraint may be a requirement of the genre itself: ‘if the travel writer’s personal life encroaches too much on the account of the journey, then the text becomes something else: a memoir or autobiography’ (136).

Companion 53

Further Reading Forsdick, C. 2009b. ‘Peter Fleming and Ella Maillart in China: Travel Writing as Stereoscopic and Polygraphic Form’. Studies in Travel Writing, 13.4: 293–​303. Idris, F. B. 2003. ‘The Traveler and His Hushed Companion: Problems of Narration in An Area of Darkness’. Ariel: A Review of International English Literature, 34.2–​3: 135–​50. Kennedy, V. 2015. ‘Conradian Quest Versus Dubious Adventure: Graham and Barbara Greene in West Africa’. Studies in Travel Writing, 19.1: 48–​65. Mee, C.  2014. Interpersonal Encounters in Contemporary Travel Writing: French and Italian Perspectives. London: Anthem. Pettinger, A. 2012 [2002]. ‘Trains and Boats and Planes’. In T. Youngs and C. Forsdick (eds), Travel Writing: Critical Concepts in Literary and Cultural Studies. London: Routledge: III, 127–​34.

19 CONTACT  ZONE Claire Lindsay

This composite term is one of the key items in the postcolonial lexicon and has found wide application in scholarly work on travel writing in recent decades. It derives from one of the most groundbreaking studies in the canon of travel writing scholarship, Mary Louise Pratt’s Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (2008 [1992]). In that work Pratt describes the contact zone as a ‘social space where disparate cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other, often in highly asymmetrical relations of domination and subordination –​like colonialism, slavery, or their aftermaths as they are lived out across the globe today’ (7). Broadly, then, the contact zone refers to the space of colonial encounters, although the term’s origins are fundamental to Pratt’s more nuanced conception of those territories and experiences. Pratt borrows ‘contact’ from linguistics, where it refers to ‘an improvised language that develops among speakers of different tongues who need to communicate with each other consistently, usually in the context of trade’ and where such languages, beginning as pidgins and regarded as improvisational and chaotic, eventually come to be creoles when they engender native speakers of their own (8). Said linguistic origins speak to the intercultural dynamic and struggle as well as the creative, transformational potential at stake in the contact zone. (The etymological roots of the word ‘contact’ itself, from the Latin contactus, meaning ‘touched, grasped, bordered on’, are also resonant here.) If ‘contact zone’ can be synonymous with ‘colonial frontier’, then its ideological implications are nonetheless quite distinct, as they rest on the transactional dimensions of that space where ‘subjects previously separated by geography and history are co-​present’ and where they establish ongoing relations and intertwined practices, however coercive and unequal they may be. Given the importance of Empire to the history and production of travel writing, which in spite of its generic indeterminacy continues to be regarded as ‘an exemplary record of cross-​cultural encounters between European and non-​European peoples’ (Clark 1999, 2), contact zones have proved to be popular and productive sites for travellers and travel writers. Moreover, also underpinning Pratt’s particular conception of the contact zone is a desire to shed light on accounts of conquest previously disregarded or suppressed by the colonial apparatus and to consider the fruits of the process she calls, drawing on germane ideas from cultural critic Angel Rama (1982) and the Cuban anthropologist Fernando Ortiz (1947), transculturation. Pratt (2008 [1992], 7) uses this term to refer to a practice that is intrinsic to the contact zone, in which ‘subordinated or marginal groups select and invent from materials transmitted

Contact Zone 55 to them by a dominant or metropolitan culture’. This has led to an especially fruitful line of enquiry in the past two decades by scholars who have contested conceptions of travel writing as ‘inevitably one-​way traffic’ (Clark 1999, 3) and attempted to identify a ‘post-​imperial’ voice in this category. Such efforts, concurrent with developments in postcolonial theory, have in turn sought to expand understandings of travel beyond the Anglophone world, to illuminate its expressions in French-​and Spanish-​speaking regions of the globe, for example (see Butler 2008; Forsdick 2005a; Pitman 2008; and Lindsay 2010), or to rethink West-​East, North-​South models of transit (see Bracewell 2009a) and, in doing so, as Charles Forsdick (2005a, 5) puts it, ‘reverse the vectors of power’. Fittingly, the ‘contact zone’ has become a mobile, travelling concept that has rapidly traversed territories and disciplines. As such, it has attracted several dissenters who have complained that it has become both too abstract and reductive, as well as too far detached from its geographical and historical moorings. On one level, to propose ‘contact zone’ as an analogue of the colonial space is to fail to acknowledge vast regional differences in the experiences of empire in cultural, economic or environmental terms (Godfrey 1993, 543). The amorphous quality of the contact zone’s parameters also means that it has come to refer to spatial arrangements and performative arenas that are no longer purely geographical but, say, architectural or even intertextual. In this vein, for example, James Clifford (1997a), in a gesture that is indebted but might seem antithetical to Pratt’s, argues that the contact zone be resituated to ‘centers rather than the frontiers of nations and empires’, in order to include relations within the same state, region or city. In his reading of museums as contact zones, Clifford argues that their collections are sites of encounter and passage, ‘borderlands’ between different worlds, and, correspondingly, that their curated objects can be seen as ‘travelers, crossers –​some strongly “diasporic” with powerful, still very meaningful, ties elsewhere’ (213). That major museums organize themselves with an eye to the demands of national and international tourism means that they too, like the national pavilions at the World Fairs examined elsewhere and conceptualized in like manner by Jens Andermann (2009), are places of ‘hybrid possibility and political negotiation, sites of exclusion and struggle’ (Clifford 1997a, 212). On another level, the term ‘contact zone’ raises issues about periodization; insofar as it describes and delimits the colonial period, it has or infers some temporal limitations, which potentially detract from present-​day considerations and contemporary reverberations of the phenomenon, such as those identified by Clifford and, elsewhere, Liz Stanley (2000, 200), who writes that ‘Pratt’s exclusion from the contact zone of the place and space in which colonial texts are reread and commented on now is an analytic move which elides not only the politics of reading but also the claims to know which arise from this’ (emphasis in the original). Claudio Lomnitz (2001, 142), in his work on the history of Mexican nationalism, also insists on the concept’s diachronic possibilities: in his extension of Pratt’s term to refer to transnational spaces of national identity formation, he concludes  –​echoing in some respects Clifford’s manoeuvre to relocate the margins –​that ‘contact zones are border areas between the logic of the nation-​state and capitalist progress that exist within the national space’. Such concerns and amendments have refined our understanding of the contact zone and also reinforced its enduring viability and potentiality as a complex,

56  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies sophisticated means of conceptualizing space. The ongoing value of this concept for studies of travel writing lies in the way Pratt imagines the places of colonial encounter as not determined by vertical relations of power but as fundamentally ambiguous sites of exchange and negotiation, where subaltern groups can articulate forms of discursive and material resistance.

Further Reading Clifford, J. 1997a. ‘Museums as Contact Zones’. In Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press: 188–​219. Forsdick, C.  2005. Travel in Twentieth-​ Century French and Francophone Cultures: The Persistence of Diversity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ortiz, F. 1947. Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar. Trans. by Harriet de Onís. New York: A.A. Knopf. Pratt, M. L. 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. New York: Routledge. Rama, A. 1982. Transculturación narrativa en América Latina. Mexico: Siglo XXI.

20 COUNTERPOINT Siobhán Shilton

In Culture and Imperialism (1994 [1993]) Edward Said theorizes a ‘contrapuntal’ reading practice whereby the critic interprets a text with a ‘simultaneous awareness’ of both colonial and counter-​colonial themes (see colonialism). Distinct from comparative reading, this method specifically allows an ‘alternate privileging’ and interplay of these themes, in a manner similar to counterpoint in music. The intention is to destabilize the hierarchy frequently perpetuated by readings that obscure counter-​ imperial voices. Said’s earlier text, Orientalism (1995 [1978]), was criticized as an example of such a reading (Porter 1983; Ahmad 1992). His development of counterpoint in Culture and Imperialism is part of his response to such criticism. As Catherine McGlennan-​Martin (2001, 45) states, Said’s definition of counterpoint remains hazy, and no working model for a contrapuntal approach is actually provided (52–​53). Said reads Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park from the point of view of the Bertram’s Antigua plantation, which suggests that contrapuntal reading requires only a single text (Said 1994 [1993], 69–​70). However, elsewhere in Culture and Imperialism, he implies that texts should be read together (see McGlennan-​Martin 2001, 43–​44). Despite this, both methods implicitly advanced by Said can be drawn upon productively in critical approaches to travel literature, and indeed to other texts, produced in colonial and post-​independence contexts. A contrapuntal reading, in such contexts, might involve a direct comparison of contemporaneous narratives of journeys by travellers from a former imperial ‘centre’ or ‘periphery’. Alternatively, a single text can be analysed in the light of representations of journeys which evidence a different history of empire and travel at the same historical moment, following the method suggested by Said’s reading of Austen’s Mansfield Park. Such readings might explore journeys in opposite directions, or along the same vector –​southward or northward. They highlight the specificity of the notion and experience of travel for those from former colonies, raising questions as to whether the journeys of immigrants, exiles or refugees can be called ‘travel’, and how the landscapes and people they depict renegotiate the familiar tropes of ‘exoticism’ (see exotic). Either contrapuntal reading method enables a mutual illumination of alternative, yet ‘intertwined’, European and non-​European histories and representations of colonialism and the journeys on which this depended. There are limits to Saidian counterpoint. Other critics have demonstrated that this approach risks presenting discourse as monolithic and obscuring the very voices that a contrapuntal reading aims ostensibly to recover (see, e.g., Forsdick

58  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies 1999). Charles Forsdick emphasizes that while this method constitutes ‘a potential movement beyond restrictive binary versions of the colonial encounter’ (194; emphasis in original), this potential is not realized by Said, on account of his indifference to certain textual gaps and ambivalences. As Forsdick suggests, failure to recognize ‘the ambivalent dynamics and dialogues of the postcolonial “contact zone” in question inhibits the interplay of contradictory discourses’ (196; and contact zone). In her transcolonial comparison of counterpoint and double critique in Edward Said and Abdelkebir Khatibi, Françoise Lionnet (2011) highlights the ways in which Khatibi’s double critique reveals the limits of Said’s concept. She also illuminates the convergences between these concepts. In particular, Lionnet shows that whereas the polyphony described by Said (1994, 51)  involves an ‘organized interplay’ that creates harmony between integral, comparable, translatable elements, Khatibi’s concept allows for the emergence of ‘untranslated or even untranslatable’ voices. Khatibi (1983, 63) theorizes a critique of totalizing ideologies formulated in either French or Arabic by ‘thinking otherwise, in multilingual ways, listening to any utterance –​ wherever it may be coming from’ (emphasis in the original). These voices exceed the boundaries of the harmonious ‘contrapuntal ensemble’ conceptualized by Said (Lionnet 2011, 404). Counterpoint might indeed seem restricted in relation to literature that reflects an increasingly complex ‘dislocated cultural space’ (Inda and Rosaldo 2008) by evoking transversal journeys and encounters, or by conveying the ambivalences produced by factors including a traveller’s gender, generation or socioeconomic situation. However, Said’s notion can usefully be employed together with other concepts; Khatibi’s double critique, for example. Drawing on both concepts can highlight the interplay, in texts, of colonial and counter-​colonial themes, while allowing its internal order to be disrupted by dissonance and atonality (to extend Said’s use of musical metaphors); that is, allowing for alternative, exterior voices. A contrapuntal approach can also be adopted in relation to particular cultural histories and experiences; for example, gendered experiences. Lionnet (2005) identifies a ‘transnational feminist perspective’ in Colline Serreau’s film Chaos (2001) that resonates both with Said’s description of ‘discrepant’ spheres and Simone de Beauvoir’s (1999 [1947]) interpersonal ‘ethics of ambiguity’. In postcolonial works  –​in a range of media  –​elements indicative of different cultures and histories tend to coexist explicitly. At times, postcolonial literature focuses on the contrapuntal awareness of the exile, reminiscent of Said’s (2000) discussion of this figure. Exile, in postcolonial literature, emerges frequently both in literal terms and as an existential condition; the protagonist’s ‘home’ is in travel. Postcolonial works are themselves contrapuntal and encourage in the reader or spectator a contrapuntal consciousness –​albeit one that is multidirectional and attentive to ambivalences. A reading of such works might ask how multiple discrepant spaces and times are evoked alternately or simultaneously through not only content but also style, technique and –​particularly in film or art –​media and sensorial elements. If nuanced and employed with an awareness of its limits, Said’s counterpoint can highlight the specificity, yet interconnectedness, of cultures, histories and experiences across uneven transnational spaces.

Counterpoint 59

Further Reading Forsdick, C. 1999. ‘Edward Said After Theory: The Limits of Counterpoint’. In M. McQuillan, G. Macdonald, R. Purves and S. Thomson (eds), Post-​theory: New Directions in Criticism. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press: 188–​99. Lionnet, F. 2005. ‘Afterword: Francophonie, Postcolonial Studies, and Transnational Feminisms’. In A. Donadey and A. Murdoch (eds), Postcolonial Theory and Francophone Literary Studies. Gainesville: University Press of Florida: 258–​69. ———. 2011. ‘Counterpoint and Double Critique in Edward Said and Abdelkebir Khatibi: A Transcolonial Comparison’. In A.  Behdad and D.  Thomas (eds), A Companion to Comparative Literature. Malden, MA and Oxford: Blackwell: 387–​407. McGlennan-​Martin, C.  2001. ‘Resolving Cultural Disjuncture: An Evaluation of Saidian Counterpoint through the Work of Roger Vailland and Ousmane Sembene, 1950–​1960’. Unpublished doctoral thesis: University of Glasgow. Said, E. 1994 [1993]. Culture and Imperialism. London: Vintage.

21 CURIOSITY Richard Phillips

Curiosity is entangled with travel and travel writing in two ways, which reflect the double meaning of this term. On the one hand, travel writing can express curiosity, a mental or emotional state comprising ‘a strong desire to know or learn something’ (Pearsall 2002, 351). On the other, a curiosity is an idea or thing, which is deemed to be curious. First, some travel writing can be seen as an expression of curiosity. Curiosity inspires some people to write travel books or articles and others to read them (Leask 2002; Stagl 1995). Of course, not all travellers –​in life or literature –​are curious about where they are going; many tourists are simply in search of a break from routine and a place to relax, and many migrants have more pressing concerns. But an important strand of travel and travel writing can be described as curiosity-​driven. This literature takes a number of different forms. Curiosity-​driven non-​fiction travel writing draws upon –​does not necessarily chronicle –​travel experiences, which may reflect the curiosity of the author and/​or that attributed to their audiences, which include the book-​buying public. For example, Elizabeth Banks (1895, 4), an American journalist who visited London in the 1890s, claimed to have been ‘seized with a womanly curiosity’ to learn about the lives of different women. Some other non-​fiction travel writers, identifying curiosity as their starting point, present themselves as more scholarly or scientific, their curiosity as more disciplined. Michael Bravo (1999, 162) traces ‘precision and curiosity in scientific travel’ of the early modern period (see also Naylor and Ryan 2010; Thomas 1994). In travel fiction, similarly, curiosity plays an important role. Jules Verne’s fictional adventure story, Around the World in 80 Days (1872), depicts curiosity through its narrative and characters. Though the famous protagonist Phileas Fogg is decidedly incurious, interested only in train and steamer timetables and in getting back to London within 80 days, his servant and travelling companion, Jean Passepartout, is curious about everywhere he goes and everything he sees (Clout 2008; Phillips 1997). In travel writing, as elsewhere, the term ‘curiosity’ also refers to things and other objects. Histories of travel and travel writing are closely related to those of collecting. Travel literature depicts the collection of objects, which are acquired, carried around and ultimately brought home, and also the collection of descriptions of those objects, as well as lists of their names and labels. Objects and descriptions, acquired on journeys, have been collected and catalogued in ‘cabinets of curiosity’, which wealthy collectors assembled in early modern Europe (Arnold 2006), and more recently

Curiosity 61 in the descendants of those cabinets: museums (Kingdon and van den Bersselaar 2008). Travel writing can also be acquisitive, on a grander scale, in its complicity with the colonization of people and places. The relationships between travel writing and imperialism, which postcolonial critics and cultural historians have traced and debated (Pratt 1992; Blunt 1994; and see colonialism), have been brought into particular focus in debates about the significance and ethics of curiosity. In early modern England, growth in travel and exploration, and in the literature of travel and exploration, were subjects of intense debate. On the one hand, curiosity –​symbolized by the voyager –​was celebrated as a marker of the modern age (Ulmer 1994, 24). On the other, curiosity was regarded with a serious and searching concern (Benedict 2001). Debates about curiosity addressed its consequences for the curious traveller and the society from which he or she sprung, and also for the objects of the traveller’s curiosity: things, people and places that may be acquired or possessed in some way (Benedict 2001; Ball 2012). These ethical debates took place in a number of different spheres, from philosophy to poetry. In Paradise Lost, for example, Milton interrogated the moral implications and consequences of the desire to explore, see and know the world, in a context where the desire for knowledge was not assumed to be intrinsically or universally a good thing (Brantlinger 1972). Debates about curiosity, at this time, acknowledged the different forms that curiosity has taken and can take (Phillips 2015; Zuss 2012), with implications for understanding curiosity-​driven travel, which must be as varied as the curiosity that drives it. Curious people can also embody curiosity, becoming curiosities in their own right. Barbara Benedict (2001) generalizes that curious figures can be transgressive, liminal figures, and can be seen as queer or monstrous. The most literal expression of a transgressive ­figure –​a boundary crosser –​is of course a traveller, particularly one whose journey is radical, unorthodox or unauthorized. This explains the commonplace association between curiosity (in its subversive, searching, dangerous, riskier and also its simply novel forms) and literal or metaphorical forms of travel. Some writers, conscious of the riskiness of appearing too curious, have toned down the transgressive elements of their travel stories. Mary Kingsley, the British Victorian travel writer, expressed curiosity, described curiosity-​driven travels and allowed herself to be seen as a curiosity, but did so within certain limits. Alison Blunt (1994) argues that she performed this balancing act with great skill, presenting herself as a something of a curiosity and figure of fun –​falling into West African animal traps, only to be saved by her thick woollen skirt –​while venturing further from the beaten track than others of her gender and generation. Her self-​deprecating and readable travel writing exhibited transgressive elements, which reflect the deeper sense in which travellers may be regarded as curiosities: queers and monsters (Benedict 2001). Some other writers took this further. Deeply and sometimes disturbingly curious travel writers include Richard Burton and André Gide, whose travels expressed a hunger for sexual and other forms of experience (see sex/​sexuality), and illustrated how travel can be transgressive, and travellers queer (Reid 2009). Burton and Gide were not just curious; they came to embody curiosity, which their countrymen saw as dangerous and unsettling. Curiosity means different things in different times and places; so, then, must curiosity-​driven travel and travel writing. It follows that, since curiosity is not fixed, it

62  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies may be negotiable. In other words, we can decide what we want it to be and to mean, and what we want curiosity-​driven travel and travel writing to mean. This is why debating curiosity-​driven travel is not just an academic exercise, but also a normative project, in which some commentators have argued for more and better curiosity, where ‘better’ is measured according to ethical and political values and objectives. This normative project has been expressed through theoretical interventions, including a series of arguments about, and histories of, curiosity (Phillips 2015). Other expressions are through more practical projects, which encourage and describe curiosity-​driven travel, in manuals such as the Lonely Planet Guide to Experimental Travel (Antony and Henry 2005) and in psychogeographical travel essays and books by authors such as Iain Sinclair (Lights Out for the Territory, 1996)  and Will Self (Psychogeography, 2007)  and numerous amateurs, some of whom document their journeys in blogs or websites (see psychogeography). This travel writing explores and contests what it means to be curious, and what it means to travel.

Further Reading Benedict, B. 2001. Curiosity: A Cultural History of Early Modern Enquiry. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Leask, N.  2002. Curiosity and the Aesthetics of Travel Writing, 1770–​1840. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Phillips, R. 2014. ‘Space for Curiosity’. Progress in Human Geography, 38.4: 493–​512. ———. 2015. ‘Curiosity: Care, Virtue and Pleasure in Uncovering the New’. Theory, Culture and Society, 32.3: 149–​61. Reid, V. 2009. André Gide and Curiosity. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi.

22 DARK TOURISM Charles Forsdick

Since its emergence as a recognizably modern practice in the early nineteenth century, tourism has been associated with a range of sub-​practices, some of which are seen as forms of niche tourism (Novelli 2004). The postmodern era has, for example, witnessed the proliferation of various forms of ‘extreme pursuits’ (Huggan 2009), a number of which have linked tourism to sites of death, suffering and deprivation. Some forms of these practices have attracted widespread opprobrium for their perceived violation of ethical standards. ‘Slum tourism’ (Frenzel et  al. 2012), involving, for example, visits to the townships of South Africa or the favelas of Brazil, is explored by Lydie Salvayre in Les Belles Âmes (2000), and may be seen as the contemporary manifestation of earlier, especially nineteenth-​century urban journeys to witness abject poverty (Ross 2007; see also London 1903). ‘Disaster tourism’, that is, travel to sites of natural or man-​made catastrophes, has also lent itself to creative engagement, such as in the photo-​essay of Ambroise Tézenas (2014) or Andrew Blackwell’s travelogue Visit Sunny Chernobyl (2012). Dark tourism is a more general umbrella concept for travel to sites, such as battlefields, prisons, slave forts and concentration camps, associated with death and suffering. The term ‘dark tourism’ (also dubbed ‘thanatourism’ when it relates specifically to death) emerged in the 1990s in the work of several UK-​based scholars of travel including Graham Dann, Malcolm Foley, John Lennon and Anthony Seaton (Foley and Lennon 1996; Seaton 1996; for an overview, see Asquith and Forsdick 2017; Light 2017; and Stone 2013). Much early work focused on typologies of the practice and explored the ways in which the heritage and leisure industries could adapt to a growing public appetite for this type of travel. Whereas Seaton saw historical continuity between contemporary dark tourism and early practices of thanatopsis (the contemplation of death; on this, see Seaton 1996), others have seen evidence of a predominantly postmodern phenomenon as Western societies respond to the medicalization and marginalization of death via this development in the leisure industry (Rojek 1993). It is arguable that travel writing described dark tourist practices long before the  phenomenon was identified with this term. Those on the Grand Tour and after who were drawn to the mummified corpses in the classical ruins of Pompeii may be seen to have indulged in a dark tourism avant la lettre (Stendhal 1959 [1817]; Twain 1869); the battlefield of Waterloo proved to be a major attraction in its  ­immediate aftermath (Seaton 1999); and nineteenth-​century travellers to the

64  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies United States recounted their visits to prisons and asylums (Miron 2011). Robert Reid (2016) cites other contemporary e­ xamples –​tourists visiting the ‘still-​smoking fields of Gettysburg in 1863 to see the aftermath of one of the bloodiest battles of the American Civil War’; Anton Chekhov becoming, in the 1890s, the ‘world’s first “gulag tourist” ’ –​but the phenomenon became particularly apparent from the early twentieth century, with guides to battlefields produced in the wake of World War I reflecting a growing public appetite for travel to places where death and suffering had occurred (Butler and Suntikul 2013). This is an impulse associated equally in this context with the memorial tourism to which veterans and relatives of the fallen were drawn (Winter 2009). There are few studies of dark tourism and travel writing (for exceptions, see Creech 2014; and Stubbs 2017). This is in part because studies of the former have focused largely on the social sciences, in part because there is no discrete corpus of travelogues that foreground the practice. Dom Joly’s The Dark Tourist (2010) –​ with its account of journeys to Cambodia, North Korea as well as to assassination sites in the United States –​is one of the few examples of a text centred around travel to sites of death and suffering. In a similar vein are two books by Lonely Planet founder Tony Wheeler, Bad Lands (2007) and Dark Lands (2013), although as the subtitle of the former makes clear –​A Tourist on the Axis of Evil –​the author’s motivation is more countercultural –​challenging mainstream tourist practices –​than being linked to a specific focus on death and suffering. There is a need to distinguish between the long tradition of travellers who deliberately put themselves into dangerous situations for the sake of their narrative (Huggan 2009) and work that describes ‘dark’ journeys, either recent or historical. A  wider corpus of travelogues reveals regular engagement in what may be seen as dark tourist practices, although authors rarely admit as much, not least because of their varied motivations. Travel to warzones is common (Buda 2016; Lisle 2016) and forms the subject of numerous recent journey narratives (Kremmer 2002; Maspero 1997; Porter 2010; Rolin 2000); many travel writers recount visits to prisons, either as part of a more general journey (Gimlette 2012, in Latin America), or as destinations in their own right (Londres 2002 [1923], in French Guiana; Demariaux 1956, at Poulo Condore in Vietnam). Journeys to sites of genocide are also relatively common, in particular relating to the Holocaust (Allar 2013) or more recently to the genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda (Moffat 2012; Tadjo 2000). Controversy around the appropriateness of the ‘Auschwitz selfie’ has raised questions about the emergence at such sites of new types of short-​form travel writing (Cardell and Douglas 2018). Finally, considerable attention has been paid to the links between tourism and slavery (Mowatt and Chancellor 2011; Forsdick 2015e), although there has been surprisingly little consideration of the racial and even racist overtones of the ‘dark’ in dark tourism. Many slave-​related sites attract large numbers of visitors, notably Gorée Island off Dakar in Senegal (Forsdick 2015b), as well as Cape Coast and Elmina in Ghana, and there is a rich subgenre of travelogues relating to these (e.g., Hartman 2007). Several texts are more accurately associated with ‘roots tourism’ (Tillett 2009), most notably for African American tourists seeking traces of their ancestors in sub-​Saharan Africa; others (e.g., Phillips 2000) seek to connect locations in the Black Atlantic, suggesting how contemporary travel may be mapped onto earlier patterns of mobility.

Dark Tourism 65 As the field has evolved, its cross-​disciplinary reach has grown. The intersection between dark tourism and travel writing remains, however, an underexplored area, although as studies in dark tourism evolve and become more established as a field, there are clear opportunities for significant interventions from the perspective of literary studies (Light 2017, 293). Interrogating the ways in which travel writers interact with dark tourist sites and practices has the potential to diversify the range of locations studied and also to enhance understanding of the motivations of visitors to them. For Brian Creech (2014, 249), a major advantage of travelogues is their capacity to ‘operate as a realm of discursive practice that helps make sense of complex realities by offering, beyond tourism’s broader commercial concerns, a mode of engaging with dark sites that preserves empathy’. Dark tourism is often criticized for its sensationalism and insensitivity, and journey narratives can clearly converge with this practice and fall into similar traps. Travel writing can also, however, offer insights into how creative interventions allow alternative modes of engagement –​often more ethically sensitive, and open the voices of victims –​with sites linked to death and suffering, and in the process encourage readers to make sense of atrocity.

Further Reading Creech, B.  2014. ‘The Spectacle of Past Violence: Travel Journalism and Dark Tourism’. In F. Hanusch and E. Fürsich (eds), Travel Journalism. London: Palgrave Macmillan: 249–​66. Joly, D. 2010. The Dark Tourist: Sightseeing in the World’s Most Unlikely Holiday Destinations. London: Simon & Schuster. Lisle, D. 2016. Holidays in the Danger Zone: Entanglements of War and Tourism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Stone, P., R. Hartmann, T. Seaton, R. Sharpley and L. White (eds). 2018. The Palgrave Handbook of Dark Tourism Studies. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Stubbs, B. 2017. ‘Dangerous Journalism: Exploring the Rise of Dark Travel Writing’. Australian Journalism Review, 39.1: 77–​87.

23 DEATH A. V. Seaton

Although death may not be the main thing on the mind of tourists, it is regularly encountered intentionally and incidentally on journeys and tours. Understanding these encounters involves recognizing two of death’s defining features. The first is its unknowability. Though dying can be observed and tracked, death cannot since the dead never report back. Death has, therefore, mainly been defined by lexicographers as deficit rather than content  –​‘the extinction of life’ (Johnson 1785, no pagination; emphasis added), or ‘the state of being no longer alive’ (Webster’s Third New International Dictionary 1971, 581). Medical practitioners identify death by multiple physiological deficits –​for example, without breathing, without pulse, without brain activity Its second feature is that, since death is unknowable, it can only be apprehended through representations and narratives, including those in myths, religious beliefs, paintings, memorials and funerary ceremonies, which constitute the symbolic imaginary of death that travellers may encounter in travel. Until recently these were hardly explored in thanatology studies, a multidisciplinary field that greatly expanded from the 1970s, largely stimulated by the pioneering work of Philippe Aries (1974, 1981 and 1985). His work opened up a flood of studies on death in different cultures (Farrell 1980; Gittings 1984; Jalland 2002; Merridale 2000) and over different time periods (Cecil 1991; Laderman 1996; Tenenti 2002), as well as general overviews that included other factors such as medical and ethical aspects of dying (Watkins 2013; Spellman 2014). None examined connections between death and travel. This linkage came about in the 1990s with the inauguration of a tourism studies subset, variously known as ‘Dark Tourism’ (Lennon 1996) or ‘thanatourism’ (Seaton 1996). The two terms are synonymous in substance, but not in their connotations or their acceptance by some sectors of the tourism industries (see Seaton and Lennon 2004; and Seaton et al. 2015, for a discussion of the debate about the names). Together, they first drew attention to five kinds of tourist behaviour at sites associated with mortality: (1) Witnessing death, for example, public executions, banned in England in 1868, but allowed in other countries (e.g., Saudi Arabia); (2) Visiting mass or individual death sites, for example, battlefields and natural disaster sites; (3) Visiting internment sites, for example, Arlington National Cemetery and Westminster Abbey; (4)  Visiting exhibitions, museums, displays and so on where representations, artefacts and relics of death were exhibited, for example, the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s; Wellcome Library exhibitions in London such as Bodies under London (Wellcome

Death 67 2014); (5) Attending battle re-​enactments as participants or spectators, for example, Napoleonic War Gaming in France and Civil War re-​enactments in the United States (Seaton 1996). The categories indicate the diversity of Dark Tourism, but not the nature of the different experiential comparisons tourists might make in ‘gazing’ at death in cultures other than their own. Exploring these involves understanding the temporal stages by which knowledge and experience of death are acquired and transmitted to members of a society, and how this progressive learning curve of mortality may be observed by visitors from other cultures. A knowledge of ‘mortality’ begins in childhood with initial awareness of death, and later, recognitions of its inevitability, which may be accompanied by ontological framing (such as religious beliefs and ideas of an afterlife). Tourists may gain unpremeditated insights into these in the countries they visit. In medieval Europe, for example, the Catholic Church kept death constantly and publicly in the mind of believers through memento mori displays which represented death as a skeleton dancing through the world, carrying off people from all walks of life. The lesson was that no one could escape death, which could happen at any time, so people should lead a good life and be ready for the call whenever it came. This danse macabre was transmitted in books, engravings and painted on church walls, bridges and other public places (Oosterwijk and Knoll 2011). Centuries later, sites where the dance survived became popular tourist ‘sights’, where printed mementos were sold. Another ontological aid provided by the medieval church were ars moriendi texts, small books distributed by the church, advising the terminally ill how to prepare spiritually for a ‘good’ death. The modern fashion for bucket lists –​of ‘things to do before you die’ –​ represents a secular version of this, substituting hedonism for spiritual preparation, with travel prescribed as a priority, including one guide who recently suggested visiting famous graves (Treneman 2013). A second point in societal learning of mortality is managing bereavement and the disposal of the dead. Cross-​cultural differences in funerary practices have been a regular feature of literary travel. Egypt’s funerary culture captivated Napoleon and stimulated major archaeological pilgrimages for the next 100  years (Taylor 2001). Mayan settings of human sacrifice in Yucatan, Mexico, were celebrated by John Lloyd Stephens (1962 [1843]) and have made the peninsula a world heritage site. In Europe, the campo santos of Pisa and Naples, mass burial grounds, were visited by many Grand Tourists as well as catacombs of Paris and Rome and other bone stores (Koudounis 2011; see grand tour). In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, when out-​of-​town cemeteries developed to relieve the burden on city churchyards, they were landscaped to be visitor-​friendly and promoted in tourist guidebooks (Seaton 2002; Seaton et al. 2015, 93). Historic cemeteries have since 1994 been promoted by the Association of Significant Cemeteries in Europe (ASCE) as heritage attractions and community resources (Seaton et al. 2015). The third phase in societal sequencing of mortality is monumental commemoration of the dead, on private headstones, or as public statuary, war memorials and ‘blue plaque’ signage on buildings where culturally significant figures have died or lived. These are the most numerous and visible, urban records of the dead, an unavoidable backdrop for residents and tourists alike. Commemoration is hierarchical. In

68  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Roman times status determined the right to commemorative inscriptions (Petruccci 1998) and the tradition has been maintained ever since with royalty, politicians and the ‘great and the good’ being accorded elaborate funeral ceremonies and great public memorials (Wolffe 2000), which may attract visitors for artistic and architectural reasons regardless of whom they commemorate (Etlin 1984). Similarly, historical epitaphs and inscriptions, originally recorded by historians to save them from destruction over time, became consumer items, prized or collected by tourists for their quaintness, poetry and celebrity associations. Narratives and representations, embodying a society’s ideas of death, funerary practices and commemorative priorities, allow tourists to make comparisons between their own and other societies. These social comparisons are among the main appeals of thanatourism as well as providing materials for literary travellers.

Further Reading Aries, P. 1981. The Hour of Our Death. Trans. by Helen Weaver. New York: Alfred Knopf. Morley, J. 1971. Death, Heaven and the Victorians. London: Studio Vista. Sharpley, R. and P. R. Stone. 2009. The Darker Side of Travel. Bristol: Channel View Publications. Spellman, W. M. 2014. A Brief History of Death. London: Reaktion Books. Stone, P., R.  Hartmann, A.  V. Seaton, R.  Sharpley and L.  White (eds). 2018. The Palgrave Handbook of Dark Tourism Studies. London: Palgrave.

24 DIASPORA Shine Choi

Often translated as dispersion or scattering of a people, diaspora cannot be discussed without contrasting it to terms that appear in its place, namely, the figure of the immigrant, the migrant, the ethnic or religious minority, the postcolonial and increasingly the transnational. They are all figurations of travel and effects of movements across borders, and in this sense, have a profound vantage point on what it means to inscribe and be inscribed by themes common in travel writing, such as displacement and dwelling, longing for an elsewhere and contact with/​as an alien. Unlike transnationalism, however, diaspora is a concept more closely tied to movements of human beings, and unlike postcolonial or cultural minority, it is a term that has embedded in it an idea of movement. Robin Cohen (1997, ix), a widely cited scholar on diaspora, points out how diaspora is derived from two Greek words –​‘dia’ which means ‘over’, and ‘speiro’, a verb for ‘to sow’. If translated as ‘dispersion’, embedded in the term is a particular kind of movement –​that is, movements defined by their landings in multiple sites, travel experienced as being carried by a trajectory out of one’s hands, transitions with velocity and force, which are all metaphors found in diasporic writing as we see below. Specifically, what distinguishes diaspora as a key term in modern discourse is perhaps its link to the intellectual tradition of the Jewish diaspora. It is a tradition and history of displacement and suffering that goes back to the biblical times of the Jewish exodus from the Holy Land and their dispersal and settlements around the globe. Prompted by its wide critical usage, scholars have debated how diaspora should be conceptualized. The two main positions are, on one hand, proponents for anchoring the Jewish diaspora as the originary point or the ideal type to be used in developing diaspora as a concept (Cohen 1997; Safran 2004, 2005; Sheffer 2006), and, on the other, proponents for a more generalized framework that positions the Jewish diaspora as one of many (Clifford 1997b; Braziel and Mannur 2003). In support of centring the Jewish diaspora, William Safran (2005, 36) writes, ‘Diaspora [galut] connoted deracination, legal disabilities, oppression, and an often painful adjustment to a hostland.’ Here diaspora is anchored in the experiences of suffering as a point of departure for understanding a people’s movement and connection despite their possibly diverse locations of dwelling. As Safran goes on to say, diaspora simultaneously also connotes the empowerment that arises from experiences of oppression, displacement and dwelling in the margins of host community. It is this simultaneous meaning of diaspora, that is, the entanglement with powerlessness and power, that proponents of

70  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies developing a generalized framework latch on to as a useful signifier for understanding processes such as transnational community formation, social conditions and consciousness of non-​citizens (Butler 2001; Ryang 2009; Agnew 2005). In his chapter ‘Diasporas’ in Routes, James Clifford (1997b, 251) stresses the positive articulations of diaspora identity that move community formation beyond the normative strictures that the nation-​state imposes on modern understanding of territory and history. For Clifford, diaspora articulates an alternative transnational constellation of public spheres, forms of community consciousness and solidarity, highlighting how diaspora is as much about travel as it is about dwelling and thus involves maintaining communities and having collective homes away from home. The larger argument of his book is also that travel and dwelling are overlapping, simultaneous cultural practices. In diasporic travel writing, to re-​appropriate the anthropologist Sonia Ryang (2009, 3), ‘the whereabouts of ’, as well as the nature of the ties to, ‘the homeland is an important, unanswered aspect of life’ and travel. In Jane Jeong Trenka’s memoir/​ travelogue, Fugitive Visions: An Adoptee’s Return to Korea (2009), the author writes about her longing to achieve a sense of belonging, which is conceived as a return to one’s homeland. Trenka writes, ‘Maybe someday I will wake up and find myself in the right story. Once upon a time, I was Korean’ (52; emphasis in the original). Writing about her Jewish family from Cuba and their lives as immigrants in the United States, Ruth Behar (2013) talks about her personal journey, which for her centers around her family’s journey in search of home that echo narratives of homeland and kinship ties. Behar writes, ‘I continually dive back into the immigrant experience of being a child who is taken out of her country, not knowing what’s going on, not understanding that her departure is final, that she’s losing her home’ (224). In contrast, Caryl Phillips (2000a, 186) in The Atlantic Sound is more cantankerous in his recounting of diasporic narratives, which at one point inflicts him with ‘diasporic fatigue’. While deeply entangled in a journey of stringing together the history of African diaspora, Phillips appears incredulous of diasporic ‘overstatements’ of returning to Mother Africa, building bridges, achieving salvation through correcting the past. A common theme that emerges in all these writings is that diasporic travelling is a kind of travel weighed down by history, kinship ties, memory, responsibility, love, hate, ambiguity and guilt associated with home and homeland. Thus, it is not surprising that travel writing by diasporic writers has come to be viewed as a rich site for critics to find an exemplary archive for the travel writing genre that challenges masculinist, neocolonial, capitalist discourses. Amitav Ghosh’s In an Antique Land is widely praised for his genre-​breaking routes to Egypt and India that goes beyond European travel history (see Holland and Huggan 1998, 56–​59; Lisle 2006, 251–​59). Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place (1988) and Caryl Phillips’s The European Tribe (1987) are read as providing ‘counter travel writing’ that interrogates the privileges of travel and the travel writing genre (Holland and Huggan 1998, 50; see also Edwards and Graulund 2012). Recently, Huggan (2012, 39–​49) offers Amitava Kumar’s Bombay London New York (2002) and Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City (2004) as two exemplary accounts of global consciousness, largely because of an awareness in these narratives that comes from diasporic interconnections that produce dialectics of detachment and reattachment, and presents ways of inhabiting a space between individual privilege and responsibility.

Diaspora 71 For Rey Chow (1993), diaspora is a position of power, visibility and speech that comes from the virtue of marginality that intellectuals/​speakers/​writers as oppositions to power ironically accumulate (see margins). Chow exploits this ambiguity and the term’s interchangeability to stretch diaspora to its logical extreme. Chow notes: ‘If William Safran writes, “diasporic consciousness is an intellectualization of [the] existential condition” of dispersal from the homeland, then “diasporic consciousness” is perhaps not so much a historical accident as it is an intellectual reality –​the reality of being an intellectual’ (15). Chow’s point is, first, that diaspora is an intellectual creation; and, second, that we must distinguish the oppressed from the bearer of the message of oppression who have ties, ‘roots’ to collectives that suffered (and continue to suffer) but are heard and visible (and understood) because they are diasporic Third World intellectual, not the object that the signifier Third World or other signifiers of suffering seek to capture. This power relation remains to be articulated in (criticism of) travel writing. Whether from misuse or for lack of a better word, diaspora continues to be used in exchange for or in conjunction with other related terms such as immigrant, transnational and postcolonial.

Further Reading Braziel, J.  E.  and A.  Mannur. 2003. Theorizing Diaspora: A Reader. Malden and Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Cohen, R. 1997. Global Diasporas: An Introduction. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Gilroy, P.  1992. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Kokot, W., K.  Tololyan and C.  Alfonso (eds). 2004. Diaspora, Identity and Religion: New Directions in Theory and Research. London: Routledge. Tololyan, K.  1996. ‘Rethinking Diaspora(s): Stateless Power in the Transnational Moment’. Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies, 5.1: 3–​34.

25 DISABILITY Charles Forsdick

‘Disability’ does not feature among the keywords originally selected by Raymond Williams, but it is included as one of the terms for New Keywords in 2005. In the more recent collection, ‘disability’ is not only included as a discrete entry (Berubé 2005), but also features prominently in the discussion of ‘mobility’, where there is recognition that ‘the “differently abled” have become an increasingly vocal group who argue that better social policies would allow them greater mobility’ (Berland 2005, 218). The increasing recognition of ‘disability’ as a keyword in its own right is reflected in the publication of Keywords for Disability Studies (Adams et al. 2015). The term ‘disabled’ has existed in English since the late sixteenth century, often in its initial usage to refer to ships, meaning ‘incapacitated’ or ‘taken out of service’. Although it was used to refer to physical or mental conditions that limit movement, sensation or other physical capabilities from the same period, the Oxford English Dictionary notes that ‘disabled’ acquired its now standard meaning in the second half of the twentieth century, not least as its implications were recognized in legislation. Given the emphasis of much travel writing on the body, physical exploits and access to remote locations (Forsdick 2015a), it might be argued that the genre has long manifested implicit disablist tendencies, marginalizing or even excluding those whose physical mobility is limited or whose sensory capacities are impaired. Recent evidence of a romanticized insistence on walking as an exemplary form of authentic, environmentally friendly, quintessentially human mobility has, it might be argued, potentially devalorizing implications for those who are confined to a wheelchair or rely on prosthetics for movement, and who do not, as a result, conform to a normative sense of able-​bodiedness. While such patterns of exclusion might be evident in numerous travelogues (as well as in the criticism devoted to them), there is growing awareness that the failure to link studies in travel writing to disability studies represents a significant missed disciplinary rendezvous –​and that there is in fact a substantial corpus of journey narratives, both past and present, produced by travellers with a variety of physical and sensory impairments (see also hearing and vision). These works are prominent among a corpus of the most popular earlier examples of the modern genre (Bar-​Yosef 2009), as is clear from the work of, for instance, the deaf traveller John Kitto (Ryland 1856)  and the blind traveller James Holman (1825; see also Roberts 2006). Such a tendency is evident in more recent accounts too, such as the travel fragments of Jorge Luis Borges’s Atlas (1985 [1984]), which provide a journey account where the author’s blindness is implicit throughout the

Disability 73 text. These prominent examples are just part of a much larger corpus in which the implications of the traveller’s blindness are either central to the narrative (Garcin 2015; Kuusisto 2006; Wilson 1963), or are seen as an element of particular types of journeying (e.g., mountaineering (Széll 2015; Wiehenmayer 1993), or trekking (Irwin 1992)). A number of other narratives juxtapose sighted and visually impaired travellers (Brouillaud 2016; Perrot and Audemard 2007), and use their collaborative journeying practices to reveal the limitations of travel which are over-​reliant on the visual (Forsdick 2016b). It is increasingly clear, as a result, that the traveller’s relative disability merits being added to the catalogue of variables –​most notably class, gender, ethnicity and sexual orientation (see sex/​sexuality) –​in the light of which travel, travel encounters and their transformation into text are regularly understood. The well-​established emphasis of studies in travel writing on physicality, on vision and the senses, as well as on identity formation and self-​performance, means that the potential of an engagement with disability studies for taking the field in new and unanticipated directions is considerable. Such an approach will contribute to awareness of the ways in which a literary genre such as the travelogue can contribute actively to (and on occasion disrupt) the normalization of sociocultural attitudes to disability. Engagement with questions of disability also highlights the extent to which travel writing remains –​like the activity it describes –​one of the most body-​focused of literary forms, dependent, especially in accounts of un-​mechanized or semi-​mechanized travel, on the variable and often fluctuating physical capabilities of the travellers undertaking the journeys described. The genre regularly also relies on accounts of the traveller’s physical disintegration, an aspect evident in authors such as Nicolas Bouvier (1990) and Bernard Ollivier (2000), for whom travel is linked to its etymological roots and associated not with effortless accessibility but with a physical ordeal (the Late Latin ‘trepālium’ denotes an instrument of torture). Much of the rich literature in the field of disability studies has implications for those interested in travel writing (see, for instance, Sawchuck 2013). This is particularly true for texts that focus on mobility and sensory impairments, for the travelogue has the potential to become a space in which alternative geographies –​tactile or haptic, auditory, gustatory, olfactory and, in the case of the partially sighted, chromatic –​can emerge. Active recognition of these different forms of engagement with and construction of space has wider implications for the ways in which we read the travel narrative. Much criticism of travel writing has, for example, focused on the importance of visuality and on the role of the gaze in creating a sense of generic normativity within the form. Influential key studies such as Mary Louise Pratt’s Imperial Eyes (1992) explore the key role of the travelogue in perpetuating and consolidating what Martin Jay (1993) has called the ‘empire of the gaze’. There is an eclectic corpus of nineteenth-​and twentieth-​century travelogues by blind and partially sighted authors that permits reflection on the ways in which the absence or restriction of sight is represented in such narratives. These works provide a telling illustration of the ways in which the visual has been progressively policed, framed and normalized, and also, particularly since the eighteenth century, increasingly privileged (beginning with the picturesque and scientific empiricism, and continuing via phenomena such as the imperial and tourist gaze).

74  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies People with disabilities have always, despite attempts by society to control their mobility, travelled and provided accounts of their journeys. With a growing emphasis on inclusivity in travel, those with cognitive, mental, physical or sensory impairments are increasingly visible among travel writers, meaning that studies in travel writing needs to focus more seriously and more extensively on the implications of disability for the genre. There are now increasing numbers of texts by travellers with physical disabilities, especially those confined to wheelchairs, who question assumptions about the presence and function of the body in the travel narrative. A substantial number of disabled authors, such as Jacques Briod (2001), have, for instance, written about their subjective experiences of losing and recovering literal mobility. The writings that emerge when  –​in the subtitle of a ‘Rough Guide Special’  –​‘disabled people travel the world’ (Walsh 1991) challenge many of the conventional understandings and assumptions inherent in travel writing (and in the reading of it). Revealing blindspots relating not least to corporeality and the ocular-​centric biases of the phenomenology of travel, such works deserve to be integrated actively and enablingly into wider studies of the genre.

Further Reading Adams, R., B. Reiss and D. Serlin (eds). 2015. Keywords for Disability Studies. New York and London: New York University Press. Forsdick, C.  2015. ‘Travel, Sight, Blindness: Venturing beyond Visual Geographies’. In Julia Kuehn and Paul Smethurst (eds), New Directions in Travel Writing Studies. London: Palgrave: 113–​28. Sawchuk, K. 2013. ‘Impaired’. In Peter Adey et al. (eds), The Routledge Handbook of Mobilities. London: Routledge: 409–​20. Walsh, A.  (ed.). 1991. Nothing Ventured: Disabled People Travel the World. London: Harrap Columbus.

26 DOMESTIC  RITUAL Betty Hagglund

‘Domestic ritual’ refers to the set of tasks performed in a house which helps to preserve the continuity of the house and the life lived therein. Travel is often thought of as an escape from home and domesticity. Critics have claimed that travel allows travellers, particularly women, to free themselves from the constraints of domestic life. Far from being an alternative to homemaking and domesticity, however, travellers –​both men and women – spend much of their time in a kind of displaced home-​making, creating and re-​creating temporary home spaces. Beyond this, the way in which travel is written frequently replicates the rhythm of domestic ritual. There are three main strands: the objects and artefacts that travellers bring with them from home and use to re-​create home in the new environment; rituals with which travellers make a new place into a home; the writing of travel and its parallels in domestic ritual. Tim Youngs (1997, 118)  has written: ‘For travellers the relationship to commodities that are taken with them becomes an important means of negotiating and affirming identity at a time when it is under threat [...] worries about the instability of self can be displaced onto commodities.’ Repeatedly we find lists of objects taken appearing in accounts of travel, the listing itself part of the way in which travellers establishes their identity. For Sarah Murray (1799, 39), travelling into the Highlands of Scotland before the advent of a touristic infrastructure, a list of necessary items served to establish the possibility of being ‘at home’ in the wilds and establishing control over a land where the sublimity of the landscape threatened to overwhelm her: ‘For the inside of the carriage, get a light flat box […] the side next the travellers should fall down […] to form a table on their laps […] holes for wine bottles, to stand upright in […] tea, sugar, bread, and meat; a tumbler glass, knife and fork, and salt-​ cellar, with two or three napkins.’ Murray created ‘home’ in her carriage, fitted out in ways which allowed her to dine with the manners and refinements of her upper-​ class London home and to set herself apart from both the landscape and the natives of Scotland. Two hundred years later, Laurie Hovell McMillin’s (1999, 49) list of items (in part self-​parodic) taken to Tibet performed similar functions. ‘I take with me: 1 down vest; 1 What the Buddha Taught; prayer beads given by a rinpoche; 1 Walkman; 1 jar of Nescafé; warm socks; my past karma; a Tibetan vocabulary for hello, turquoise, silver, maroon, yellow, thank you, that’s good, that’s bad; impressions from books I’ve read and half-​read; a ticket out.’ McMillin’s coffee, Walkman and ticket back to

76  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies America all served similar purposes to Murray’s salt cellars and napkins, allowing her to create a sense of familiar surroundings which keeps the unfamiliar at a distance. Armed with their familiar possessions, travellers frequently go on to describe the rituals with which they make a temporary space into a kind of domestic space. The ‘making camp’, the unpacking process, the way in which the traveller arranges his or her belongings in the inn, tent, hotel or borrowed house –​all are rituals of displaced homemaking. In 1857, a group of British women were evacuated from Lucknow in India. Three weeks into the journey, they reached the safety of Allahabad, travelling the last 40 miles by train. As one of the women wrote, ‘It seemed delightfully home-​like and natural to be once more on a railroad’ (Harris 1858, 187). The women stayed in tents erected in the grounds of the fort. What is notable is that the women all wrote about Allahabad in terms of what Alison Blunt (1999, 104) has referred to as ‘settled and familiar domesticity’. It is clear from the accounts that the women not only represented their experiences in domestic terms but also attempted to reconstruct their domestic worlds while on the road. This desire to reconstruct a domestic and familiar structure is common to both male and female authored accounts of travel. Similarly, shipboard diaries of nineteenth-​century emigrants to Australia frequently describe the process of arranging their temporary space in ways which replicated the familiar domestic spaces they had left behind. As Andrew Hassam (1994, 1997) has suggested, the ordering of their cabin was, for the emigrants, the first chance they had in the general ‘confusion’ to create a narratable space. Their arranging of their physical space invested that space with meaning and allowed that space to begin to acquire some of the social and cultural connotations of ‘home’. Having created their home, travellers reinforce that creation by describing it in writing. Just as arranging furniture and personal belongings can allow a traveller to bring their physical space under control, the writing of a travel journal or diary can become a tool with which to counter strangeness and confusion. Kathryn Allen Rabuzzi (1982, 146), writing about housework, described time spent at household tasks as ‘typically characterized by amorphousness or circularity or both, and a content frequently imperceptible’. Domestic tasks are so obviously circular that their completion can scarcely be experienced. Domestic life with its recurrent rhythms opposes sequential plotting. Lacking the clear satisfaction of narrative closure, domestic ritual is based on repetition. The same circularity and repetition characterizes many accounts of travel. Far from having a sequential plot, travel accounts frequently return to descriptions of repeated experiences in a series of subsequent locations. The ‘story’ is driven by a sequence of high and low points, punctuated by repetition and circularity, which carry equal signification. It becomes impossible to discern the relative importance of different events. Often it would be possible to rearrange the sequence in which events are recounted in a travel narrative –​while this might not make geographical sense, it would usually read perfectly coherently. Just as domestic tasks are often fragmented, the forms of travel writing too frequently show similar features.

Domestic Ritual 77

Further Reading Buck, C. 2015. Conceiving Strangeness in British First World War Writing. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Hagglund, B.  2005. ‘Travel Writing as Domestic Ritual’. Mind and Human Interaction, 14.1:  4–​70. Halverson, C.  2014. Playing House in the American West. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press. Haytock, J. A. 2003. At Home, at War: Domesticity and World War I in American Literature. Columbus: University of Ohio Press. Romines, A. 1992. The Home Plot: Women, Writing and Domestic Ritual. Cambridge: University of Massachusetts Press.

27 END-​OF-​TRAVEL Rune Graulund

Travel writers, and travel writing critics, have been proclaiming the end-​of-​travel for at least a century and a half. Gustave Flaubert (1996, 54), travelling to Egypt in 1849, was ‘irritated by the number of imbeciles’ names written everywhere’. Finding that even the top of the Great Pyramid had been despoiled by graffiti, Flaubert’s mood quickly deflated as he realized that thousands of tourists had performed the same journey before him. A century later, anthropologist Claude Lévi-​Strauss (1984 [1955], 87) would go on to complain in Tristes Tropiques that even the most inaccessible of the planet’s wildernesses were at the time of writing ‘out of date’. Flaubert and Lévi-​Strauss can thus both be said to suffer from the symptoms of the ‘belated traveller’ (Behdad 1994). Yearning to go back to a time in which ‘there were many blank spaces on the earth’ (Conrad 1988, 11), the belated traveller hankers for the day in which ‘travel’ was a term closely aligned with ‘exploration’, only to have it confirmed again and again that ‘travel is now impossible and that tourism is all we have left’ (Fussell 1980, 41). To speak of the end-​of-​travel is inadvertently also to speak of modernity. For if the prerequisite for an activity to be defined as ‘travel’ is dependent on the amount of labour (travail) expended on it, then the introduction of a range of modern technologies would forever change the manner in which travellers view the world. First, revolutionary inventions in transportation would over time eliminate not just the effort and the time involved in journeying from one location to another, but also the dangers and discomforts that travel to faraway places once entailed. Due to a range of radical advances in construction and engineering, like the opening of the Suez Canal (1869) and the Panama Canal (1914), travel times around the globe were cut drastically. With the invention of the steamboat and the railway, the motor car and the aeroplane, formerly remote and inaccessible parts of the planet were made much easier to access. Second, the technological revolutions we have seen in communication industries would signal a very different yet equally lethal blow to travel and travel writing. The introduction of the telegraph is one early example. With the first successful transatlantic cable laid in 1858, news could be relayed from one continent to another in a matter of seconds and minutes rather than weeks and months. Later, with the introduction of radio, the telephone, satellite communication and the internet, communication has become faster, cheaper and, most important of all, more widely available. The distant, and news of the distant, could now travel at the speed of light.

End-of-Travel 79 Finally, with the introduction of mass-​scale tourism, the opportunities for acting out travel as an act of independence, curiosity and resourcefulness quickly dwindled. With the establishment of tourist businesses like Thomas Cook (1841–​), a form of travel that ‘moves toward the security of pure cliché’ became commonplace (Fussell 1980, 39). Through the ‘ritual’ of tourism (MacCannell 1999, 13), the former sense of travel as a pursuit of individualism would be replaced by the mechanical revisitations of locations and activities performed countless of times before: climbing the Eiffel Tower, posing in front of the pyramids, gazing at the New York skyline from atop Empire State Building. Paradoxical as it may seem, increased mobility has prompted many travel writers to claim that travel is dying, or perhaps already dead. For writers of the late twentieth century, the overarching fear of being ‘simply a tourist’ becomes palpable (Byron 1981, 43). Mount Everest offers an interesting case in point. Until very recently, Everest was considered a hallowed spot untouched by human hand (and foot). In 1953, as Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary made the first ascent of its peak, Everest was one of the last truly ‘blank spaces’ left on the planet. Half a century later, with the publication of Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mt. Everest Disaster (1997), this was however no longer the case. Once Krakauer had his own crack at the mountain, it was considered ‘within the realm of possibility for regular guys’ (Weathers quoted in Krakauer 2009, 25). With over 30 climbers attempting to reach the summit on just one day (May 10, the date of the so-​called Mt. Everest Disaster of Krakauer’s title), it became obvious that this formerly pristine and unique spot at the roof of the world had, quite literally, become ‘an expensive tourist trap’ (Huggan 2012, 108). Indeed, the very existence of Krakauer’s (2009, 154) book is testimony to this fact in that he himself must admit to complicity in the ‘debasement of the world’s highest mountain’. We see that ‘travel’ is often conceived of as a privileged activity, which therefore must necessarily ‘end’ if it is democratized. Travel, then, as conceived by the likes of Lévi-​Strauss and Flaubert, and to some extent by Krakauer, can never be an activity for the masses, nor can it be performed in a world as interconnected as ours is today. For worst of all in the ever-​growing catalogue of crimes against travel is likely the impression that everywhere is becoming the same. In this, we see the belated traveller perform a move from modernity to post-​modernity in a move towards a state of post-​tourism (Feifer 1985). Post-​tourists are typically attentive to, but not enthralled by, standard tourist sites. However, while fully aware of their own complicity in propagating the touristic experience further, they are rarely concerned with belatedness itself. But perhaps this is not a bad thing. As suggested by Debbie Lisle in The Global Politics of Contemporary Travel Writing (2006), we should not mourn the end-​of-​ travel. As a relic of an imperialist and colonialist project that ‘remains popular because it feeds on images of otherness utilised by colonial writers’, it is fitting that the end of travel writing follows the end-​of-​travel itself (Lisle 2006, 19; and see colonialism). Hopefully, however, such an end-​of-​travel as bemoaned by the privileged classes may, in turn, open up for ‘new kinds of travel and, by extension, new ways of articulating and understanding travel [hence] enabling rather than stifling voices that actively challenge the politics of Empire’ (Edwards and Graulund 2012, 198). Travel (as we once knew it) has ended. Long live (new forms of) travel.

80  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Further Reading Behdad, A. 1999. Belated Travellers: Orientalism in the Age of Colonial Dissolution. Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press. Fussell, P. 1980. Abroad: British Literary Traveling between the Wars. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Huggan, G.  2003. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflections on Contemporary Travel Writing. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Kaplan, C.  2005. Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement. Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press. Lisle, D.  2006. The Global Politics of Contemporary Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

28 ETHICS Corinne Fowler

Since the late 1970s, there has been considerable scholarly engagement with questions of travel and ethics within and across the disciplines of anthropology, linguistics, modern languages and literary studies. Three landmarks are Edward W. Said’s Orientalism (1978), James Clifford and George E.  Marcus’s Writing Culture: The Politics and Poetics of Ethnography (1986) and Syed Islam’s Travel and Ethics (1996). Said was among the first to take travel writing seriously. His 1978 study inaugurated a focus by postcolonial critics on travel writing’s complicity with colonial discourse (see colonialism and orientalism). Concentrating on accounts of the Middle East, Said argued that travel writers have promoted and perpetuated established myths about corrupt despots, fanatical Muslims, labyrinthine thought-​processes, noble Arabs and alluring women (Hulme and Youngs 2002, 107). Said’s study fostered widespread investigations of his claim that travel writing autocratically denies colonized subjects a history or a voice (107). Islam’s book made a major contribution to the subsequent debate. The Ethics of Travel similarly emphasizes travel writing’s generic and historical tendency to produce one-​sided portrayals of intercultural encounter to which travellees have no right of reply (Islam 1996, 2013). Today, many scholars have retained Said and Islam’s pessimism about travel writing’s culturally imperialist nature. Debbie Lisle’s (2006, xi) book The Global Politics of Contemporary Travel Writing argues that travel writing overwhelmingly entrenches a ‘conservative political outlook’. Postcolonial scholarship by Steve Clark, Patrick Holland and Graham Huggan claims that, representationally speaking, contemporary travel writing continues to resemble ‘one-​way traffic’ (Clark 1999, 6). A common ethical complaint against travel writing is that travellers lack solidarity with the travellees featured in their accounts. Meanwhile, scholars have amassed evidence to support the claim that travel narratives both inherit and entrench established modes of representing particular regions. Paraguay, for example, has been alternately represented as Arcadia, Eden and El Dorado (Fowler 2013, 55). Such patterns are geographically varied and often contradictory. While Afghans have, for instance, traditionally been represented as medieval, unruly, murderous and warlike (Fowler 2007), Paraguay persistently figures as ‘languid and insular, Edenic and apocalyptic, exotic and erotically charged’ (Fowler 2013, 62). Moreover, travel writers demonstrably project their own societal anxieties and preoccupations onto sites of travel elsewhere (55). Paraguay has therefore also been the persistent focus of British and

82  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Australian travellers’ expression of concern about global overpopulation, climate change and ailing democracies (55). Yet scholars of travel writing have also widely questioned Said’s dualistic approach to the ethics of representation. Travel writing has since been carefully historicized as a literary form. Scholars have collectively fine-​tuned their approaches to this historical variety by considering the implications of its different purposes and audiences in a bewildering range of contexts including navigation in the pre-​Christian era, to medieval diplomatic missions and colonial exploration. The 1990s brought keen critical alertness to the nuances of nationality and gender. Prominent figures here include Ali Behdad, Charles Issawi, Billie Melman, Sara Mills and Lisa Lowe, whose work showed that travel writing was significantly shaped by historical context and gender (Hulme and Youngs 2002, 107). Travel writing has increasingly emerged as a more experimental and radical form than late twentieth-​century scholarship originally supposed. Andrew Hammond and Tim Youngs spearheaded scholarly investigations into the many ways in which travel writers have taken advantage of travel writing’s multigeneric qualities to contest and critique cultural imperialism and the status quo. Initial discussions of this phenomenon encompassed modernist writers (Hammond 2010), including W.  H. Auden (Youngs 2004), and have more recently expanded consideration of African American travel writers, who  –​Youngs argues  –​found correspondences between the genre’s ‘polyphonous’ quality and their own fluid identities (Youngs 2009). Such work suggests that travel writing’s ‘generic indeterminacy’ and unfixed quality allow writers to expand its discursive and formal horizons (71). In recent years, questions of ethics have featured prominently in discussions about eco-​ criticism, ficto-​ criticism and tourism. Influentially, Graham Huggan and Helen Tiffin have incorporated an eco-​critical focus on animals and environmental concerns into postcolonial studies (Huggan and Tiffin 2009). Jopi Nyman (2013) and Anthony Carrigan (2013) have since each focused on contemporary travel narratives’ consistent concern with ecocide and environmental destruction. Nyman (2013, 110)  focuses on ‘the role of the animal as a socio-​political question’, while Carrigan (2013, 128) concentrates on travel writers’ longstanding preoccupation with landscapes’ destruction by mass tourism. Ficto-​criticism is predominantly associated with Australia, though this mode of writing has been adopted or examined by practitioners and academics in Europe and the United States. A form of essay writing, ficto-​criticism fuses fictional and theoretical styles in postmodern, and often feminist, veins. Practitioners of critical-​creative writing both advocate fiction’s role as promoting ‘affective engagement’ with people in all kinds of predicaments (Lindsay 2009, 11; also affect), while also insisting on fiction’s analytical capacity (Schad 2012). The latter is emerging as a key ethical consideration. Practitioners of eco-​criticism and creative-​critical writing emphasize creative writing’s power to promote more equal cross-​cultural encounters (Lindsay 2009; Fowler 2013). The relationship between fact and fiction has been contentious in travel writing studies. So much so that it might seem unwise for travel writers to dabble in fiction. Adopting overtly fictional techniques is potentially de-​authorizing for practitioners of a genre associated with tall tales, which has historically been troubled by authors’ inability to verify their truth claims (Thompson 2011). As suggested in the Routledge Companion to Travel Writing, ‘there are lies, there are damn lies, and there

Ethics 83 is fiction’ (Thompson 2016b). Nonetheless, as Clifford and Marcus recognized back in 1986, narrative craft and devices of fiction are central to all writing. Despite these reservations, Claire Lindsay argues that Latin American writing uses fiction in ethically informed ways. Ruben Martinez’s book Crossing Over: A Mexican Family on the Migrant Trail (2001) and Luis Alberto Urrea’s The Devil’s Highway (2004) use second-​ person narrative and polyvocal focalization to give their accounts of ‘illegal’ Mexican migration considerable ‘political voltage’ (Lindsay 2010, 114). Three decades after the publication of Writing Culture the ethics of fiction has become a productive area of travel writing enquiry.

Further Reading Clifford, J. and G. E. Marcus (eds). 1986. Writing Culture: The Politics and Poetics of Ethnography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fowler, C., C.  Forsdick and L.  Kostova (eds). 2013. Travel and Ethics: Theory and Practice. London and New York: Routledge. Huggan, G. and H. Tiffin. 2009. Postcolonial Ecocriticism: Literature, Animals and Environment. London and New York: Routledge. Islam, S.  1996. The Ethics of Travel: From Marco Polo to Kafka. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Lindsay, C. 2009. Contemporary Travel Writing of Latin America. London: Routledge. Said, E. W. 1978. Orientalism. London: Penguin.

29 ETHNICITY Aedín Ní Loingsigh

‘Ethnicity’ is a fluid concept that interconnects in complex ways with other forms of social identification. It refers to notions of belonging based on shifting combinations of common geographical origins and cultural traditions. Etymologically, the term derives from the Greek ethnos. Originally, ethnos denoted large groups of animals or insects and, by metaphorical association, invading armies ‘where great size, amorphous structure, and threatening mobility’ were emphasized (Tonkin et al. 1996, 19). This early use evolved to describe groups of people with a shared identity yet who were always also ‘other’, usually in an inferior way. By the mid-​nineteenth century, ethnos had come to be understood as a band of people, or tribe, with shared characteristics. As a substantive, the term did not impose itself in English, largely because the idea of ‘race’ made it redundant. However, by the earliest dictionary appearance of ‘ethnicity’ in 1972 (Oxford English Dictionary), sociologists were signalling the term’s value both as a means of breaking with the biological mis/​understandings of ‘race’ and offering a response to the identity formations of postcolonial migration. While the extent to which these objectives have been achieved remains a matter of debate, ‘ethnicity’ is now routinely deployed to foreground the cultural bases of identity but also to stress subjective interpretations of such factors by those who claim an ethnic identity and those who attribute it. How and why does ‘ethnicity’ matter to critical understandings of travel writing and vice versa? At the most basic level, travelling lifestyles serve as the fundamental basis on which the ethnic identification of nomadic groups around the world is constructed. Metaphors of nomadism in critical language have tended to obscure these connections between travel and ethnicity. However, in contesting the hegemony of static and bounded ways of thinking, such metaphorical usage can evoke the manner in which the mobility of nomadic ethnicities has been perceived as ‘threatening’ rather than enriching. On the other hand, the apparently detached reporting of the traveller has frequently been valued for his/​her ‘outsider’ perspective on the connections between fixed, instrumentalist understandings of ethnicity and violent conflict (see Moffat 2012). Assumptions regarding the traveller’s ‘neutrality’ can often be based on the understanding of this figure as a ‘non-​ethnically’ marked observer of the ‘ethnically marked’ Other. In this way, uses of ‘ethnicity’ in the context of travel and travel writing can preserve the role played by ‘race’ in colonialism’s powerful language of difference. Thus, just as ‘race’ in the nineteenth century determined who achieved

Ethnicity 85 the status of traveller and who remained the ‘exoticized’, sessile ‘travellee’, so notions of ethnicity and ethnic diversity can function in contemporary contexts as a smokescreen masking the hierarchies of privilege that separate a culturally fixed ‘them’ from a dominant, mobile ‘us’. As Graham Huggan (2001, 140) notes, contemporary tastes for the culturally different turn ‘ethnicity into a commodity’ that continues to be sought out and consumed by privileged Western travellers. While ‘ethnicity’ undoubtedly retains facets of the concept of race  –​just as it overlaps to an extent with other bases of identification such as ‘diaspora’, ‘nation’, ‘religion’, ‘migrant status’ –​discourses of travel in the postcolonial globalized era have become increasingly useful for registering the multiple subject positions to which ‘ethnicity’ can refer. For example, Tété-​Michel Kpomossie’s early postcolonial travelogue, An African in Greenland (1978), begins by emphasizing the distinctive cultural heritage of the author’s identity as a Mina from the Ouatchi Plateau in southern Togo. However, as he travels out of his immediate environment to other African countries, Europe and finally Greenland, notions of identity shift as Kpomassie is defined by others yet  also (re)defines himself. Markers that highlight national belonging (Togolese) are replaced by a broader continental identity (African) that more often than not overlaps with a racial one (black). On other occasions, a linguistic identity (French-​speaking) prevails. Yet even if this process of ethnic identification is about cultural differentiation, it is also a dialectic between cultural similarity and difference, and Kpomassie’s ethnicity is defined as much by what he shares culturally with his Inuit hosts as what distinguishes him from them. This negotiable character of ‘ethnicity’ is a key characteristic of the travel experiences recounted by ‘other voices’ (Thompson 2011, 162) that challenge a white Western tradition of travel. As Gary Younge notes in relation to his US travels, he, a British-​born subject of black Bajan parents, journeyed ‘halfway across the world and actually found out more about [himself] than [he] did about where [he] was going’ (Youngs 2002, 104). In the context of travel studies, these ‘other voices’, often defined as postcolonial or diasporic, are increasingly presented as distancing themselves from discredited discourses of travel and cultural difference. In Mobility at Large, Justin D. Edwards (2012, 73) suggests that in the ‘innovative’ texts of authors such as Caryl Phillips and Amitav Ghosh, ‘practices of travel and the conceptions of foreignness are self-​consciously located in the self, not the external world’. That said, part of the value of travel writing by Phillips and others lies in what Edwards terms the ‘distinctive reversal’ (66) that sees the West, traditionally travel writing’s point of departure, as an exotic, ethnically differentiated location in itself. At the same time, the access of these ‘other voices’ to the privileged movement usually deemed to be a ‘valid’ form of travel underlines how ‘ethnic groups’ are themselves defined by internal hierarchies and contradictions. A further point concerning ethnicity is its importance for understanding contemporary patterns of migration. Migration, underwritten as it is by complex patterns of travel, is clearly an ethnicized process that continues to give rise to new identities just as it creates a greater diversification of travelling subjects and travel-​generating locations. The challenge for travel writing is to make room for the mobilities of ethnicities heretofore excluded from critical consideration or decried as ‘threatening’. At the same time, any meaningful incorporation of ethnic diversity into travel

86  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies writing’s critical analysis must recognize that other factors such as gender, class, education and sexual orientation (see sex/​sexuality) intersect with, and at times outweigh, ethnicity. Understandings of ethnicity must also avoid the pitfall of equating it with the ‘other’ and recognize instead that, in the end, ‘we are all ethnically located’ (Hall 1990, 258).

Further Reading Cornell, S. and D. Hartmann. 2007. Ethnicity and Race: Making Identities in a Changing World. London: Sage. Lisle, D.  2006. The Global Politics of Contemporary Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ní Loingsigh, A.  2009. Postcolonial Eyes: Intercontinental Travel in Francophone African Literature. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Phillips, C. 1987. The European Tribe. London: Faber & Faber.

30 EXOTIC Vladimir Kapor

‘Exotic’ (from the Greek exō meaning ‘outside’, via the Latin exoticus), recorded in both English and French from the late sixteenth century, initially designated something originating in or characteristic of a foreign country. The patterns of the term’s usage in European languages have restricted its application to specific geographical areas such as the mythical ‘Orient’ or the tropics conjured up by the German exotisch. This objective meaning links the exotic to domesticated, geographically determined forms of otherness. As early as the seventeenth century, a subjective meaning, ‘unfamiliar’, or ‘unordinary’, became entwined with it (Moura 1998, 23–​24), often positively connoted as ‘appealing’ or ‘alluring’. Semantically, the exotic therefore oscillates between the hackneyed foreignness of a far-​flung cliché, understood in Eurocentric terms, and radical otherness. The relational prefix ‘exo’, implying the existence of a spatially outer ‘elsewhere’ and a culturally heterogeneous ‘other’, has ensured this keyword’s enduring relevance to travel writing. The appeal of the unfamiliar that the exotic harbours has traditionally served as a prompt to travel, while the encounter with it has sparked the desire or impulse to create a textual representation of the journey (see motivation). This formulation may sound outdated in a globalized world where ‘[t]‌he “exotic” is uncannily close […] Difference is encountered in the adjoining neighbourhood, the familiar turns up at the ends of the earth’ (Clifford 1988, 13–​14). The semantic elasticity of the subjectively exotic turns it, however, into an apt tool for probing the location of ‘elsewhere’ and of cultural diversity, an endeavour central to many contemporary forms of travel writing. In recent scholarship, the exotic has mainly been scrutinized through Western travellers’ responses to cultural diversity and the perceived loss thereof. The ‘rhetorically blatant’ shock (Campbell 1988, 3) of Medieval and Early Modern travel writers enshrined the ideal of exotic as an encounter with and description of the radically different (see wonder): the accounts of Marco Polo’s thirteenth-​century journey to China, or of Bougainville and Cook’s encounter with Polynesia provide some notable examples. Haunted by this ideal of pristine encounters with the exotic, travel writers have, since the nineteenth century, lamented the ‘entropic decline’ of cultural diversity brought about by colonial expansion, increased mobility and (post)colonial globalization (see colonialism). In this worldview, epitomized by the fin-​de-​siècle writings of Victor Segalen, the quest for the ‘exotic’ can be interpreted as a nostalgia for a more primitive society affording a ‘possible refuge from an overbearing modernity’

88  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies (Bongie 1991, 17) (see primitivism), or a longing for more integral signifying systems in post-​Renaissance Europe (Scott 2004, 5–​6) (see semiotics). The fear of cultural homogenization, and the lament over the end-​of-​travel have, nonetheless, spurred a desire to capture the exotic which, commodified as spectacle or fetish, ‘replaces the impress of power with the blandishments of curiosity’ (Said 1994 [1993], 159) in a self-​perpetuating cycle. In the present-​day era, the tension between the loss of and the desire for cultural diversity has found its institutionalized form in the contemporary travel (literature) industry, which ‘has been quick to cash in on Westerners’ growing fears of homogenization, promoting its products as thrilling alternatives to the sanitized spectacle of mass tourism’, thereby capitalizing on and contributing to a ‘new exotic’ (Holland and Huggan 1998, 2), the domain of an adventurous traveller, rather than a mere tourist. The exotic is also at the root of its kindred concept ‘exoticism’, which can broadly be defined as the action or process of representing and relating to the ‘Other’ (see other). In English-​language scholarship, dominated by postcolonial studies, the term has been devalued, due to its colonial residue (Ashcroft et  al. 1998, 94–​95), which links it to Eurocentric essentialization. The more neutral French approaches to exotisme show a desire to open up the understanding of ‘exotic’ to non-​Eurocentric and non-​hegemonic uses. In Tzvetan Todorov’s (1993 [1989]) relativist model (exoticism as the opposite of nationalism), exotisme implies, in theory at least, a value judgement based on a non-​hegemonic relation between Self and the Other. While Todorov condemns exoticism from the point of view of new critical humanism, his use of the term draws attention to the reversibility of the concept, which contemporary travel writing and French-​language scholarship have amply explored. Jean-​ Didier Urbain includes, for instance, domestic journeys in which home is exoticized through the traveller’s gaze (François Maspero’s Roissy Express: A Journey through the Paris Suburbs (1990) is a classic example of this trend) and other forms of interstitial travel among the forms of ‘new exoticism’ (Urbain 1998, 104). Reversal is also central to the typically postcolonial form of ‘counter-​exotic’ travel, cultivated by both French-​and English-​speaking authors, in which Europe, the traditional pole of the Self, is exoticized through the gaze of its postcolonial Others (as in Caryl Phillips’s The European Tribe (1987)). Another postcolonial conceptual model of exotisme is a multidirectional and dynamic one. In the configuration implied by Édouard Glissant’s (1997 [1990]) concept of ‘Relation’, Self and Other are not fixed poles, but are mutually implicated in a non-​reductive interaction of cultures. Through a process of mutual exchange, the assimilation of the exotic Other is both marred by the Other’s ‘right to opacity’ and balanced out by the Self ’s inner journey of self-​exoticization (Victor Segalen’s writings and Leiris’s L’Afrique fantôme are precocious examples of this). Rather than a sign of subordination, the postcolonial ‘exotic’ re-​emerges as a site of resistance. The relevance of the ‘exotic’ for contemporary travel writing and the recognition of its creative potential are dependent on it shedding its Eurocentric hegemonic meaning, which locks it up unproductively in imperial epistemology and nostalgia. To a great extent, the exploration of the subjective, perceptive dimension of the exotic parallels the transformation the concepts of travel and cultural diversity have undergone, through emerging trends such as domestic and interstitial travel, counter-​exotic

Exotic 89 travel or the mutual exchange between the traveller and the travellee (see traveller/​ travellee) implied by the process of ‘Relation’. Opened up to relativist and multidirectional configurations between the Self and the Other, this plural and fluid exotic becomes a privileged sounding board for exploring issues of cultural diversity or opacity, transculturation and contrapuntal approaches to interculturality (Forsdick 2005a) through travel writing.

Further Reading Campbell, M. B. 1988. The Witness and the Other World: Exotic European Travel Writing, 400–​ 1600. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Forsdick, C.  2005. Travel in Twentieth-​ Century French and Francophone Cultures: The Persistence of Diversity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Holland, P. and G. Huggan. 1998. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflexions on Contemporary Travel Writing. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Masson, P.  1998. Infelicities: Representations of the Exotic. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Moura, J.-​M. 1998. La Littérature des lointains. Paris: Honoré Champion.

31 EXTREME  TRAVEL Robert Burroughs

‘Extreme’ in its most basic definition has a functional, navigational purpose designating the farthest distance from a centre. In this sense it may refer to geographical coordinates or to bodily ‘extremities’  –​fingers, toes and so on, those parts of the human form which are most endangered should we venture to climactic limits at which frostbite becomes a possibility. ‘Extreme travel’ is not in the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) though by borrowing from the recently added entry for a similar concept, ‘extreme sport’, it could be defined as travel ‘performed in a hazardous environment or involving a great physical risk’ (OED). The wording is apt as it maintains the two types of ‘extremes’, environmental and bodily ones, though in extreme travel (as in extreme sport) the two often blur. Such a combination is what makes extreme travel perilous, and yet also, as Graham Huggan (2009) has noted, quite ubiquitous. Why do individuals venture to far-​flung places to put their bodies in danger? Answers may lie in the historical meanings of the word ‘extreme’. In early uses, ‘extremes’ is a synonym for ‘straits’, indicating travellers’ hardships and peril. Thomas Herbert (1634, 25) employs the term in this sense in writing of ‘Sea-​men’ who ‘fell into great extreames’ in his Relation of Some Yeares Travaile. Given the semantic outgrowth of ‘travel’ from ‘travail’ (see travel), extreme travel is extreme suffering. However, such endeavours may be extremely rewarding. In late Latin, ‘extreme’ was used adjectively ‘as a positive, with comparative and superlative extrēmior, and extrēmissimus’ (OED). This sense blurs into another, fuzzier definition of the word ‘extreme’ as ‘a quality of condition, or feeling’ (OED), which further helps to explain the appeal of extreme travel. Romantic sensibilities desire extreme travel as a means of acquiring intense or profound mental experience in response to the perceived limitations of rigid and stifling norms. What Edmund Burke defined in 1757 as the ‘sublime’, the sensation of awe rooted in the possibility of pain, is in many instances located at the geographical extremes. Besides comprising physical space and the body, then, extreme travel should also take in the mind, especially sensory and/​or emotional intensity. Commercial discourses on extreme travel continue to celebrate humans testing their physical and mental boundaries, often free of Burke’s uneasiness. ‘[T]‌he rush of a lifetime’ is available, for example, to those individuals who follow up The Lonely Planet’s (2013, 14) recommendations for surfing locations in 1000 Ultimate Adventures. Extreme travel is, then, a relative concept. It depends on the starting point of and distanced travelled by the traveller. And it is of course possible to experience emotional extremes during routine travel (when stuck in a traffic jam, perhaps). Only the

Extreme Travel 91 climactic extremes are locatable (though not fixed) regardless of individuals’ starting location (see Middleton 2001). Culturally speaking, however, extreme travel has nevertheless come to be associated with particular locations. The Putumayo district of the Amazonian rainforest has for decades inspired representation as a dangerous border land beyond the farthest reaches of state control both in Spanish-​and English-​ language traditions (Wylie 2013). The dangers posed by travel to this territory are, as with similar ‘extreme’ destinations, of course social as well as environmental. Political instability, violence, ecological damage and their traumatic after-​effects give rise to human-​made danger zones, though motivations vary widely among humanitarian reporters, crusading journalists, path-​breaking explorers or the more idly curious thanatourists who seek these out (see death and dark tourism). Perhaps it is the mixture of geographical relativity and cultural and political groundedness in designating ‘extreme travel’ which ensures that its reportage often involves a certain amount of hyperbole. Lesley Wylie (2013, 18)  notes that one enduring trope of Putumayo writing is its association with hell and adventurous feats of Dantesque proportions. More generally, it is no coincidence that the long-​ nineteenth-​century ‘great age’ of exploration also gives rise to the New Journalism’s sensational style of reportage (Riffenburgh 1993). In this context, feats of travel occurred not only through practical necessity but also as a means of drumming popular interest in and support for travels at the vanguard of building, defending and decrying European empires (sometimes through humanitarian motives of bearing witness to political instabilities, be they caused by imperial powers and/​or regarded as ‘savage’ customs). Extreme sensations then appear as the pretext for the material rewards of a journey. Margueritte Roby’s journey on a bicycle through the southeastern Congo in 1911, for example, would seem to belong in the niche of travels deliberately undertaken for their difficulty. Roby, however, was an apologist of the Belgian colonial regime whose claims that the colony was now run humanely following the excesses of the Leopoldian era are clearly political regardless of their accuracy (see colonialism). As with her hunting exploits, Roby’s bicycling underlined her credentials as a fearless reporter. She was not the only woman of her period who recounted extreme experiences to confront masculinist assumptions about travel, exploration and imperialistic prowess, as well as broader social questions of gender inequality, even as she reinforced other prejudices (see Boisseau 2004). Roby’s example is further telling because it shows that if designations of ‘extreme’ are historically variable, then so too are the ideologies which underpin the term. Though guidebooks continued to promote the notion of extreme travel with little reflexivity, as travel writing increasingly sought literary respectability in the twentieth century, it often shied from the sensationalism which informed nineteenth-​ century accounts. Humour replaces derring-​do in Eric Newby’s account of a remote mountaineering expedition undertaken seemingly by accident, A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush (2010 [1958]). In one illustrative passage, Newby’s purchase of a tent advertised in militaristic terms as suitable for ‘the final assault’ is found by his wife, Wanda, to have no ‘holes for the poles’. Newby’s rescue comes in the form of ‘the little woman who makes [Wanda’s] dresses’ (31). Critics often point to Europe’s waning imperial power in explaining the shift towards bathos, though the influence of more self-​effacing women’s writings is not to be discounted. As Mary Louise Pratt (1992,

92  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies 9) shows, moreover, apologetic versions of the rugged explorer myth might still be bound up in imperialism as ‘strategies of innocence’. That said, we should not discount the potential of extreme travel to challenge readers, as well as the traveller. The journalist and activist Mark Thomas’s recent travelogue Extreme Rambling: Walking Israel’s Separation Barrier. For Fun (2011) shows that extreme travel can also be deployed to critique practices of empire by connecting readers to those people for whom the ‘extreme’ is lamentably the everyday.

Further Reading Donovan, S.  2006. ‘Touring in Extremis: Travel and Adventure in the Congo’. In T.  Youngs (ed.), Travel Writing in the Nineteenth Century: Filling in the Blank Spaces. London: Anthem:  51–​68. Huggan, G.  2009. Extreme Pursuits: Travel/​Writing in an Age of Globalization. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Riffenburgh, B. 1993. The Myth of the Explorer: The Press, Sensationalism, and Geographical Discovery. London: Belhaven. Thompson, C.  2007. The Suffering Traveller and the Romantic Imagination. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wylie, L. 2013. Columbia’s Forgotten Frontier: A Literary Geography of the Putumayo. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press.

32 FICTION Scott Carpenter

Every story, they say, is the Iliad or the Odyssey  –​that is, a departure or a homecoming. Fairy tales often, therefore, tell of quests; stories as different as Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Anne Tyler’s Accidental Tourist (1985) recount journeys; and the very notion of narrative implies movement from a beginning to an end, mirroring the dynamics of a trip. In short, fiction has always been tied to travel. The word ‘fiction’ typically refers to literature in the form of prose, stories either long or short that recount ‘imaginary events and people’ (Concise Oxford English Dictionary). More generally it evokes all things invented or untruthful. Thus, a politician’s claims may be decried by opponents as ‘pure fiction’; less pejoratively the term might apply to a child’s imaginary friend. As Williams reminds us in the original Keywords (2014 [1976]), the Latin fingere, from which the term ‘fiction’ was born, meant ‘to form’ or ‘to contrive’, referring specifically to the fashioning of clay. Not surprisingly, fingere also gave rise to the words ‘feign’ and ‘figment’, terms which underscore the contributions to fiction of both artifice and imagination. This genealogy introduces a tension among those studying travel writing: some readers exclude imaginary journeys from the genre. For them Gulliver’s Travels (1726) or Voltaire’s Candide (1759) fail to qualify as travel literature because they are not based on the actual peregrinations of their authors. But the distinction is messy. Michael Kowalewski, Charles Forsdick, Patrick Holland and Graham Huggan have all commented on the indeterminate boundaries of travel writing. The traditional emphasis on lived experience, typically resulting in first-​person narratives, aligns the genre more closely with other supposedly ‘non-​fiction’ forms such as memoir and autobiography. However, this grounding in personal experience merely displaces the problem. As discussed by Philippe Lejeune (1989) and others, narratives of personal experience often project an aura of authenticity at the same time that they draw on the toolkit of fiction. And although Peter Hulme and Russell McDougal (2007) speak of the scientific inclinations of some travel literature, most readers acknowledge that even documentary-​style work follows the principles of narrative. After all, ‘objective’ representations still crop experience like a photograph in order to highlight or dramatize events. And since the granularity of reality can never be fully represented, the mere selection of information in so-​called authentic narratives partakes of rhetoric –​especially the principle of synecdoche, where the part represents the whole. The accepted boundaries of fiction in travel writing change according to culture, era and audience. In the early twenty-​first century, it is commonplace for travel

94  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies writers to allow themselves certain liberties: multiple characters may be merged for the sake of simplification; similarly, time may be compressed, or multiple trips consolidated. It is largely understood and accepted by readers that dialogue will be an approximation of exchanges that were never recorded or transcribed. Many writers express an obligation to be more faithful to the spirit of their experience than to the letter of the law of fact-​checkers. Bruce Chatwin famously claimed that he didn’t ‘believe in coming clean’ (qtd. in Blanton 1995, 103), and this attitude led to criticisms by others in the trade, such as Paul Theroux (1993, 217): ‘How had he traveled from here to there? How had he met this or that person? Life was never so neat as Bruce made out.’ Not everyone endorses such liberties, preferring instead a more anthropological approach. Paradoxically, then, while travel writing deals both implicitly and explicitly with borders and liminality, it has an uncomfortable relationship with its own boundary between fact and fiction –​which it straddles. For instance, Voltaire’s Candide recounts fantastical events (the discovery of El Dorado, a clash with monkey-​men) while at the same time speaking of real experiences in other lands (e.g., the earthquake in Lisbon or the Inquisition in Spain). Some travel narratives have been presented as true, only later to be unmasked as what Percy G.  Adams (1962, 1)  called ‘travel lies’. Prosper Mérimée’s La Guzla (1827) is one such example; another would be Theroux’s (2006, 20) ‘The Memory Priests of the Creech People’, which details the sacrificial practices of ‘the hill-​dwelling aboriginals of south-​central Sumatra’, a people that never existed. In many other cases, narratives are ‘doctored’ for the sake of their audience: Gérard de Nerval, in his Journey to the Orient (1851), altered the actual route of his travels and painted himself in an especially favourable light. Lesser sins of this nature are part and parcel of travel writing. Fiction seeps into travel accounts in insidious and less voluntary ways, too. As Stephen Greenblatt has demonstrated, Columbus’s accounts of his travels to the New World evolved considerably over time, but at no point could they be considered an ‘authentic’ or ‘faithful’ description of his experience. First, his letters to Ferdinand and Isabella belied his complete misunderstanding of what he had found; he lived a fiction without even knowing it. Later, his descriptions of the New World reflected particular needs: to make up for the lack of gold or spices, he shipped back instead newly exoticized descriptions marked by the presence of ‘marvels’. Similarly, after initially acknowledging the gentle humanity of the indigenous people, he later described them as violent and godless brutes, in part as a justification for enslaving or expropriating them. In such cases, language moves from the descriptive to the performative. It would be folly to believe that misrepresentations dwindled after the era of Columbus, or that we now record experience more objectively and faithfully. Despite travel writing’s predilection for lived experience, such events can never be presented ‘as is’. Instead, they must always be re-​presented (e.g., by word or image), and such representations will inevitably suffer from distortion. If nothing else, a greater sensitivity to the irremediable presence of fiction within travel writing should heighten our awareness of the complexity of representations, which must always be scrutinized for the way they engage with their contexts –​no matter how ‘simple’ or ‘unproblematic’ or ‘transparent’ they may at first appear to be.

Fiction 95

Further Reading Fussell, P.  1980. Abroad: British Literary Traveling between the Wars. New  York: Oxford University Press: 202–​15. Korte, B. 2000. English Travel Writing from Pilgrimages to Postcolonial Explorations. Trans. by Catherine Mattias. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Lisle, D. 2006. The Global Politics of Contemporary Travel Writing. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press: 27–​67.

33 FORM Alex Drace-​Francis

Form, deriving from Latin forma, has been in common use for centuries in all Romance and Germanic languages, as well as in many other tongues; the first English attestation is from c.1225. Roughly equivalent to ‘shape’, it can denote something’s external outline, but also its essential quality or character. In literary studies, it usually refers to certain consecrated configurations –​structures, patterns, sequences or styles of writing –​within a given genre. These forms imply a set of ‘norms’, or rules of literary composition in a work, conformity to which would confer respectability and success. However, genres and forms are not ‘naturally occurring’ but are ‘historically perceived’ and ‘institutionally codified’ (Todorov 1990 [1978]; Chirico 2008). More recently, the emphasis on defining genres in a normative way has largely been replaced by an understanding of the infinite diversity of forms in which cultural representations may occur. Forms can also be understood not just in terms of an author’s intentions or the tastes of the period, but also in terms of how they are received (Kohanski 1996). ‘Form’ has usually been distinguished from ‘format’, the latter referring to the physical arrangement, shape or size of a publication, and the materials used, rather than the internal structure. However, scholars increasingly recognize a reciprocal relationship between physical and material conditions of production and literary form. Travel can be recorded or represented by any number of signs in a vast array of media. Photographs, paintings, drawings, films, sound and other recording formats can bear witness to human movement; so can documents like passports, tickets and passenger records, or even traces like footprints or smells. But while the impulse to register travel experience is an age-​old one, and traces of journeys can be found across almost all genres of material artefact, travel writing’s history as a literary genre has not always been distinct. Most critics tackling the problem agree that travel writing partakes of a hybrid quality: it has been called ‘a broad and ever-​shifting genre’ (Hulme and Youngs 2002, 10) which ‘does not seem to belong to any genre in particular’ (Borm 2004, 14). Accounts of travel can be embedded in works of history, autobiography or memoir (a quality emphasized by Fussell (1980, 203)), as well as in material artefacts. From early times, travel books were of a highly diffuse nature, both in terms of their epistemological status (veering between fact and fantasy) and in terms of their textual structure. One feature which Mary Baine Campbell (1988) has stressed as common to many early accounts is the claim to ‘bear witness’, although this quality does not determine any particular literary form.

Form 97 Moreover, an author may produce different accounts of a single journey, but in various forms (see polygraphy). Despite this hybridity, which militates against the idea of a single prescribed form for travel writing, scholars have identified several processes which have led to the crystallization of certain norms and expectations. In sixteenth–​century Europe, according to Justin Stagl (1990), the practice of using travels to collect and organize data about foreign lands underwent ‘methodization’, involving the establishment of specific categories of knowledge and prescribed ways of recording and archiving them. This development also influenced the form of travel texts, favouring their arrangement by predetermined subjects rather than following the course of the journey. Meanwhile Jan Borm (2004) has shown that the eighteenth century saw the consecration of the practice of devoting entire books to travel experiences. The same century also saw the growth of the novel as a genre, which drew significantly on the paradigms of travel writing and memoir, both for its narrative structure and for its potential as a vehicle for political and philosophical commentary (Adams 1983). This fed back into travel writing which began to take on novelistic features such as dramatization and the development of a narrative persona (q.v.). At the same time, travel texts have enjoyed a strong relationship with the essay form, being often used as a vehicle for exploring ‘distinct subjects’ (as traveller Arthur Young (1792, 1) noted in the eighteenth century) or sermonizing on given themes (Fussell 1980, 202–​10). Many well-​known travel texts have claimed the status of scientific, historical or philosophical investigations, from Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle (1839); Alexis de Tocqueville Democracy in America (1835–​40); Hermann Keyserling’s Travel Diary of a Philosopher (1919); Rebecca West’s Black Lamb and Grey Falcon (1941); Claude Lévi-​Strauss’s Tristes Tropiques (1955); Bruce Chatwin’s Songlines (1987); or Amitav Ghosh’s In an Antique Land (1992). Travel writing also played a role in elevating genres such as letters, diaries and philosophical reflections to literary respectability: as Stuart Sherman (1996) has pointed out, the travel journal was ‘for most of the eighteenth century virtually the only kind of journal to find its way from manuscript to print’ (see also Batton 1978). This was part of a broader tendency to use the travel account as a vehicle for reflecting on the traveller’s own experience and emotional states, and in major works of Romantic literature, from Rousseau and Goethe to Wordsworth and Châteaubriand, travel and autobiography are almost inextricably linked forms (Anghelescu 2004). This privileged relationship with the diary, and the qualities of subjectivity and immediacy, has persisted in more recent travel writing, where spontaneity, informality and apparently accidental juxtaposition have been noted qualities in the works of British writers from Robert Byron to Bruce Chatwin, but also elsewhere, such as in the recent texts of Polish travellers Ryszard Kapusćiński and Andrzej Stasiuk. It is also perhaps influenced by travel writers’ desire to dissociate their work from more utilitarian forms and formats such as travel guides and tourist brochures, although recent work on apparently minor manifestations such as hotel guestbook commentaries have shown that the boundaries between travel and auxiliary texts are somewhat porous (James 2012). As such, travel writing has both borrowed from and enriched many literary genres and forms, while establishing its own distinct niche in the repertoire of ‘literary’ genres.

98  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Further Reading Adams, P.  1983. Travel Literature and the Evolution of the Novel. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Anghelescu, M.  2004. ‘Romantic Travel Narratives’. In S.  Sondrup and V.  Nemoianu (eds), Nonfictional Romantic Prose. Amsterdam: John Benjamins: 165–​80. Borm, J.  2004. ‘Defining Travel’. In G.  Hooper and T.  Youngs (eds), Perspectives on Travel Writing. Aldershot: Ashgate: 13–​27. Chirico, D. 2008. ‘Travel Writing as a Literary Genre’. In W. Bracewell and A. Drace-​Francis (eds), Under Eastern Eyes: A Comparative Introduction to East European Travel Writing on Europe. Budapest; New York: Central European University Press: 27–​59. Stagl, J. 1990. ‘The Methodizing of Travel in the Sixteenth Century’. History and Anthropology, 4: 303–​38, reprinted in idem, A History of Curiosity. Chur, Switzerland: 1994.

34 GENDER Dúnlaith Bird

The American Psychological Association (2011) currently defines ‘gender’ as ‘the attitudes, feelings, and behaviours that a given culture associates with a person’s biological sex’. Although this definition is indicative of the progress made over the past decades in terms of our understanding of gender and gender identity, it remains inherently problematic. Such definitions imply that the relation of gender to culture is straightforward, that gender is dependent on culture and inextricably linked to biological sex. In Gender Trouble, Judith Butler (2006 [1990], viii) rejects strict definitions which reduce gender to ‘received notions of masculinity and femininity’. For Butler, as for many recent researchers including Efrat Tseëlon and Lois McNay, the notion of gender resists categorization and indeed part of its power lies in its mutability. If gender, cultural norms and biological traits are interconnected, then travel can be argued to set gender in motion. Travel and travel writing were traditionally seen as masculine domains, with official proclamations such as the King James I ‘Proclamation touching Passengers’ (1606) forbidding women to travel overseas without royal licence. As Karen Lawrence (1994) notes, up to the twentieth century women were largely written out of critical analysis on travel writing. In the 1980s and 1990s feminist research on gender and travel largely focused on women’s travel writing; that work included Jane Robinson’s anthology, Unsuitable for Ladies (1994), and the writing of Pat Barr and Billie Melman. Though this research was essential in broadening the field of travel and gender, in recent years gender has increasingly been seen as part of a wider nexus of intersecting discourses including race, class and spatial theory. This trend is illustrated in the selection of texts made by Shirley Foster and Sara Mills (2002) in their anthology of women’s travel writing. Their aim is ‘to demonstrate the contextually and historically specific nature of gender conditions’, while at the same time acknowledging the continued importance of gender as a determining factor in travel and travel writing (1). Mills (2005, 11) has repeatedly argued for a more materialist understanding of gender, which would focus on the lived experience of the traveller. This insistence on the specificity of gendered experience, which acknowledges the power but also the contingency of gender, has provided a guideline for researchers such as Kristi Siegel (2004). Travel can be, as Siegel notes, an activity undertaken out of economic difficulty or imposed by outside forces. Studies on travel and gender should be careful not to perpetuate the effacement of women travellers by focusing uniquely on the relative elite of women travellers who write (2).

100  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies It is equally important to note that gender is an issue that affects and informs all travel, and all travel writing. The traditional models of masculinity found in travel writing can be restrictive for male travellers, including displays of aggression or sexual prowess (Behdad 2009, 82). In Trawler, British traveller Redmond O’Hanlon (2006) enters the hypermasculine world of deep-​sea fishing in order, in part, to express his own sense of physical weakness and inadequacy. His perseverance in the face of sickness and injury, and his choice to publish his physical failings in this and subsequent travelogues, undermine the narrative of the stoic, masculine British traveller in a manner surprisingly similar to the texts of nineteenth-​century British traveller Isabella Bird. Both Bird and O’Hanlon use aggressive physical vulnerability to introduce alternative ways of ‘doing’ gender, which emerges as hybrid and multiplicitous rather than binary (Bird 2012, 113). Increasingly travel studies are focusing on the ways in which individual cisgender and transgender travellers engage with gender, working with and improvising around its constraints (Prosser 1999). Travel can also entrench gender norms in surprising ways, and Tim Youngs (2013, 132)  cautions against any assumption of cross-​cultural solidarity among women. French traveller Olympe Audouard (1865, 36) carves out a space for herself as a travel writer by comparing the bodies of the Egyptian women she meets to statues. In aestheticizing and effectively silencing the Other woman, Audouard appropriates the gender-​coded language of European aesthetics, a traditionally masculine discourse. In her influential work on travel and aesthetics, Elizabeth Bohls (1995, 2) articulates the relation of aesthetics to ‘gender, knowledge and power’. She demonstrates how the language of aesthetics, like the language of travel, is gendered in a way that renders it difficult for women writers to access, forcing them to devise strategies which may themselves reinforce gender divides, albeit displaced onto foreign soil. The gendering of the traveller, both by the host country and subsequently in any travelogues, is an intriguing process. At times, the traveller is seen accessing certain places that are traditionally gender-​segregated, for example, in Lady Montagu’s (1994 [1763], 74) famous account of the Turkish baths, or behaving in a fashion associated with a particular manifestation of gender identity, as when Isabelle Eberhardt (1988, 188) visits the Algerian brothels. In cases where the traveller’s gender does not match the established gender norms of the host country, a re-​gendering or a-​gendering appears to occur: the traveller is just passing through, and therefore can be considered an honorary man. The complex role of gender and the body in the construction of space is central to feminist geography and travel, and has been studied by Elizabeth Grosz (1995), Linda McDowell (1999) and Lois (2000), among others. New paradigms are emerging in travel writing to analyse gender and gender construction. Sidonie Smith’s (2001) work on mobility and travel focuses on the transformative effects of modern transport on gender norms, while bell hooks (1990, 341)  has reorientated thinking on the value of ‘home’ and the ‘margins’ as loci of power and self-​fashioning. My own research on vagabondage links physical movement, cultural context and textual creation to the production of hybrid gender identities (Bird 2012). Travel produces alternative models to map gender, showing gender norms as subject to cultural variation and even transformation. The travelogue can become a privileged space for gender experimentation, or equally, for the reification of gender norms.

Gender 101

Further Reading Bird, D.  2012. Travelling in Different Skins: Gender Identity in European Women’s Oriental Travelogues, 1850–​1950. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grewal, I. 1997. Home and Harem: Nation, Gender, Empire and the Culture of Travel. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Lawrence, K.  1994. Penelope Voyages: Women and Travel in the British Literary Tradition. New York: Cornell University Press. Melman, B. 1995. Women’s Orients: English Women and the Middle East, Sexuality, Religion and Work, 1718–​1918. 2nd ed. London: Macmillan. Smith, S.  2001. Moving Lives: Twentieth-​ Century Women’s Travel Writing. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

35 GENRE Stacy Burton

‘Genre’, a complex concept in the study of language, literature and culture, has a long critical history, though the word first appears in English in the eighteenth century. Its study begins in antiquity: both Plato and Aristotle seek to distinguish between various modes of storytelling and imitation and scrutinize their truth claims and capacity for misrepresentation. Most simply, ‘genre’ identifies the formal features and purposive patterns that allow speakers and listeners to communicate, readers to differentiate types of texts and bookstores to organize their shelves: first-​person speech, imitation or indirect narration; fiction, poetry or science; documentary or invention. Such uses belie the concept’s critical significance, however; as these examples illustrate, genre is the product of historically specific interactions among writers, texts and readers. John Frow (2015, 83) describes ‘genres’ as ‘complex constellations’ whose analysis requires attention to multiple, overlapping dimensions: formal organization, rhetorical structure and thematic content. To examine ‘genre’ is to investigate how these dimensions simultaneously allow for and constrain the production of meaning. In Frow’s lucid account, genres at once ‘frame’ the world to make it intelligible and show us how to ‘move between knowledge given directly in text and other sets of knowledge that are relevant to understanding it’ (88). We expect genres to have considerable continuity and stability; we require this for texts to be intelligible. Yet genre innovation and development are inevitable, given historical and social evolution –​ and fascinating as well. M. M. Bakhtin famously argues that modernity necessitates the evolution of prose genres agile enough to depict its polyglot cultures and rapid social transformations. Using the ‘ossified generic skeleton’ of premodern genres as counterpoint, Bakhtin (1981, 8, 39)  celebrates the fidelity to lived experience and historical complexity that ‘novelistic genres’, with their ‘plasticity’ and ‘zone of direct contact with developing reality’, afford. ‘Travel writing’ has a vexed relationship with ‘genre’. Most attempts at definition note the research field’s diffuseness, the term’s opacity: it ‘has always embraced a bewilderingly diverse range of material’, and ‘has always maintained a complex and confusing relationship with any number of closely related (indeed, often overlapping) genres’ (Thompson 2011-​, 11). In establishing the field, scholars have expressly defined ‘travel writing’ as transdisciplinary and transcultural: both the corpus of texts they study and their critical methodologies characterize it broadly, not simply as a subset of ‘literature’. To this end, they have often set the concept of genre aside. Mary Louise Pratt (1992, 5, 11), for instance, explicitly seeks ‘to interrupt the totalizing

Genre 103 momentum of […] the study of genre’, by paying ‘serious attention to the conventions of representation that constitute European travel writing’, using ‘the study of tropes as much to disunify as to unify what one might call a rhetoric of travel writing’. Charles Forsdick (2005a, vi, ix) signals this broader view by electing to study ‘a deliberately eclectic body’ of twentieth-​century Francophone texts that take ‘the actual or imagined experience of travel’ as their ‘raw material’. Tim Youngs (2010, 71) and others reconfigure a field initially associated with European cultural authority by studying texts about ‘forced or economically determined movement’, including migrant work and slavery, and texts unremarkable in form. By including novels, journalism, diaries and ethnographies as well as travel narratives –​and texts from the margins as well as the metropole –​such scholarship has shown the reach and complexity of ‘travel writing’ and strategically called literary convention and critical assumption into question. This approach produces a field that includes both the tenth-​century report of Ibn Fadlān, an envoy travelling from Baghdad to the Volga, and W. G. Sebald’s late twentieth-​century fiction The Rings of Saturn, unpublished refugee memoirs alongside Rebecca West’s celebrated Black Lamb and Grey Falcon; Michel Butor’s coolly experimental Mobile as well as the conventional imperial narratives of Richard Burton. The prevalence of ‘travel writing’ over more specific genre terms allows for –​ indeed, advocates –​the juxtaposition of such disparate texts, linked by the subject of human movement through the world. Read together, such texts also demonstrate the role of genre in producing meaning. Travel writing can seem to have a firm generic code: the itinerary of physical movement dictates the text’s organization, the first-​ person narrator addresses a familiar audience, the plot entails (mis)adventure or discovery. Yet, as Peter Seitel (2003, 291)  explains, ‘an utterance may jostle audience expectations through irony, ellipses, or another trope and still entertain within the generic framework’; it is in such disruptions of expectation, more than mere repetition, that we find ‘aesthetic pleasure’ and critical merit. Now that the concept ‘travel writing’ has established this more expansive terrain as the object of study, thinking critically about ‘genre’ offers potentially valuable avenues for new scholarship. Bakhtin’s account of genres’ plasticity under the pressure of historical and social change offers a line for further analysis, as does an understanding of genre as a horizon of expectations shared, complexly, by writers and their audiences. Seitel (2003, 279) writes: ‘A genre presents a social world or a partial view of one that includes configurations of time and space, notions of causality and human motivation, and ethical and aesthetic values. Genres are storehouses of cultural knowledge and possibility. They support the creation of works and guide the way an audience envisions and interprets them.’ And they change as social worlds, ethical values, audiences and interpretations evolve. Humans write about travel in disparate historical circumstances, assuming distinct audiences, for varied purposes. Fadlān’s work informs early geography; Butor’s abandons geography for language play. Sebald intertwines physical movement with historical dreaming; West revisits historical crises to comprehend the labyrinthine present. Burton inhabits imperial ease; refugees write to reclaim identity when home is lost. ‘Genre’ provides critical purchase on such differences through significant questions about the production of meaning: How does the text frame the world? What counts as truth in the world it depicts? Whose truth counts? What knowledge does the narrator assume in readers?

104  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Who speaks, and who doesn’t? What purposes does the text serve? Asking  –​and beginning to answer –​these questions will reveal travel writing’s linguistic, cultural and political complexity more fully.

Further Reading Burton, S.  2013. Travel Narrative and the Ends of Modernity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Campbell, M. B. 1988. The Witness and the Other World: Exotic European Travel Writing, 400–​ 1600. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Mills, S. 1991. Discourses of Difference: An Analysis of Women’s Travel Writing and Colonialism. London: Routledge. New Literary History. 2003. ‘Theorizing Genres’ special issues. 34.2–​3. Rosmarin, A. 1985. The Power of Genre. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

36 GHOSTS A. V. Seaton

Ghosts feature widely in literary travel and tourism because, like football teams and cheeses, they are necessarily, sometimes eponymously, linked to specific places (see also death). Underwood’s (1992) ghost gazetteer includes topographical details of 236 haunted sites in Britain, including three famous, eponymous ones: the Cheltenham Ghost, the Cock Lane Ghost in London and Borley Rectory, once ‘the most haunted house in Britain’ (Price 1940 and 1946; Chambers 2006; Collins 1948; Grant 1965; Underwood 1992). A  broad consensus has existed from Dr Johnson to modern Oxford lexicographers on what ghosts are: ‘spirits appearing after death’, ‘incorporeal beings’, ‘the souls of men’ (Johnson 1785, no pagination; Oxford English Dictionary). The Society for Psychical Research, however, discriminates more precisely, dividing ghosts into four categories (Tyrell 1953): ‘experimental ghosts’, who appear present to others at a distance from where they are physically at the time; ‘crisis ghosts’, who appear at times of individual or collective trauma, such as war, or bereavement; ‘post-​mortem ghosts’, who appear soon after death to those whom they have loved or known; and ‘true ghosts’, who appear unexpectedly to strangers, years, even centuries, after their death, ‘usually restricted to one locality’ (Haining 1999 [1982], 100; and Tyrell 1953, 33–​48). Another way of exploring the nature of haunting is through three near synonyms: apparition, appearance and presence. An apparition is a disturbing, visual encounter with an alien figure or shape, or a familiar one horribly transformed, for example, the vampiric forms of Dracula’s victims, or Jacob Marley as he appeared to Scrooge. An appearance is a less disturbing encounter with an apparently human figure, rendered extraordinary by the knowledge or discovery that s/​he was elsewhere, dying or dead at the time. The appearance of Christ three days after the Crucifixion is a pre-​eminent instance. ‘Presence’, unlike the others, is non-​visual, a feeling that the dead have not gone away, but can be sensed in places associated with them. ‘Presence’ is often claimed by writers and broadcasters describing the homes or gravesides of the famous, where it valorizes the auratic authenticity of a site and their sensitivity as observers in responding to it, suggesting that both effects might be replicated by visitors. Westover (2012) has explored the literary fashion during the Romantic period for visiting graves of dead writers, particularly poets, to experience ‘real presence’, and then returning home to compose poetic testimonies. Graveside poems and elegies became an epidemic in Victorian England.

106  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Ghosts have existed in many societies, including Ancient Greece, Rome and China (Finucane 1982; Willoughby-​Meade 1928), but have dominated in Western, Christian cultures. More ghosts are seen and reported in Britain than any other country (Underwood 1993, 9). Ninety-​eight per cent of ghost stories are in English, and 70 per cent of them written by English men and women (Ackroyd 2002, 375, quoting J. A. Cudden). The historiography of the supernatural in England suggests that ghosts were known in pagan times, in Celtic myth and folklore (Ackroyd 2010; Haining 1999 [1982]), and were assimilated into medieval Christian traditions (MacCulloch 1932; Joynes 2002; Schmitt 1998; Watkins 2013). Subsequently, ghosts were linked briefly with witchcraft in the seventeenth century (Guiley 1999, 137–​39). They reached a tipping point as popular entertainment in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in the Gothic novel. These were tales of transgression, horror and midnight hauntings, featuring decadent Catholic grandees and monks preying on virginal heroines in baronial and monastic settings in southern Europe. Some critics have seen them as covert, Protestant propaganda (Railo 1964; Sage 1988). As the gothic declined after the 1820s, a new kind of ghost story changed the social and topographical landscape of haunting in Victorian England (Ackroyd 2010). Writers – including Sheridan Le Fanu, Wilkie Collins, M. R. James, Arthur Machen and others – moved the ghostly action from ancient castles and foreign monasteries to country houses, old rectories and haunted hotels. Their villains were no longer degenerate aristocrats and corrupt clerics preying on innocent women, but ghosts haunting the respectable classes. Protagonists included county and upper-​middle class families, haunted at home or away. In the stories of M. R. James, it was bachelors taking antiquarian breaks in cathedral cities and seaside towns, who struggled to battle noises and apparitions in old taverns, churches and on the beach. This gentrified world of ghost fiction partly carried over into non-​fiction with publication of anthologies of ghosts in high places, one edited by a lord (Ingram 1884; Halifax 1986 [1936]). Today, ghosts are regular accessories in marketing country house tourism and heritage organizations like the National Trust. In the twentieth century, the appeal of the ghost story cascaded down the social scale in a pyroplastic flow of derivative pulp fictions, penny dreadfuls, comics, fairground rides, ‘ghost trains’, ‘haunted houses’ and pier head amusements. This demotic trend was consummated by the arrival of film and TV, the natural media of spectral illusions. These brought transatlantic inputs to an English cultural form, eventually producing a distinctive ‘American gothic’ in which it was not county families and bachelor antiquarians at supernatural risk, but suburban families, pubescent teenagers and couples petrified by attic poltergeists and demonic mirror reflections (Davenport-​Jones 1998). Later, heavy metal and punk rock rebranded all this Grand Guignol transgression as cool (Baddely 2002). Ghost culture thus spans a spectrum –​or perhaps spectre-​um –​of fact and fiction, with gothic horror at one end, and psychic research and ghost hunting at the other (Holtzer 1997). In recent years, ghost hunting series have expanded on British and American TV, encouraging the rapid multiplication by the publishers of regional ghost guide books, often linked to specific series and transport forms (Bradford 2006; Brooks 1987; Felix 2005). There are said to be 10,000 haunted sites in Britain, and TV

Ghosts 107 ghost hunts have increased tourist numbers, it is claimed, by 15 per cent (Fielding and Acorah 2005), adding to the ‘invented traditions’ of place. More recently academics, once ghost-​resistant, have discovered their inner Gothic in re-​engineering supernatural discourse to literary criticism, through the concept of ‘textual haunting’ and spectral literary presence (Porter 1991; Wolfreys 2002). Their phantoms are the ‘significant silences’, unconscious influences and transgressive ‘othering’ lurking beneath the surface of novels and travel texts. The literary quest for the ‘spirit of place’ is giving way to one for ‘the spirits of place and text’.

Further Reading Finucane, R.  C. 1982. Appearances of the Dead: A Cultural History of Ghosts. London: Junction Books. Haining, P. 1974. Ghosts: The Illustrated History. London: Sidgewick and Jackson. Porter, D.  1991. Haunted Journeys: Desire and Transgression in European Travel Writing. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Westover, P.  2012. Necromanticism: Travelling to Meet the Dead, 1750–​1860. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Wolfreys, J.  2002. Victorian Hauntings: Spectrality, Gothic, the Uncanny and Literature. Houndmills: Palgrave.

37 GRAND  TOUR A. V. Seaton

The Grand Tour flourished in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was a European tour lasting one to three years for young men of good birth or fortune, nominally aimed to complete their education in classical and renaissance civilization. They were commonly escorted by older custodians, clerics or schoolmasters, charged with directing their educational sightseeing, and restraining them from worldly temptations, particularly in Venice, a place notorious for its promiscuous pleasures and vices. They were nicknamed ‘Bear leaders’, and the philosopher Locke briefly acted as one (Lough 1953). The term ‘Grand Tour’ had first been used in 1670, but only achieved wide currency in the eighteenth century, notably after 1749 when a four-​volume guide by Thomas Nugent first made the term the title of a book, claiming to provide ‘an exact description of most of the cities, towns and remarkable places of Europe’, including the distances and costs of travel involved. Nugent’s work described nine countries but one took precedence over all the rest –​Italy, where, among its many ancient towns and cities, Rome was the supreme goal: ‘No place in the universe affords so agreeable a variety of ancient and modern curiosities as this celebrated city. In fact, one cannot walk fifty paces within the town without observing some remains of its ancient grandeur’ (III, 21). Nugent devoted 67 pages to Rome and its environs, inventorying the sights that the Grand Tourist should seek out. They comprised ‘churches, palaces, villas, colleges, hospitals, piazzas, columns, obelisks, paintings, bridges, aqueducts and fountains, pagan temples, theatres and amphitheatres, triumphal arches, baths, […] and circus’s (sic)’ (III, 213–​14). The word ‘Grand’ did not just describe the tour but the status of the tourists. Though ostensibly meant to round off a classical education, the tour was also a social rite of passage intended to convert the sons of patrician families from schoolboys into urbane men of the world, who would return to manage country estates, or enter careers in politics, the professions or the church. Nugent’s guide addressed these broader aims, offering, in addition to sightseeing information, ‘remarks on the present state of trade, as well as the liberal arts and sciences’ as part of its title. In the capitals and great cities of Europe, tourists expanded their social networks at informal gatherings and more formal occasions convened by English diplomats like Horace Mann in Tuscany (Walpole 1954–​71), and William Hamilton in Naples (Jenkins and Sloan 1996). Some tourists, like James Boswell, sought out famous European writers and thinkers, including Voltaire and Rousseau, returning to bask in reflected glory (Pottle 1952, 1953, 1955).

Grand Tour 109 One product of the Grand Tour was the formation in 1734/​35 of the Dilettante Society by ‘some gentlemen who had travelled in Italy’, all of them aristocratic or well-​ connected (Cust and Colvin 1914, 4). It was ostensibly a forum for the discussion and promotion of classical art, but as Horace Walpole (1954–​71, XVIII, 11) asserted: ‘[T]‌hough […] the nominal qualification is having been in Italy […] the real one [is], being drunk. The two chiefs are Lord Middlesex and Sir Francis Dashwood, who were seldom sober the whole time in Italy.’ The Society still survives as an elite body of mandarin opinion on aesthetic matters. From its origins, the Grand Tour was attacked as a pernicious influence on young Englishmen (Black 2003, 287–​305). In 1628, Bishop Hall published Quo Vadis. A just censure of Travell, as it is commonly understood by the Gentlemen of our Nation. It was a coruscating denunciation of the dangers of travel in European cities, unless for reasons of ‘traffique’ and ‘matters of state’ (business or diplomacy). The ‘concourse of a populous city’, Hall believed, offered multiple temptations. ‘Where there are many pots boyling, there cannot but be muche scumme’ (691). The temptations were sexual licence and Catholic conversion, a double seduction he labelled ‘the Curtizan of Rome’. Young men, he counselled, would do better to stay home getting to know England, using the geographies of Camden and Speed as their guidebooks. Whatever its temptations abroad, the Grand Tour had far reaching effects on the face of elite consumption at home and, later, public culture in Britain. Grand Tourists returned to build country houses in classical and Palladian styles with gardens and landscaping modelled on Italian prototypes, and furnished with art and artefacts from France, Germany and Holland as well as Italy. In 1996/97 the Tate Gallery in London mounted a wide-​ranging exhibition of these Grand Tour consumption effects. The catalogue included scholarly essays and almost 300 illustrations (Wilton and Bignamini 1996). In the nineteenth century, European touring became less ‘grand’ and elitist. The spread of railways and Thomas Cook’s travel agencies helped to cheapen and widen European access to a growing middle class, reducing the Grand Tour’s male-​only features and replacing them with family parties (see class). Tours became briefer, lasting weeks or months rather than years as the capitalist work ethic spread. Today the Grand Tour still survives in popular memory and affects tourism patterns. It has inspired metempsychotic repetitions (Seaton 2002), updates (Lambert 1937; Davies 1986) and pastiche, celebrity reruns on TV (e.g., Russell Harty 1988). Moreover, its prime, urban destinations of Paris, Florence and Rome remain as much the gold standard for cultural tour operators and young, European backpackers as they were for Edward Gibbon, Laurence Sterne and Horace Walpole. The Grand Tour continues to attract academic interest, due to the abundance of manuscript and printed journals, memoirs and diaries that have survived for edited publication or reprinting, which may be sampled in Ingamell’s (1997) magisterial catalogue of travellers in Italy, and in ‘new’ memoirs that periodically (re)appear (such as Pennant 1948; Spence 1975; Morritt 1985). Recently there has been interest in getting beyond the stereotypes of the Grand Tour, one being remedying the gender bias (Dolan 2001); another is studying travel by European roads less travelled to places less canonically celebrated by guidebook writers and elite figures. In the future, all roads need not lead to Rome.

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Further Reading Black, J.  2003. The British Abroad: The Grand Tour in the Eighteenth Century. Stroud: History Press. Chaney, E. 1998. The Evolution of the Grand Tour: Anglo-​Italian Cultural Relations since the Renaissance. London: Frank Cass. Chaney, E.  and T.  Wilks. 2014.The Jacobean Grand Tour: Early Stuart Travellers in Europe. London: I. B. Tauris. Towner, J. 1996. An Historical Geography of Recreation and Tourism in the Western World 1540–​ 1940. Chichester: John Wiley and Sons.

38 HEARING Charles Forsdick

Emerging etymologically from Germanic roots, the term ‘hearing’  –​relating to perception of sound via the ear, meaning both the sense that allows such auditory perception and the action of perceiving sound –​has been in use for over a millennium, although the concept is an ancient one relating to human sonic interaction with other humans or their surroundings. Hearing has long been a source of fascination for philosophers, with thinkers ranging from Aristotle to Jean-​Luc Nancy devoting important work to the subject (Bull and Back 2015). Specific references to the principal bodily senses are, however, absent from either edition of Williams’s Keywords, although sensory perception is inevitably key (not least etymologically) to the discussion of ‘aesthetics’, the term with which the volume opens. ‘Taste’ is included by Williams but explored in terms of its metaphorical extension in order to betoken various degrees of discernment in intellectual, artistic and social matters. The sequel to Williams’s volume, New Keywords, includes ‘audience’, etymologically associated with the experience of ‘hearing’, but understood more as a term to designate consumers of various forms of media and communication. ‘Hearing’ is, however, attracting increasing attention as a keyword in its own right, with Keywords in Sound (Novak and Sakakeeny 2015) including an entry on it and a series of cognate terms (including ‘acoustics’, ‘echo’, ‘noise’, ‘silence’, ‘voice’). The publication in Keywords for Disability Studies (Adams et al. 2015) of an essay on ‘deafness’ by Douglas C. Baynton underlines the growing interest in the impairment of this sense, a development that is as pertinent for studies in travel writing as it is for a series on other fields of enquiry. Although travel writing has often been seen as a vehicle of ocularcentrism and the generalized cultural and ideological primacy of the gaze (Jay 1993; Pratt 1992), hearing nevertheless remains central to the form. The very title of Mary Louise Pratt’s (1992, 206) Imperial Eyes underlines the hierarchies of the senses often evident in Western cultural production, a phenomenon she encapsulates in what she describes as the predominance of the visual in the ‘monarch-​of-​all-​I-​survey’ trope. The field of study known as the sensory humanities (Howes 2004, 2014) has, however, encouraged exploration of alternative understandings of the ways in which the senses filter the traveller’s experience of space and place. Developing reflections triggered by anthropological observations during the Torres Straits expedition led by Alfred Cort Haddon in 1898 (Herle and Rouse 1998), Victor Segalen was one of the first modern travel writers to offer a cultural relativist critique of the sensory hierarchies whereby different cultures experience the environments in which they live and through which

112  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies they move (Forsdick 2001). This included a short story, ‘Dans un monde sonore’ (In a sonorous world) (1995 [1907]), in which Segalen responded to the Torres Straits experiments on the visual acuity of the indigenous population by imagining a French explorer who on his return from the field withdrew into an artificially darkened world where hearing has become the dominant sense. Segalen’s Equipée (1929) takes these sensory reflections into the field and provides a synthesis of two earlier journeys through China (in 1909 and 1914) in which the visual is actively complemented by an emphasis on the other senses, including hearing. The result is an interest in the field of travel as a soundscape as opposed to a landscape accessed primarily using the gaze. Bernie Krause (2013), the founder of Wild Sanctuary (a body committed to creating an archive of natural soundscapes), provides a detailed analysis of the soundscapes with which travellers may be thought to interact (on soundscapes, see also Schafer 1977). With his distinctions between ‘anthropophony’ (sounds created by humans), ‘biophony’ (sounds created by vocalizing animals) and ‘geophony’ (natural sounds that are non-​biological), Krause provides a clear filter through which to understand the variety of sounds heard in the field. Such an interest in soundscapes is evident in later travelogues, not least by Nicolas Bouvier whose classic text L’Usage du monde (1963) –​an account of a journey from Belgrade to the Khyber Pass in a Fiat Topolina –​describes in detail the instruments that the travellers play during their journey, but also records the music that they record en route. This human soundscape  –​released many years later as a CD entitled Poussières du monde  –​ reveals the ways in which sound is not only a key aspect of the experience of travel, but can also play a major role in intercultural encounter and even understanding. Such an emphasis on hearing and the journey is also to be found in cinema, in notable films such as Gadjo Dilo (dir. Tony Gatlif, 1997), the travelogue of a young Parisian to Romania in search of Rom music and the memories that this freights; and Silence (dir. Pat Collins, 2012), an account of the return journey to Ireland of a sound recordist commissioned to discover and record places free in this case from human sounds. The soundscape becomes particularly apparent in travelogues by authors with sensory impairments, and in particular by travellers who are blind or partially sighted (Forsdick 2016b). Such texts, even as they emphasize the importance of sound in the field of travel, raise questions as to the residual role of sight in the genre, and in particular the ways in which there is evidence of a discursive normativity whereby visual metaphors and assumptions are perpetuated even when the traveller cannot see. A  parallel corpus of travelogues has been produced by writers with hearing impairments, one of the earliest examples of whom was John Kitto (1804–​54), active in the first half of the nineteenth century and known as the ‘Deaf Traveller’ (see Bar-​ Yosef 2009). Tracking his travels as a missionary in Malta, a period as tutor for his employer’s sons in Baghdad and then a return journey to Britain via Constantinople, his travel journals appeared in periodic form in the Penny Magazine (and later as memoirs), and he also produced a series of biblical studies based on his observations in the field of travel. Kitto may be seen as the founder of a subgenre of texts by travellers with hearing impairments, one of the key texts of which is James Duthie’s (1957) account of a cycling journey from Scotland to the Arctic Circle (for more recent examples, see Kisor 1997; Parson 1988; Swiller 2007).

Hearing 113 There is now a rich literature in the arts, humanities and social sciences on hearing and culture, as well as on acoustic history (Corbin 1998 [1994]; Smith 2004). These are fields on which those with an interest in travel writing can usefully draw. Hearing is particularly central to the burgeoning field of sound studies, an area related to the sensory humanities, but with increasingly multidisciplinary implications that stretch to psychology, physiognomy, anatomy and beyond. Foregrounding hearing in the study of travel suggests new critical approaches to journey narratives that not only widen the corpus of the genre to include a rich cluster of works by deaf travellers, but also  –​as with the focus on other non-​visual senses  –​challenge ocularcentric normativity and reveal the rich potential of travel writing as a genuinely multisensory form. Roland Barthes (1985) summed up the distinction between listening and hearing in these terms: ‘Hearing is a physiological phenomenon; listening is a psychological act.’ The majority of travel writers may be able to hear, but many are drawn into a pattern of privileging in their writing what they see. The challenge to the reader is to understand how much travellers actually listen, and to what extent they translate the soundscapes they experience into the written traces of their journeys.

Further Reading Bull, M. and L. Back (eds). 2015. The Auditory Culture Reader. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Duthie, J. 1957. I Cycled into the Arctic Circle. Aberdeen: Northern Publishers Ltd. Forsdick, C. 2016. ‘Travel, Sight, Blindness: Venturing beyond Visual Geographies’. In J. Kuehn and P. Smethurst (eds), New Directions in Travel Writing Studies. London: Palgrave: 113–​28. Krause, B. 2012. The Great Animal Orchestra: Finding the Origins of Music in the World’s Wild Places. London: Profile Books. Novak, D. and M. Sakakeeny (eds). 2015. Keywords in Sound. Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press.

39 HISTORY Kathryn Walchester

Etymologically, history shares with travel writing ambivalence in its relation to fiction. Its earliest uses include reference to both real and imagined accounts (Williams 1988, 146). Since the fifteenth century, however, its meaning has come to refer exclusively to non-​fiction. The fields of history, historiography and classics have informed many important theoretical approaches used in travel writing studies. Hayden White’s Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (1984), François Hartog’s work on Herodotus’s The Histories (c. 431–​425 B C E ) and the New Historicism proposed in the work of Stephen Greenblatt have proved influential, providing models for the analysis of non-​fictional representation. Post-​structuralist theory also looked to Classical texts such as the Odyssey and the Aeneid to consider questions of nomadism, displacement and space in the work of Gilles Deleuze, Paul Virilio and Michel de Certeau. Much scholarly attention has focused on the eighteenth-​and nineteenth-​century travel writing by imperial travellers from Western Europe, especially work challenging the ethnographic representation of cultures, such as Johannes Fabian’s work on coevalness (1983). Since Joan W. Scott’s (1988) outlining of feminist versions of history, or ‘her-​ stories’, feminist scholars in travel writing, such as Adriana Méndez Rodenas (1998), have adopted an exclusive focus on female agency. Cultural historians Jás Elsner and Joan-​Pau Rubiés (1999, 4), in their tracing of the role of pilgrimage in travel from a Graeco-​Roman tradition, have begun to ‘examine the relationship between modern subjectivity and the ancient and medieval past from, and against, which the modern West has constructed its set of self-​definitions’. Journeys seeking evidence of, or confirming knowledge about, the past have played a significant role in the history of travel. Exploration narratives often included the history of a region, particularly if the place could be assimilated into a Classical or ancient frame of reference, such as the journey north to what had been designated as ‘Ultima Thule’ by Richard Burton (1875) and the expeditions to the Middle East by Constantine de Volney (1788). Volney’s work influenced one of the Grand Tour’s most famous participants, Henri Beyle, better known as Stendhal, whose work Rome, Naples, Florence (1817) illustrates his desire to discover Italy through a Classical prism. The more prosaic ‘ideological exercise’ of the education and leisure of other Grand Tourists has been identified by cultural historians, including the plundering of Classical sites for intellectual and material remnants of the past (Buzard, in Hulme and Youngs 2002, 38; Chard 1999; Black 1992). Italy’s classical past was also played out in the aesthetic appreciation of the region. In Germaine de Staël’s Corinne (1807),

History 115 which became a guide to emotional response to Continental travel, the eponymous heroine has the ‘manner of a Greek statue’ and is identified  –​according to Chloe Chard (1999, 130) –​with the sibyls of antiquity. For eighteenth-​century travellers, the home tour provided an opportunity to, as Benjamin Colbert (2012, 15, 17) asserts, ‘engage in more superficial aspects of […] antiquarianism’ and to ‘indulge in visions of an ancient past in landscapes which transcended contemporary reality’. In Wales and Scotland, Home Tourists could get in touch with a disappearing Celtic past and look at Druidical remains. Antiquarianism was one of the interests central to the scientific investigations of travellers from the seventeenth century onwards explored by recent scholarly studies, following Stuart Piggot’s influential Ruins in a Landscape (1976; Sweet 2004; Heringman 2013; Byrne 2013). Much scholarly attention in the 1980s and 1990s, particularly from the field of sociology, concentrated on the heritage industry. Influential studies such as Robert Hewison’s work on Beamish (1987) and John Urry’s The Tourist Gaze (1990) argued that, at the end of the twentieth century, Britain’s manufacturing industries had been replaced by a simulated past. It was, Urry (1990, 99) argues, ‘a kind of nostalgia, for a Golden Age’. The heritage phenomenon is also noted in travel texts about Britain from the period. In Coasting, Jonathan Raban (1986, 276), notes, ‘All through the summer of 1984, the news on the television looked as if it was being beamed from somewhere far abroad […] if this was England, it looked at first as if it must be some kind of historical reconstruction put on by the Tourist Authority.’ Studies of nostalgia centred on the postmodern premise of a ‘staged authenticity’ in conflict with, and replacing, a genuine production in the past (MacCannell 1976). However, a sense of ‘belatedness’ or lost authenticity has been a feature of travel accounts for centuries. The anxiety felt by French explorer Louis Antoine de Bougainville in the 1770s that his voyage was following those of many earlier travellers is discussed by Dennis Porter (1991). In the twentieth century, French anthropologist Claude Lévi-​Strauss (1984 [1955], 50, 51) noted in his seminal work on Brazil, ‘I wished I had lived in the days of real journeys, when it was still possible to see the full spectacle that had not yet been blighted, polluted and spoiled’ (emphasis in the original). Critical focus on belatedness has mostly attended to the author’s melancholy about lost attributes in the destination or the travellee. Ali Behdad (1994, 14)  in Belated Travelers; Orientalism in the Age of Colonial Dissolution identifies a sense of colonial belatedness in travellers to the East since Flaubert, asserting that such travel writing is ‘the exoticist desire for the disappearing other’ (also see colonialism and orientalism). Scholars have also explored the sense of belatedness which relates to the identity of the traveller. Patrick Holland and Graham Huggan (1998, 280), in their account of Eric Newby’s A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush (1958), note that here belatedness is rooted in the ‘myth of the English gentleman [which] has lost its moral force’. Glenn Hooper and Tim Youngs (2004, 143) assert that Newby’s text is ‘an example of what might facetiously be called “the 100-​years-​too late” school of travel writing’. An examination of any travel text illustrates the generic and phenomenological proximity of human history and mobility. As Peter Whitfield (2011, vii) asserts in the Preface to his Travel: A Literary History: ‘History without travel is unthinkable’ and vice versa.

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Further Reading Behdad, A. 1994. Belated Travelers: Orientalism in the Age of Colonial Dissolution. Durham, NC; and London: Duke University Press. Elsner, J. and J.-​P. Rubiés (eds). 1999. Voyages and Visions: Towards a Cultural History of Travel. London: Reaktion. Hewison, R. 1987. The Heritage Industry: Britain in a Climate of Decline. London: Methuen. Holland, P. and G. Huggan. 1998. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflections on Contemporary Travel Writing. Michigan: University of Michigan Press. Urry, J. 1990. The Tourist Gaze. London: Sage.

40 HOME Rune Graulund

Home is central to travel and vice versa, for without the former, how would one define the latter? One needs to move away from home, presumably, or towards home, in order to engage in travel. For home is the place that defines us, home is often where we feel safe and it is the place we long to return to once we have left home behind. Yet home is also where we feel most bored and constricted; home is the place we feel we know all too well, just as it is a place that locks us into an identity we may not cherish. Accordingly, home is often the reason we set out to travel in the first place. Robyn Davidson (1980, 18), in Tracks, describes journeying away from home in order to challenge and escape ‘the antipodean machismo’ that she feels constricted by in her everyday life. In The European Tribe, Caryl Phillips (2000b, 2) leaves home behind because ‘I had no idea where I was from’. Nominally British, Phillips does not feel truly at home in a country in which his St. Kitts heritage and non-​white skin are perceived as a mark of the foreign. Hence, he feels a need to leave home behind in order to search for a new one. To travel then, may in fact be to engage in a figurative quest for home, even as one moves away from it in physical terms. Indeed, to be on the move, to travel from one place to another, can itself be construed as a form of home. Nomads, for instance, live their entire lives on the move (see nomadism). To nomads ‘home’ may be a yurt, a camel or an entire region. Unlike the majority of people in the industrialized world, nomads do not have a house or a flat to call their own. Accordingly, a nomadic conception of home may run counter to Eurocentric notions of home as ‘fixed, rooted, stable –​the very antithesis of travel’ (George 1999, 2). Indeed, it was an obsession with nomadic conceptions of home that led Bruce Chatwin, in The Songlines (1987), to leave the specifics of his home in London behind in order to search for a more universal sense of home. The central argument of Chatwin’s book is that humanity’s original home is precisely not a condition of being in stasis. Rather, Chatwin argues, it is in the nomadic sense of life that we find ourselves truly at home. It is therefore important to realize that the manner in which ‘we’ construct ‘our’ notion of home is dependent on a range of individual and societal norms. French philosopher Gaston Bachelard (1994 [1958], 6) may claim that ‘the house is one of the greatest powers of integration for the thoughts and memories and dreams of mankind’, but he obviously does not have all of mankind in mind. Womankind, for one, may think somewhat differently of the space that has often figured as a means to control and detain them in docile roles as wives, mothers or servants. The meaning

118  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies of home can change drastically depending on your gender, sexuality, nationality, the colour of your skin or the nature of your work. The problem with ‘home’, then, is that it is a slippery subject. While it is perhaps not quite as difficult to define as the term ‘nature’ (Williams 1983, 219), it is nevertheless incredibly hard to pin down. To many, ‘home’ may signify something quite concrete, perhaps even literally so, as we see in the work of Bachelard and his fixation with the brick and concrete house as home. To others, home is something far less material, a sensation rather than a building or a place; which is to say that ‘home is both a place/​physical location and a set of feelings’ (Blunt and Dowling 2006, 22; emphases in the original). Ironically, home is therefore difficult to define, let alone theorize, precisely because it is so very specific, so subjective and contextual. As Rosemary Marangoly George (1999, 4) argues, ‘[I]‌t is hard to theorize notions like home or location except when specific historical and/or literary settings are taken into account.’ Home becomes fuzzy once we disengage it from its specific context. Ultimately, we need to be wary of home. Some argue that traditional Eurocentric travel writing abhors ‘home’ as a limitation of the freely roaming European self. Others have suggested that the concept of ‘home’ offers a peculiarly Eurocentric manner of ensuring difference: ‘ “Home” is a crucial category within European travel because it is the space of return and of consolidation of the Self enabled by the encounter with the “Other” ’ (Grewal 1996, 6). As a means of providing the travelling European subject with a strong sense of Self, rather than a genuine desire to meet and come to terms with the Other, home is as often as not exclusionary as it is inclusive. Travel and home, it bears repeating, are intimately interconnected. For if ‘most forms of travel at least cater to desire [in that] they seem to promise or allow us to fantasize the satisfaction of drives that for one reason or another is denied us at home’ (Porter 1991, 9), then to escape home may be liberating. Yet to be entirely without home is rarely tenable, or indeed desirable, in the long run. Migrant workers, for instance, are often at a distinct disadvantage in the countries they have migrated to. Similarly, ‘the homeless’, nominally citizens of a particular country but with no fixed address or abode, live in a special kind of limbo. For ‘if home is an inevitably problematic space, still to be without a home in a home-​centred culture is a traumatic experience’ (Morley 2007, 26). In an ‘era of increasing globalisation, in which mobility, travel and cross-​cultural contact are facts of life, and an everyday reality, for many people’ (Thompson 2011, 2), home has never been more fluid and elusive, but it remains as important as ever.

Further Reading Bachelard, G. 1994 [1958]. The Poetics of Space. Trans. by Maria Jolas. Boston: Beacon Press. Blunt, A. and R. Dowling. 2006. Home. London and New York: Routledge. George, R.  M. 1999. The Politics of Home: Postcolonial Relocations and Twentieth-​Century Fiction. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Grewal, I. 1996. Home and Harem: Nation, Gender, Empire, and the Cultures of Travel. London: Leicester University Press. Morley, D.  2007. Home Territories: Media, Mobility and Identity. London and New  York: Routledge.

41 HOME  TOUR Zoë Kinsley

‘Home’ was not a term dealt with by Raymond Williams, yet it finds a place in New Keywords, and is there defined as evoking ‘both rest and settlement, and movement’ (Bennett 2005, 162). As Rune Graulund writes in this volume, our understanding of what it means to travel is fundamentally shaped by our conception of home; the ‘home tour’, a term used to describe journeys made by travellers within their own nation or locality, epitomizes that close relationship. Home tour travel is sometimes referred to as ‘domestic’ travel, distinguishing it from other kinds of trans-​border international travel in the same way that airports distinguish between domestic and international flights. The terms ‘home tour’ and ‘domestic travel’ can be misleading, however, as they suggest a familiarity that is often belied by the journeys themselves. Travellers can and do experience foreignness and defamiliarization on the home tour. The term ‘home tour’ is perhaps most commonly used to describe journeys made by British travellers within Britain, and the writings they produced have been the subject of a number of critical studies (many of which build upon the early work of Moir 1964; Andrews 1989; and Ousby 1990). Benjamin Colbert (2012, 2) writes that British home tourism ‘dates back at least to religious pilgrimage’, and Chaucer’s (1987, line 26) eclectic group of pilgrims, travelling in ‘felaweshipe’ in the late fourteenth-​century Canterbury Tales, remind us of the early relationship between home tour circuits and devotional itineraries (see pilgrimage). Andrew McRae (2009, 2)  has argued that home tour travel was ‘problematic’ in the early modern period because ‘human mobility, within the space of the English nation, posed fundamental challenges to the period’s predominant models of social order’. By travelling through their nation, individuals found their relationship to that larger imagined community changed (see Anderson 1991, 6). Wendy Bracewell (2016, 345) has discussed nineteenth-​century home tour travel’s concern with substantiating nationhood, but it could be argued that the attempts to use travel writing to ‘fix’ a ‘national spirit’ began much earlier. In the late seventeenth century, Celia Fiennes (1947, 1–​2) celebrated the home tour as an act of patriotism that would ‘cure the evil itch of over-​valuing foreign parts’. And after the 1707 Act of Union yoked England and Wales with Scotland, Daniel Defoe (1986, 43) presented his important Tour Through the Whole Island of Great Britain (1724–​26) as a ‘description of the most flourishing and opulent country in the world’. British home tourism ‘flowers in the mid-​eighteenth century as a popular leisure pursuit with a developing infrastructure’ (Colbert 2012, 2). Some authors draw attention to their local knowledge: the successful travel writer and natural historian

120  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Thomas Pennant (1781, i), for example, carefully points out the fact that his ‘Journey to Snowdon’ begins at ‘his own house’. Yet other travellers expressed concerns about the extent to which an increasingly mobile readership would be interested in an account of a nation with which they were already ‘conversant’. In the preface to the second edition of his Tour through Parts of England, Scotland, and Wales (first published in 1780)  Richard Sulivan (1785, I, iii–​iv, vi) explicitly labels his work a ‘Home Tour’, but describes his authorial task as an ‘unpropitious’ labour: ‘What is to be expected novel from what everyone is acquainted with?’ In fact, many home tour travellers express surprise at how different things are in the relatively nearby locations to which they travel. Regional and trans-​border difference within Britain is frequently emphasized, and both fantasies and fears of primitive landscapes and peoples are revealed (see Kinsley 2008, Chapter  6). For Mary Morgan (1795, 123 and 235–​36), travelling through Crickhowell in Wales in 1791, a mountain can be compared to ‘nothing but Mount Sinai’, and the miners at Hook in Pembrokeshire are likened to the people of Tierra del Fuego: they ‘sit upon their hams, as the Indians do’. Home tour geography becomes one of difference rather than sameness or familiarity. The eighteenth-​century home tour in Britain was facilitated by developments in road-​and map-​making during the period, and in the wake of the French Revolution of 1789 offered what was to some an appealing, safer option to travel on the continent. In later periods, and different regional and national contexts, other social, cultural and political factors can help us to understand the increased participation in and popularity of home tour travel. For example, Joanne Lee (2012, 208)  identifies the recent increase in Italian home tour writing, depicting urban spaces in particular as demonstrative of contemporary anxieties about economic, social and political issues such as immigration and global consumerism. Critics such as Jennifer Hayward (2016), Claire Lindsay (2010) and Thea Pitman (2008) have shown how Latin American travellers have, in recent years, begun to ‘write back’ against Euro-​American travel texts from the nineteenth century onwards, in an effort to ‘renew or reclaim a national identity’ (Hayward 2016, 369). And in a recent response to the United Kingdom’s decision to leave the EU Garrett Carr’s The Rule of the Land (2017) narrates a ‘long walk’ along the Irish border, which in turn explores the ground that had been trodden by Colm Tóibín (albeit in the opposite direction) three decades earlier in the wake of the Anglo-​Irish agreement (Tóibín 1987). Carr’s (2017, 5) pedestrian, home tour journey gives studied and intimate attention to the landscapes and communities of this Irish ‘line’ that ‘has a lot of responsibilities’ yet was curiously neglected in the political debate in the run-​up to the EU referendum. It has been argued that the postmodern era brings with it a post-​touristic recognition that it is almost impossible to get ‘off the beaten track’ or make a journey that does not replicate one that someone else has made before. Carl Thompson suggests that a very deliberate act of ‘not leaving’ the local environment is evidenced in a work such as Ian Sinclair’s (2002, 7) London Orbital, which describes the author’s ‘counterclockwise’ perambulation of the M25 motorway. While such texts could ‘superficially seem like “anti-​travel writing” ’, they actually ‘implicitly debunk the notion that “real” travel is somehow now impossible’ (Thompson 2016, 205–​6). Michael Cronin (2012, 228) has called this vertical travel, or ‘micro-​modernity’: ‘whereas previously

Home Tour 121 emancipation has been thought of as going further, faster, it is now possible to think of liberation as going deeper, slower’ (also Cronin 2000).

Further Reading Colbert, B. (ed.). 2012. Travel Writing and Tourism in Britain and Ireland. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Kinsley, Z. 2008. Women Writing the Home Tour, 1682–​1812. Aldershot: Ashgate. Lindsay, C.  2009. Contemporary Travel Writing of Latin America. New  York and London: Routledge. McRae, A.  2009. Literature and Domestic Travel in Early Modern England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pitman, T. 2008. Mexican Travel Writing. Bern: Peter Lang.

42 HUMOUR Scott Carpenter

The term itself is slippery. Originally denoting moisture, ‘humour’ came to describe bodily fluids thought to influence temper and disposition, eventually referring to mood itself, good or ill. Only later did the word develop the sense of that which lifts the spirits, inducing lightness and levity –​specifically all things comical. There are three main theories about what makes us laugh. The first, coming from Aristotle and supported later by Thomas Hobbes (1998 [1651]) and Charles Baudelaire (1956 [1855]), focuses on the notion of power. It suggests that laughter derives from our sudden recognition of superiority (usually our own), especially when this difference is presented with grotesque exaggeration. Baudelaire also insisted on the function of surprise, which Henri Bergson (1911 [1900]) further developed in his landmark study on laughter, referring to the general category of incongruity: in slapstick humour, for example, we see humans acting like dumb animals or simple machines, and the strangeness of this combination is cause for mirth. Finally, Freud (1960 [1905]) pointed to the value of humour as a form of relief: jokes or comical stories provide an opportunity for expressing sentiments that might otherwise be repressed or painful, or too transgressive for normal discourse. In this last case, humour masks seriousness. Many commentators have noted that these functions can operate simultaneously for the production of humour. Less commented on are the natural connections between humour and travel writing. However, encounters with cultural difference are heavy with the ingredients for comedy: they often place the travelling narrator in a position of extreme inferiority (beleaguered by fatigue, foreign language and cultural misunderstanding); they reveal practices and behaviours so surprising that they may seem non-​human; they reveal new boundaries for what is considered taboo or sacred, bringing difficult subjects suddenly into sharp relief. The introduction of humour into travel writing is not a modern invention, but its presence has become commonplace over time. It occurred with special density in fictional narratives that spoofed the genre. In The Persian Letters (1721), for example, Montesquieu managed to skewer French dress, habits, politics and religion by describing how a visitor from Isfahan would perceive French society. In more ‘authentic’ narratives, there is evidence of humour too. In Bougainville’s description of Tahiti (in Voyage autour du Monde, 1771), the author related most experiences with the gravity of a scientific report, but humour sometimes cropped up. Such is the case when the chief ‘sent for one of his wives, whom he sent to sleep

Humour 123 in prince Nassau’s tent’; the eroticism of this titillating local custom is undercut by the description of the companion, which reverses expectations: ‘She was old and ugly’ (225). Humorous travel narratives tend to be closely aligned with fiction, which more easily accommodates the exaggerations, ironies and reversals producing laughter. (On the problematic status of fiction in travel writing, see fiction.) While travellers as diverse as Gérard de Nerval (1851) and Robert Louis Stevenson (1879) allowed ironic comments to creep into their travelogues, it took Mark Twain to write one of the first truly funny travel books. In The Innocents Abroad (1869), he recounted his voyage through Europe and the Holy Land, taking every opportunity to exploit for humour (often at his own expense) what he learned: The gentle reader will never, never know what a consummate ass he can become until he goes abroad. I speak now, of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad, and therefore is not already a consummate ass. If the case be otherwise, I beg his pardon and extend to him the cordial hand of fellowship and call him brother. I shall always delight to meet an ass after my own heart when I have finished my travels. (233) Humour has become a mainstay of travel writing, especially in the Anglo-​American tradition. Humourist Bill Holm followed the path Twain blazed in his account of travels to China (Coming Home Crazy, 1990). Taking a subtler approach, Bill Bryson has teased the strangeness of cultures (including his own) in books like Notes from a Small Island (1996) and I’m a Stranger Here Myself (1999). David Sedaris represents another approach in this vein. His hilarious classic, Me Talk Pretty One Day (2000), is as much about his own personality as it is about French culture: Things began to come together, and I went from speaking like an evil baby to speaking like a hillbilly. ‘Is thems the thoughts of cows?’ I’d ask the butcher, pointing to the calves’ brains displayed in the front window. Invoking humour in travel writing can be a tricky business. Narrators need to form a bond with readers, and anyone who constantly mocks others quickly becomes unlovable. For this reason, the preferred mode of many writers is self-​deprecation, where the comical figure is the narrator herself or himself. Often the humour practised in modern travel writing draws on irony, where the gap between what is said and what is meant produces laughter on the part of the reader. Although humour makes difficult topics approachable, some worry that it neutralizes the force of cultural encounters because it refuses to take anything ‘seriously’. The dearth of critical essays on the topic suggests that scholars find humorous travel writing less worthy of attention than its ‘serious’ counterpart. Moreover, some topics lend themselves less obviously to humour: comic accounts of travels in war-​ torn or impoverished regions may be considered insensitive, as though the author were refusing to engage meaningfully with the context, especially if that author is from a country of privilege. Sometimes humour may reinforce old constructions of ‘Western superiority’ (Nandi 2014, 265).

124  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies This last point links humour to the problem of authority in travel writing: who is authorized to speak about, or on behalf of, another culture? In this way our discussion circles back to the notion of superiority implied in the earliest ruminations about humour. Even self-​deprecation may be a luxury in certain contexts, but when self-​deprecation exists merely as a rhetorical device, it may smack of smugness.

Further Reading Bardon, A. 2005. ‘The Philosophy of Humor’. In Maurice Charney (ed.), Comedy: A Geographic and Historical Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press: 1–21. Davies, C. 2005. ‘Searching for Jokes: Language, Translation, and the Cross-​Cultural Comparison of Humour’. In The Anatomy of Laughter. London: Legenda; Modern Humanities Research Association and Maney Publishing: 70–​85. Kuhne, C.  (ed.). 2007. Wish You Weren’t Here: The Black Cat Anthology of Travel Writing. New York: Grove Press, Black Cat. Morreall, J.  1987. The Philosophy of Laughter and Humor. Albany: State University of New York Press. Silva, R. 2012. ‘From Colonial Myopia to Cosmopolitan Clear-​Sightedness and Back Again: Twain’s Imperial Relapses in Backward, Rural Societies’. Mark Twain Annual, 10: 91–​108.

43 IDENTITY Alex Drace-​Francis

The word ‘identity’ first came into use in English in the sixteenth century, as a borrowing from French and Latin (Late Latin identitas, from idem, the same). It can denote two rather different conditions of sameness: that which subsists between two or more people or objects, which are ‘identical’; or that of a single person or object having the same distinct qualities or characteristics throughout its existence. Early usages tended to promote the first quality; the second became dominant slightly later. These definitions might seem at first to contradict each other. One way of understanding them might be to consider that important accessory of modern travel, the passport or ‘identity document’. Such a document enables people to be distinguished as individuals, for instance, by means of a photograph, given name and number, and other details that make them unique. Reference to origin points –​date and place of birth, perhaps names of parents –​also imply that an individual’s identity derives from unique circumstances pertaining to their creation. But passports also ‘identify’ people in a different way: as one of a group of many, perhaps citizens of a state (Caplan and Torpey 2001). Identity documents might further locate individuals in other collective categories such as gender, ethnicity or religion. In short, identity involves having a continuously distinct existence; but can also mean being one of the same ‘kind’ of people or things. Not all philosophers accept the idea that an individual’s identity is fixed and continuous. In the eighteenth century, David Hume (1739–​40, I, 439–​41) declared personal identity to be a fiction, ‘nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions’, sustained by ‘operations of the imagination’. Modern theorists (e.g., Sen 2006; Younge 2010) likewise perceive identity as being an accretion of often potentially contradictory attitudes, sustained by our complex relations with others, and also by the effects of experience, socialization and other normative cultural pressures (tradition, habits and customs) or ‘epistemes’, that is, the social and intellectual apparatus which renders judgement possible. In most modern contexts, identity is acknowledged to be constructed through a mass of social interactions and acts of representation: identity is therefore ‘not an object but a process’ (Schick 1999). Reflecting this, some theorists (e.g., Brubaker and Cooper 2000) advocate the use of the term ‘identification’ over ‘identity’. Travel, understood as ‘culturalized movement’, is an activity with consequences for identity-​formation: it enables the registering and interpretation of perceived differences, as well as comparison and contrast with geographical ‘others’. By

126  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies representing themselves crossing boundaries, travellers in some sense define or reinforce them. Likewise, the process of boundary-​crossing also ‘produces’ the traveller’s identity: the process of locating oneself in space and establishing boundaries beyond the personal body is an important part of identity-​formation (Murray 1989; Chard 1996; Lamb 2001). This process is extended through the act of writing, becoming ‘a discourse of separation’ between self and other (de Certeau 1988, 4). Travel not only involves spatial displacement, but is also understood as a distinct temporal segment, an exceptional episode or phase in a larger biography. This is represented by means of narrative, defined conventionally as ‘the representation of an event’ (Genette 1982, 127), in this case the journey. With specific reference to identity issues, narrative has been defined as ‘an envelope containing (and constraining) the vicissitudes of self-​enactment’ (Schick 1999, 20). The traveller’s identity is conveyed through his or her literary persona, which thereby also becomes a site for the performance of group identities. Defining persons or groups by what they are necessarily implies a category of what they are not. In the abstract this is termed ‘otherness’ or ‘alterity’ (from Latin alter ‘other’), both terms also dating from the sixteenth century. ‘The Other’ came to be used in the nineteenth century as a noun denoting a particular embodiment of alterity (Oxford English Dictionary, II: 9 b), and is widely used in cultural studies, and anthropology, especially under the influence of structuralism where verbal and cultural meanings are understood not just in terms of their intrinsic value but in binary oppositional relations. Discourse which highlights the difference and often inferiority of the other is known as ‘alteritist’. Many disciplinary traditions have developed their own definitions of alterity. In Lacanian psychology, ‘the other’ is used to refer to the subconscious, symbolic order governing self-​identity. In the philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas (1999), ‘alterity’ is understood as a modern category replacing the religious one of transcendence. Anthropologist Michael Taussig (1993) saw alterity as related to the human impulse to imitate others, and the consequent encounters and boundary-​forming processes. Key studies on travel writing as a discourse informing identities place considerable emphasis not just on the process of self-​building, but on the creation of the image of the other, especially in terms of spatial, temporal and qualitative coordinates (see especially Said 1978; Fabian 1983).

Further Reading Ferret, S.  (ed.). 1998. L’Identité. Introduction, choix de textes, commentaires, vade-​mecum et bibliographie. Paris: Flammarion. Gleason, P. 1983. ‘Identifying Identity: A Semantic History’. Journal of American History, 69.4: 910–​31. Hall, S. and P. du Ga (eds). 1996. Questions of Cultural Identity. London: Sage. Sen, A. 2006. Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny. London: Penguin. Younge, G. 2010. Who Are We –​And Should It Matter in the 21st Century? London: Viking.

44 ILLUSTRATION Kathryn Walchester

An illustration is an example, image or photograph which accompanies text or indeed a piece of text which itself illustrates an idea. Its etymology, from the Latin illustrationem, indicates the action or purpose of an illustration, that is, to ‘enlighten’ or ‘to light up’ a text. Illustrations feature in travel texts from the early-​modern period, often in the shape of maps or depictions of landscape. More recently illustrations have provided alternative modes of understanding travel and the identity of its participants. Critical attention towards illustration in travel writing has come from a variety of disciplines, including art history, geography and literary criticism. Scholars approaching this field have drawn on cultural theory which addresses both visualities and textual production, such as the work of Barthes, Derrida and Genette. Derek Gregory’s (2003, 224) term of a ‘scopic regime’ has been a useful concept for travel writing scholars to consider the ‘structuring effect’ of images. Since the 1980s, cultural geographers have considered the role of the image in travel texts as indicative of ways of constituting power. The work of Cosgrove, Rose and Daniels explores the role of representation in making geographical knowledge and imagination. Cosgrove (2008, 3)  notes how ‘graphic and pictorial images play active and creative roles that take the significance of representation beyond mere transcription of spatial and environmental facts’. More recent engagements with images in travel writing have noted their ability to disrupt and challenge dominant discourses. In her work on Nicolas Bouvier, Margaret Topping (2009, 332) draws on Barthesian notions of an ‘interlacing’ between text and image which produces ‘a recognition of polyphony and diversity […] fleetingly captured […] but also forever exceeding […] the interaesthetic spaces of negotiation between written word and photographic images’. Andrew Thacker likewise notes the interaction between text and image in his discussion of the illustrations of maps in Graham Greene’s travel writing. He draws on Derrida’s proposals noting that a map ‘such as the one at the start of Greene’s book […] both adds to the text and substitutes [emphases in the original] for the written text’ (Thacker in Burdett and Duncan 2002, 11; Derrida 1976, 144–​45). Recent work has focused on the production of illustrations for travel texts. In her work on illustrations in nineteenth-​century British travel accounts of Africa, art historian Leila Koivunen (2008, 206) explores the relationship between images of Africa and the European social and cultural contexts from which those images emerged

128  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies and notes that illustrations ‘were the result of a long construction process’. Citing Koivunen and others, Tim Youngs (2013, 172) asserts that the recent work on the inclusion of illustrations in works of travel literature ‘is also a caution against attributing to a single author responsibility for the entire content of illustrated travel books’. Eighteenth-​century interest in science and exploration encouraged travellers to include illustrations of their discoveries. Early works of exploration sponsored by the Royal Society had considerable influence due to the quality of illustrations by printers such as Samuel Smith and Benjamin Walford in the 1690s. Accounts of extensive voyages of explorations such as those by Alexander von Humboldt included hundreds of illustrations so that by 1800 readers would have expected to see high quality illustrations of harbours, important cities, as well as native costumes and exotic flora and fauna’ (in Hulme and Youngs 2002, 31). The eighteenth century saw a widened interest in painting and the development of picturesque tourism. Illustrated texts were largely responsible for this phenomenon and throughout the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries texts by travellers were dominated by plates of sketches by authors such as James Baillie Fraser’s paintings of India and popular editions by London engraver John Boydell, which featured destinations from the home tour and Norway. As one of the principal accomplishments for the upper-​class woman of the period, sketching has been identified by Maria Frawley and others as a pertinent mode of expression in women’s travel writing. Nineteenth-​century travellers such as Marianne North, Lady Canning and later Isabella Bird and Mary Kingsley, all used self-​drawn sketches as significant additions to their writing (Frawley 2005, 34; Foster 2002, 92). In the nineteenth century, as new methods of printing were established, and it became cheaper to produce illustrated texts, travel accounts began to include many more images. Representations of colonial travel, such as David Livingstone’s Missionary Travels, John Hanning Speke’s Journey of the Discovery of the Source of the Nile and Samuel White Baker’s The Albert N’yanza, Great Basin of the Nile, and Explorations of Nile Sources all contained depictions of people and places from their travels, as well as sketches or photographs of the authors. Writing about the work of explorer J. A. Grant, Roy Bridges notes how ‘[v]‌isual messages from the heart of Africa were as likely to be distorted as the verbal ones’ (Bridges, in Hulme and Youngs 2002, 64). However, as Susan Bassnett has shown in her feminist reading of colonial travel texts, certain illustrations such as those by May French-​Sheldon in Sultan to Sultan: Adventures among the Masai and Other Tribes of East Africa (1892) challenge dominant discourses, such as a scientific representation of colonial regions during this period (see colonialism). Developments in the technology of photography allowed authors to provide their own images to illustrate their travel texts without the need for engravers. Authors could use such self-​representations to construct versions of the ‘traveller’, such as the illustrations in the work of Rosita Forbes, ‘in smart outfits or with famous people’, which according to Susan Bassnett (2002, 236)  contributed to ‘a particular image of woman between the wars’. Conversely the relative convenience of photography also enabled women travellers to challenge expectations by depicting themselves in unconventional settings, such as mountaineer Elizabeth le Blonde and Polar traveller Helen Peel. Photographic illustrations in travel texts presented an apparent reliability,

Illustration 129 and frequently conformed to established scientific modes of representation, such as those of ethnography. Illustrations have been integral to the development of travel literature, particularly in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; accordingly, critics have seen the production and inclusion of illustrations as concomitant in the dismantling and construction of dominant ideologies.

Further Reading Cosgrove, D.  E. 2008. Geography and Vision: Seeing, Imagining and Representing the World. London: I.B. Taurus. Koivunen, L. 2009. Visualising Africa in Nineteenth-​Century British Travel Accounts. Abingdon and New York: Routledge. Thacker, A. 2002. ‘Journeys with Maps: Travel Theory, Geography and the Syntax of Space’. In Charles Burdett and Derek Duncan (eds), Cultural Encounters: European Travel Writing in the 1930s. Oxford and New York: Berghahn: 11–​28. Topping, M. 2009. ‘Phototextual Journeys: Nicolas Bouvier in Asia’. Studies in Travel Writing, 13.4: 317–​34.

45 INTERMEDIARIES Ángel Tuninetti

Given the broad description of intermediary provided by the Oxford English Dictionary, that is, ‘one who acts between others; an intermediate agent; a go-​between middleman, mediator’, ‘something acting between persons or things, a medium, means’, intermediation plays a key role in travel writing, and can be addressed from many perspectives: the traveller as a mediator between two cultures, travel narratives as an intermediary between a place and the reader or, from the perspective of the genre, travel writing as the intermediary ‘between subjective inquiry and objective documentation’ (Holland and Huggan 1998, 11). However, for the purposes of this entry, the focus will be, less abstractly, on the physical agents that mediate between the traveller and the place. It is almost impossible to imagine a situation in which a traveller would interact with the world without the intermediation of human and non-​human agents that facilitate, condition and occasionally distort the perception of the place visited. The work of the intermediary often depends of acts of translation, both linguistic and cultural, and links travel and travel writing to questions of cross-​cultural (un)translatability. While we tend to identify intermediaries with human agents, the role of non-​ humans should not be overlooked. The importance of maps and book guides has been studied in relationship with the tourism industry (Enzensberger 1996), but not enough attention has been paid to their role in travel literature. The role of different means of transportation as factors determining the interaction of the subject with the world has been more widely studied, and the contemporary emphasis in materiality and Thing theory is bringing into focus the importance of scientific instruments as mediators (Gómez 2015) between the travel writer and nature. And of course, photography and the camera have been the topic of many studies and reflections on travel. Even when human intermediaries and mediators play a vital role in travel history, it is surprising how little space the figure of these key participants occupy both in travel narratives and in the studies about the genre. For classificatory purposes, we can distinguish between two main functions played by intermediaries, even when very often they are combined: as travel aids, helping in one way or the other with the displacement of the traveller (guides, pathfinders, cooks, porters, servants), and as cultural mediators (translators, interpreters, tour guides, informants, negotiators, lovers).

Intermediaries 131 The relationship between travellers and intermediaries is rife with issues of colonial power, as the traveller imposes his/​her authority over the intermediaries, but at the same time depends on their expertise to achieve his/​her travel goal (see colonialism). In many travel narratives, in which the conditions of the journey presuppose the existence of intermediaries (travel in inhospitable and remote areas in which the presence of interpreters, guides and porters is a necessity), many times the narrator makes no reference to the helping entourage, or it is encapsulated in a generic ‘we’. Giving too much protagonism to the intermediaries would diminish the authority of the Imperial ‘I’, with the result that many writers mention their entourage only in passing, or in special situations of crisis or disappointment in them. Guides and pathfinders provide one of the most interesting cases of intermediation, as the travellers depend heavily on them, but, having different expectations and cultural mind frames, conflicts arise between the parties. The role of guides has been studied in more detail in the field of tourism studies (Cohen 1985); mountaineering is also an area in which the importance of guides, from the Alps to the Himalaya, has been noted (Hansen 1999). Many studies explore the role of guides and pathfinders in specific travelogues, but we lack a comprehensive work on the topic. One of the most common problems travellers complain about is the lack of commitment of the guides, who do not share their agenda. Greenfield (1986/​87, 198) brings up the case of Samuel Hearne, in Journey to the Northern Ocean, who found out ‘he was subject to the whims and wishes of his Indian guides, without any real means of enforcing his will’. This inversion of power can also be seen when the traveller realizes that the instruments (maps, guides) he possesses are no longer useful in uncharted territories. Estanislao Zeballos, in Viaje al país de los araucanos, develops a profound relationship (at first reluctantly) with his Indian guide Pancho Francisco, who is assigned to him by the military when his main guide deserts. Zeballos (1881, 161) starts to develop respect for his pathfinder, at a point, and when his maps become useless, he writes: ‘I was forced to trust in the barbarian, and I resolved to submit to him.’ At the end of his book, Zeballos dedicates it to Pancho Francisco, who has recently died. Pancho Francisco’s knowledge does not die with him, as Zeballos makes maps in which the local knowledge of the guide is put in circulation and capitalized by Western culture (Gómez 2015). Another clear example of the interaction between local and global knowledge occurs at the language level, when Zeballos contrasts his interpretation of Indian topographic names with the natives’ understanding of them (or lack thereof). With the development of tourism, the role of the guide changed, as his/​her expertise is no longer indispensable, and therefore the power over the traveller diminishes. The usefulness of the guide is put into question, being considered just a mercenary, as Clorinda Matto de Turner describes her guides in Italy in Viaje de Recreo: España, Francia, Inglaterra, Italia, Suiza y Alemania. Added to that, well-​educated tourists can compete and even surpass the level of expertise of the guides, such as when Matto de Turner corrects her guide on Classical mythology. She has the power, and the guide resents that, expressing that ‘in America they teach things differently’ (Miseres 2015, 11). In contemporary travel, we see a diminishing role of the intermediaries, helped by the rise of English as lingua franca, more travel conveniences and the rise of the

132  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies internet as lodging and transportation clearinghouses. Besides the aspects covered in this entry, there are other issues of intermediation worthy of further study, such as the role of interpreters and cultural mediators, as well as the sexual politics involved in many cases in which the relationship seems to evolve into a more intimate relationship (see sex/​sexuality), as we can see with the guide Carmen in Lucio Mansilla’s A Visit to the Ranquel Indians, or with Sachiko in Pico Iyer’s The Lady and the Monk: Four Seasons in Kyoto.

Further Reading Enzensberger, H. M. 1996. ‘A Theory of Tourism’. New German Critique, 68: 117–​35. Gómez, L. 2015. ‘Pathfinders in Travel Narratives’. In G. Mackenthum (ed.), Travel, Agency, and the Circulation of Knowledge. Münster and New York: Waxmann: 121–​37. Hansen, P. H. 1999. ‘Partners: Guides and Sherpas in the Alps and Himalayas, 1850s–​1950s’. In J. Elsner and J.-​P. Rubiés (eds),Voyages and Visions: Towards a Cultural History of Travel. London: Reaktion Books: 210–​31. Roulet, F. 2009. ‘Mujeres, rehenes y secretarios: Mediadores indígenas en la frontera sur del Río de la Plata durante el período hispánico’. Colonial Latin American Review, 18.3: 303–​37. Trigo, B. 2000. Subjects of Crisis: Race and Gender as Disease in Latin America. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press. [Especially Chapter 1, ‘Walking Backward to the Future: Time, Travel, and Race’, on Humboldt].

46 INTERTEXTUALITY Betty Hagglund

The term ‘intertextuality’ (intertextualité) is a modern one, coined by Julia Kristeva in 1967. The theory of intertextuality suggests that a text needs to be read in the light of its allusions to and differences from the content or structure of other texts. No text functions as a completely closed system. As Worton and Still (1990, 1–​2) argue: ‘Firstly, the writer is a reader of texts before s/​he is a creator of texts, and therefore the work of art is inevitably shot through with references, quotations and influences of every kind[…] Secondly, a text is only available through some process of reading; what is produced at the moment of reading is due to the cross-​fertilisation of the packaged textual material […] by all the texts which the reader brings to it.’ Intertextuality emphasizes the dialogic nature of reading and writing. The ‘literary word’, writes Kristeva (1980, 65–​66), is ‘an intersection of textual surfaces rather than a point (a fixed meaning), as a dialogue among several writings […] each word (text) is an intersection of other words (texts) where at least one other word (text) can be read.’ Intertextuality creates relationships between texts, both for readers and writers. Although the word is relatively new, travel writing has, of course, been both implicitly and explicitly intertextual for centuries. Travel writing is often overtly intertextual, but, as is true for other genres, it also exists within a network of ‘partially denied or unacknowledged intertexts’ (Hulme 2002a, 223). The explicit use of intertextuality within travel narratives serves a variety of functions. It can corroborate the truth-​value of the text  –​someone else has done or seen or said the same thing. It can also serve to establish the travel writer as an authoritative figure, one who has done his research before leaving home and whose information can be trusted, although the author may still need to emphasize the primacy of his text. The Victorian traveller Eliot Warburton (1845, xiii) wrote that before visiting the East he had read the accounts of many previous travellers, but he assured his audience that he had ‘not (intentionally) […] used the thoughts of any author’, and that therefore they could trust in the ‘novelty’ of his impressions. Earlier travel accounts continue to shape modern travel writings. Philip Glazebrook (1984, 9), travelling in Turkey in the 1980s, travelled ‘in the company of ghosts, the shades of real travellers, whose voices I have tried to overhear’, while Jonathan Raban, sailing down the Mississippi River (1981), drew on Thoreau’s A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers (1849), Flint’s Recollections of … Journeyings in the Valley of the Mississippi (1826) and Twain’s Huckleberry Finn (1884). This reliance on the accounts of previous travellers is perhaps most emphatically seen in the subgenre of ‘footstep’

134  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies books: Julia Smith travelled in the footsteps of Graham Greene (2001), Michael Montgomery saw Italy through the eyes of Edward Lear (2005), Nick Hunt retraced a journey made by Patrick Leigh Fermor (2014) and there are many other similar texts published each year. Other travel writers use previous travel accounts as foils, to prove the superiority of their own observations. Sarah Murray, travelling in Scotland at the beginning of the nineteenth century, pointed out that she had seen things that both Pennant and Johnson had missed, claiming that she therefore had ‘seen Scotland, and its natural beauties, more completely than any other individual’ (1799, 42; 1803, 181–​82). Eighteenth-​and nineteenth-​century travellers to Italy read the Italian landscape through a classical lens. As Jack Lynch (1995, 15)  has argued: ‘Every traveler who sets foot on Italian soil brings with him the accumulated experience of both classical writers and previous travelers, and if the mind is to be figured as a tabula, it must be one already thoroughly marked up.’ Joseph Addison (1715, x–​xi), writing in the early eighteenth century, claimed that he had ‘taken care particularly to consider the several passages of the ancient poets, which have any relation to the places and curiosities that I met with’, weaving references to the ancients into his travel account. Subsequent travellers often drew on Addison. Harriet Morton (1829, vol. 2, 183), travelling in Rome a century later, compared the Duomo with Addison’s description of it and went on to describe it herself, closely paraphrasing the original. While many nineteenth-century female travellers to Italy could not read Latin or Greek, they frequently had knowledge of classical texts in translation, particularly Dryden’s translation of Virgil’s Aeneid and Pope’s Odyssey. Those texts served as filters through which the writer both ‘experienced’ and wrote about Italy; so too did contemporary texts, particularly de Staël’s Corinne (1807) and Byron’s Child Harold’s Pilgrimage (1818). Thea Pitman (2008, 49–​50), writing about Mexican travel writing, has outlined the way in which intertextual references to other Mexican travel writers also helps to create ‘a canon of Mexican travel writing: the content, the form, the continuity of purpose are seen to be handed down from one writer to another’, while references to European travel writers raise issues of exoticism and postcolonial national identity (see exotic). Despite the fact that most travel texts are presented as single voiced, the extensive level of intertexuality in many texts means that there are in fact many voices in each one. Juxtaposing the various voices creates relationships. The reader does not hear the single voice of the travel writer, but a multiplicity of voices. Far from undermining the authoritative voice of the text, that multiplicity in fact intensifies the writer’s authority. Approached in this way, the uniqueness of each text lies not so much in a single authoritative voice, but in the combination, the meeting, the encounter. The texts incorporated into the travel account provide a variety of lenses. It is in the relationships between the viewer and the viewed, the writer and the reader, and the author and her sources that meaning is created.

Intertextuality 135

Further Reading Hagglund, B. 2012. ‘The “Bricolage” of Travel Writing: A Bakhtinian Reading of Nineteenth-​ Century Women’s Travel Writings about Italy’. Studies in Travel Writing, 16.2: 107–​21. Hulme, P. 2002. ‘Patagonian Cases: Travel Writing, Fiction, History’. In J. Borm (ed.), Seuils et Traverses: enjeux de l’écriture du voyage. 2 Vols. Brest: Centre de Recherche Bretonne et Celtique: II, 223–​37. Kowalewski, M. (ed.). 1992. Temperamental Journeys: Essays on the Modern Literature of Travel. Athens: University of Georgia Press. Linon-​Chipon, S. et al. (eds). 1999. Miroirs de textes: récits de voyage et intertextualité. Nice: Publications de la Faculté des Lettres, Arts et Sciences Humaines de Nice. Thompson, C.  W. 2012. French Romantic Travel Writing: Chateaubriand to Nerval. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

47 ISLANDS Johannes Riquet

Etymologically, island means ‘watery land’ (Beer 1990, 271). Article 121 of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (1982, 66) defines an island as ‘a naturally formed area of land, surrounded by water, which is above water at high tide’, adding that ‘the territorial sea, the contiguous zone, the exclusive economic zone and the continental shelf of an island are determined in accordance with the provisions of this Convention applicable to other land territory’. The article was hotly debated from 1972 to 1982, and points to the political and economic implications of what is included and excluded in the definition of an island in a period when many islands were in the process of decolonization. The decolonization of Caribbean and Pacific islands refers us back to early modernity, when Europeans began to ‘see islands everywhere’ and ‘think with islands’ (Gillis 2004, 1–​4), and any history of travel writing should consider the central role occupied by islands in the Western imagination. The relationship between water and land is central to a discussion of islands. In antiquity, Iamboulos’s utopian Island of the Sun is reached after the travellers have lost their way at sea in a storm, and Odysseus is blown from island to island; water is here a dangerous element that needs to be crossed. As John R. Gillis (2004, 9–​21) argues, Western civilization was long uncomfortable with the sea despite ‘mental voyages into the unknown’. In medieval times, Marco Polo and John Mandeville offered fantastic accounts of islands populated by monsters and magicians, yet the island setting was often a mere backdrop to the narrative (Van Duzer 2006, 148–​49). Islands were also important in the immrama, tales of sea voyages by Irish Saints, notably the Voyage of Saint Brendan, which recounts the search for a paradisal island in the West, combining a scriptural spatiotemporality and a carefully hedged secular fascination with the tumultuous interplay of land and water. Columbus’s mental geography and his accounts were shaped by the archipelagos of Marco Polo, Saint Brendan and others; these islands also found their way into the isolario, a genre that appeared in the fifteenth century and contained maps as well as descriptions of real and legendary islands. The ‘insular moment’ of early modernity (Conley 1996, 167) is marked by a fundamental ambivalence. Frank Lestringant argues that the ‘tricontinental world island’ (Cosgrove 2001, 97) of the medieval mappae mundi exploded into a multiplicity of islands in the age of discovery. Yet islands also offered the sense of a controlled miniature world (79–​101); this conception underlies the colonial fantasies that shaped modernity (see colonialism). Thomas More’s Utopia, whose narrator sailed with

Islands 137 Vespucci, offers a geometrical vision of space in the near-​circular, symmetrical shape and strict internal organization of the island. The founding fiction of the modern self, Robinson Crusoe, is a fictional autobiography in the form of a travelogue and illustrates the West’s propensity to prefer discrete entities over figures of interconnectedness (Dean Moore 2004, 3–​8), disavowing the water as part of the island. Rebecca Weaver-​Hightower has shown that Crusoe insulates and fortifies his body and self with concentric ‘skins’, yet she does not address the vulnerability marking his arrival in a zone where land and sea interpenetrate each other, where borders are challenged as Crusoe is ‘landed […], or rather dash’d […] against a piece of rock’ (Defoe 2001, 38), carried to and from the land multiple times. The (desert) island soon becomes the master trope for colonial space, as Diana Loxley (1990) argues, but the European traveller’s hold on the island is initially fraught with uncertainty. If Atlantic islands were central for the ‘transfers of capital, people, and knowledge’ (Gillis 2003, 29) in early modernity, colonial boundaries were fixed in the eighteenth century and islands became more disconnected (Gillis 2004, 100). The imaginative investment in islands shifted to the Pacific as a result of the European ‘discovery’ of Tahiti in 1767; the accounts of Pacific island paradises in the journals of George Robertson, James Cook, Louis Antoine de Bougainville and others were avidly consumed. K. R. Howe (2000, 4) argues that Oceania became a space of projection for ‘the West’s various priorities and expectations’, and that these accounts were shaped by earlier texts going back to old Indo-​European golden-​age fantasies (8–​14). The proliferation of Pacific journals and travelogues in the nineteenth century led to what Paul Lyons terms the ‘American Pacific Archive’, an intertextual web of texts referring as much to each other as to real geography. This textual universe was fed by ‘factual’ and ‘fictional’ accounts. Herman Melville’s semi-​fictional Typee, based on Melville’s stay in the Marquesas, and Poe’s Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, a fictional account mocking ‘real’ journals and travelogues (Lyons 2006, 54–​66), testify to this interweaving of fact and fiction in the textual construction of Pacific islands; the spectre of cannibalism in Typee and the black sand, huts and natives of the South Pacific island of Tsalal in Pym are two prominent instances of this pervasive intertextuality. These Pacific texts were the precursors of early twentieth-​century accounts by ethnographers and anthropologists; Margaret Mead’s Coming of Age in Samoa, for instance, often sounds like a Romantic travelogue. The anthropological fantasy of total observation of island cultures, too, rests on the exclusion of the connective element of water. In Islands and Beaches, Greg Dening (1980) develops an alternative model of (island) culture as constantly reinvented on its beaches. The archipelagic thinking of Pacific cultures has influenced recent island studies. A  central contribution is Epeli Hau‘ofa’s (1994, 152) critique of the Western view of oceanic islands as tiny ‘islands in the far sea’, to which he opposes Pacific conceptions of an expansive ‘sea of islands’ traversed by movements and exchanges; Elizabeth DeLoughrey’s Roots and Routes: Navigating Caribbean and Pacific Island Literatures (2007) argues for a positively valued interconnected islandness as opposed to a backward and closed-​off insularity. Indeed, in a world where the tourist fantasies of late capitalism and neocolonial relations between small islands and global players recycle centuries-​ old conceptions  of the hierarchical relationship between continents and islands, expressed  in recent travelogues like the Oceanian fantasies of Paul

138  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Theroux and the traveller’s fantasy of a secluded island off the beaten tourist track in Alex Garland’s The Beach, conceptions of a world archipelago might offer an alternative and radically decentered global imaginary, in line with Jacques Derrida’s (2011, 9) dictum that ‘[t]‌here is no world, there are only islands’.

Further Reading DeLoughrey, E. 2007. Routes and Roots: Navigating Caribbean and Pacific Island Literatures. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Dening, G. 1980. Islands and Beaches. Honolulu: The University Press of Hawaii. Edmond, R. and V. Smith (eds). 2003. Islands in History and Representation. London: Routledge. Gillis, J. R. 2004. Islands of the Mind: How the Human Imagination Created the Atlantic World. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Hau‘ofa, E. 1994. ‘Our Sea of Islands’. The Contemporary Pacific, 6.1: 147–​61.

48 LOCAL  COLOUR Vladimir Kapor

Local colour is a calque of the French phrase couleur locale. In its earliest documented use in the late seventeenth century, it pertained to the language of painterly technique. Since the 1820s, it has been applied in both French and English to describe imaginative literature and drama, initially among Romanticist circles, designating the use of particularizing traits in the fictional depiction of a locale or a bygone era. In American English, however, the term regularly refers to regionalist prose, through association with the writers of the so-​called Local color movement (1870–​1920). Due to their differing semantics and the distinct sets of critical reflections that they have inspired, the Franco-​British and the American variants will be discussed separately in this entry and distinguished by their spelling. Local colour’s link to travel and travel writing stems from the tenacious belief that there is such a thing as a ‘spirit of a place’ (genius loci as the ancient Romans called it) –​a set of distinctive features inherent to every locale (see place) –​and that this ‘spirit’ might be grasped empirically. Many nineteenth-​century writers avowedly set out on journeys in search of local colour (Thompson 2012) and even claimed to have found it on the ground, like Théophile Gautier (2001 [1843], 16)  upon crossing a bridge on the Franco-​Spanish border: ‘At the end of the Bridge you run straight into Spanish life and local colour: Irun has no sort of likeness to a French village.’ The recognition of these features as distinctively or authentically Spanish depends, of course, more upon the consensus-​effect produced by the doxa of Gautier’s home culture and its semiotic codes (Culler 1981) than upon any empirical reality. Journeys in search of local colour and the accounts they inspire are therefore a quest for the distinctive, or authentic, rather than the unfamiliar or the unknown (see exotic); they are journeys of recognition rather than discovery. As a critical concept, local colour has little currency in contemporary scholarship, discredited as a ‘superficial, scopic reliance on “picturesque” aspects of radically different cultures’ (Forsdick 2000, 34) (see picturesque) and the Romantic fascination for the quaint. Nineteenth-​century travellers nonetheless explain their motivation for journeying in more ambivalent terms, as a desire for ‘immersion in local colour’. This trope, so recurrent that it is considered ‘central to Romantic travel’ (Duncan and Gregory 1999, 6), oscillates between in-​depth and superficial encounters with cultural otherness. It frequently implies a passive attitude of effortless absorption. The gaze of a traveller in quest of local colour also tends to be untouched by ethical or political concerns. For Henry James (1995 [1882], 9), for instance, the ‘misery’

140  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies of Venice ‘is part of the spectacle; a thoroughgoing devotee of local colour might consistently say it is part of the pleasure’. For all its aristocratic aloofness, the desire to be ‘immersed in local colour’ has survived in the contemporary discourse of the tourism industry. The editorial of Lonely Planet’s Top 10 Extraordinary Places to Stay 2014 invites readers to think back over where they stayed on their last trip: ‘Was it simply a place to rest your head, or did it immerse you in local colour, surround you by wildlife and fire your imagination?’ (Isalska 2014). Similarly, the present-​day tourist’s quest for ‘staged authenticity’ (Mee 2014) in the sanitized environment of a resort can arguably be viewed as a distant legacy of this essentially leisurely and Romantic mode of travel. The association between North-​American regionalist usage of the term ‘local color’ and travel writing is not universally acknowledged. Yet such a link has been suggested by the scholars Amy Kaplan and Richard Brodhead, who view the East coast–​based periodicals of the Atlantic Group as the prime site of production of local-​ color fiction and travel sketches. In their metropolitan readings, local-​color writing on the Southern and Mid-​West regions of the United States is a form of domestic tourism (or ‘experimental imperialism’ according to Brodhead) that parallels works of international literary tourism alongside which it was published. While the association with leisure is also present, this form of regional travel writing additionally served a range of cultural functions, including textual articulation of a plural American identity, the invention of regional places as allegories of desires produced by urban centres or the self-​consolidation of an urban middle-​class readership (Brodhead 1993, 107–​41). Key to Kaplan’s and Brodhead’s understanding of local color is the idea of a displacement. As with travel writing, its central objective was to ‘translate’ a region for a readership unfamiliar with it (Hardwig 2013, 3). In this perspective, local-​color travel sketches emerge as sites of anxiety and ‘profound tension between the fact that the region must be represented as unique and exotic and the fact that it cannot be so exotic as to prove inassimilable into the national fabric’ (3). The relevance of ‘local colour’ for the study of contemporary travel writing remains to be proven. It is a period concept appropriated by the contemporary tourism industry to describe a range of practices that scholarship on travel writing may not readily qualify as ‘travel’ (see travel). That this period concept still provides an intuitive and immediate ‘sounding’ of otherness is, above all, proof of the lingering presence of the belief in the existence of universally accepted distinctive features of a place and in cultural authenticity. Such a belief demonstrably underpins the ‘essential experience’ sections of tourist guides, and the travellers’ desire for immersion in the ‘authentic’. In a globalized contemporary world, in which there is ‘no essence to redeem’ and ‘[a]‌ whole structure of expectations about authenticity in culture and in art is thrown in doubt’ (Clifford 1988, 4, 14), such apolitical views and writing practices they inspire may seem like a naïvely retrograde effort to salvage the authentic and the distinctive, blithely ignorant of the fact that any traits identified as such are staged ‘in opposition to external, often dominating alternatives’ (12). Stripped of the Romanticist, often pejorative connotations that permeate the everyday use of the term, local colour might, however, be reclaimed to describe a certain type of receptivity to place. If used to designate a form of local knowledge about more elusive aspects of a place such as

Local Colour 141 its ambiance, rather than a nostalgic reproduction of a pre-​globalized culture, this keyword could still have a useful role to play in the study of travel writing today.

Further Reading Brodhead, R. 1993. Cultures of Letters: Scenes of Reading and Writing in Nineteenth-​Century America. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Duncan, J.  and D.  Gregory(eds). 1999. Writes of Passage: Reading Travel Writing. London: Routledge. Kaplan, A. 1991. ‘Nation, Region and Empire’. In Ermory Eliott et al. (eds), Columbia History of the American Novel. New York: Columbia University Press: 240–​66. Kapor, V. 2009. Local Colour –​A Travelling Concept. Oxford: Peter Lang. Thompson, C.  W. 2012. French Romantic Travel Writing: Chateaubriand to Nerval. Oxford: Oxford: University Press.

49 MARGINS Zoë Kinsley

The term ‘margin’ entered English in the late fourteenth century, with two main strands of meaning emerging almost simultaneously. The first is defined by the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) as ‘[a]‌n edge, a border; that part of a surface which lies immediately within its boundary’; the second relates to the physical spaces of a book. Both meanings bring together notions of terrain and text, place and the penning of it, that are fundamental to travel writing. As Cindy Patton (2005, 204) points out, ‘In most contemporary usages the idea of marginality combines the idea of a dominating force with a spatial metaphor: to be marginal is both to have less power and to be at some distance from the center of power’. That is not to say, however, that the margin can be thought of in straightforward terms as the edge of society. This is eloquently demonstrated by bell hooks (1990) who claims the margin as a ‘site of radical possibility’. Clarifying the message of earlier writings on the marginal position of black Americans, she says: ‘I was not speaking of a marginality one wishes to lose, to give up, or surrender as part of moving into the center, but rather as a site one stays in, clings to even, because it nourishes one’s capacity to resist’ (341). The sense that the margin should be valued for its distance and difference from dominant ideologies, and as a location for potential transformation, is essential for consideration of marginal spaces in travel writing. One of the earliest uses of ‘margin’, dating from the fifteenth century, invests it with the sense of ‘[t]‌he ground immediately adjacent to a river or body of water; a river bank, a shore’ (OED). Travellers’ journeys have long been directed along the lines of riverbanks and coasts, and in the Romantic period the seashore emerged as a symbolically charged site for self-​knowledge (Corbin 1995 [1988], 169). The long historical appeal of the coastal circuit of Britain is in evidence from William Daniell and Richard Ayton’s multivolume Voyage Round Great Britain (1814–​25), through to Jonathan Raban’s Coasting (1986). In these texts travel at the margin is representative of the anti-​touristic impulse to journey ‘off the beaten track’ (Buzard 1993). As well as these journeys along physically marginal terrain, the border or margin has also been of conceptual significance. Mary Louise Pratt’s (2008 [1992], 4)  now seminal study of ‘contact zones’ demonstrates that ‘empires create in the imperial center of power an obsessive need to present and re-​present its peripheries and its others to itself ’. She reminds us that margins can be powerfully charged sites of political and ideological struggle (see also Ryan and Hall 2001). Other important studies

Margins 143 of travel and margins, such as Sukanya Banerjee’s (2004) consideration of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s Turkish Embassy Letters (1763), draw attention to the ways in which travellers reconceptualize the ‘boundaries’ of a complex and shifting geographical and cultural space such as Europe. Borders are also often threshold spaces. The border control at the margin of one nation signifies a point of access into another; a port may mark the limit of a traveller’s land journey, but the beginning of a sea voyage; for a refugee, safe arrival at the margin of a nation might engender feelings of safety and possibility, but also of loss and estrangement. It is here that the concept of liminality –​from the Latin limen, meaning threshold –​becomes useful for understanding the margins of travel. Bringing the margin into dialogue with notions of liminality focuses attention on the threshold region between spaces, always assuming the ‘existence of a second territory on the other side’ of a border (Aguirre et al. 2000, 6; also see Kay et al. 2007). In the mid-​twentieth-​century writings on liminality which emerged from his study of African tribal and ritualistic societies, Victor Turner (1969, 94)  described the inhabitant of liminal/​threshold space as a ‘passenger’; his ideas are rooted in ideas of travel and offer an important framework for thinking about both travellers and travellees. Writers exploring travel and place, and those studying their work, continue to insist that margins should, perhaps counterintuitively, have a central place in our understanding of the field. Alain de Botton (2002, 32–​35) describes airport terminals, harbours, train stations and motels as ‘unexpectedly poetic’ liminal spaces. Marion Shoard (2002), and Paul Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts (2012) have celebrated the ‘edgelands’ of urban areas. Robert Macfarlane (2012, 72) insistently seeks out marginal locations in journeys which conflate spatial and historical movement. ‘Coastlines […] become ghost-​lines’ for Macfarlane: ‘once, unaware of the ebb tide that was ripping round the coast, I crunched over the shingle and swam to around 1842.’ In the conclusion to Land’s Edge, the Australian author Tim Winton (1993, 48) writes: ‘I am small and I know it and I am grateful to have it spelled out to me week after week by the shifting sea and the land at my back.’ That sentiment finds an echo on the other side of the world, just two years later, in W. G. Sebald’s Die Ringe des Saturn (2002 [1995]; English translation, The Rings of Saturn, 1998). Musing on the motivations of the fishermen on the East Anglian coast he states: I do not believe that these men sit by the sea all day and all night so as not to miss the time when the whiting pass, the flounder rise or the cod come in to the shallower waters, as they claim. They just want to be in a place where they have the world behind them, and before them nothing but emptiness. (51–​52) To borrow the words of hooks, this is a margin that one ‘clings to’. The dynamics of centre and periphery, the powerful and the powerless, lose their meaning in the quiet assuredness with which the fishermen turn their backs on the ‘world’. By observing other inhabitants of the margin the traveller reveals his own motivations, and explores the source of his own wanderlust.

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Further Reading Aguirre, M. et al. (eds). 2000. Margins and Thresholds: An Enquiry into the Concept of Liminality in Text Studies. Madrid: Gateway Press. Corbin, A. 1995 [1988]. The Lure of the Sea: The Discovery of the Seaside 1750–​1840. Trans. by Jocelyn Phelps. London: Penguin. hooks, b.  1990. ‘Marginality as Site of Resistance’. In R.  Ferguson et  al. (eds), Out There: Marginalization and Contemporary Culture. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press: 341–​43. Pratt, M. L. 2008. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. 2nd edn. London and New York: Routledge. Turner, V.  1969. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-​structure. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.

50 MEMORY Robert Burroughs

For Paul Fussell (1980, 203), travel writing is ‘a sub-​species of memoir’. It is a mode of memory-​writing dedicated to the recollection of journeys. While critics complicate this definition of travel writing by pointing to its interconnections with other forms such as fiction and ethnography (e.g., Thompson 2011, 26), Fussell importantly identifies the intimate relation between travel and memory. This relation may indeed be even more fundamental than definitions based on generic properties can realize. Memory is both a faculty and an act, and it permeates travel writing as both a function and a subject for representation. All types of travel writing recreate experience through recollection, whether the act of memory is almost immediate –​note-​taking in a diary, for ­example –​or whether it is knowingly transformed in the act of writing, as in fictionalization. Moreover, even the most quotidian and un-​self-​conscious forms of travel writing tend to privilege sights and events which the traveller judges to be memorable. Though not connected at the root to ‘memento’, ‘memory’ has been used in that sense since the early fifteenth century, and as a synonym of ‘monument’ since the late fifteenth century (Oxford English Dictionary). Travel texts reveal the close affinity between everyday recollection and the need to record for posterity. For centuries, ships’ logs have made especial room for ‘remarkable occurrences’ at sea, and as the prose genres developed into more self-​conscious and artistic forms these special events came to the fore (Cohen 2010). Although memory is intrinsic to travel writing, its functions and meanings are varied and have been subject to numerous critical interpretations across disciplinary borders. Historians have traditionally interpreted the travel text as an aide-​mémoire, suggesting fidelity to the cultural encounter it depicts and thus value as a primary source, especially in contexts where documentary materials are in limited supply. In the light of Edward W. Said’s ideological analysis of travel texts and other forms of colonial discourse in Orientalism (1978), this position appeared to be no longer tenable (see colonialism). In the mid-​1990s the literary critic Tim Youngs and the historian Roy C. Bridges began a constructive debate on whether the travel text offers a ‘raw record’, or whether the traveller’s ideological positioning predetermines not just the written record but even how he or she recalls the journey (Youngs 1994, 5–​6). Bridges (1998, 70) maintained that ‘the “raw” record –​what the explorer noted at or near the time of encounter –​may be nearer the truth’ than later published versions, and as studies in travel writing have developed under the influence of archival approaches to colonial discourse, scholars have remained attentive to the possibility that original

146  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies notations might contain different (if not truer) representations than the published text (e.g., Fabian 2001). Clearly, though, it remains crucial to weigh up all the various factors which complicate the simple notion of automatic recall in textual form. While in some travel texts memory is an implicit and/​or unconscious resource, in others it forms part of the narrated journey. Various types of travel text bear out Johannes Fabian’s (1983) seminal observation on anthropology and its construction of an ‘ethnographic present’ in contrast to the narrator/​traveller’s ‘autobiographical past’. Besides, or partly because of this, travel is a metaphor for memory. Personal memories are often figured as a ‘journey’, or in more sentimental forms as ‘a journey down memory lane’. Travel writing often literalizes this view in narratives that expressly enable recollection of and reconnection to the past. That past may be personal, private or formerly private, or even formerly unknown to the traveller. Examples of the latter range from ‘discoveries’ of family histories and connections to broader social and cultural historic processes. Works like Bill Bryson’s evocation of his childhood amid the backwaters of America in The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-​Town America (1989) show how fully these forms of memory can merge. Or, it may be that ‘discoveries’ lay hidden in the unconscious mind, awaiting an appropriate setting to bring it to notice, as Graham Greene claims of West Africa in Journeys without Maps (1936; see psychoanalysis). Whatever the memory, perhaps it is the underlying connections between travel and travail (see travel) that guarantees many journeys into the past veer towards trauma before finding some form of catharsis at their end. Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard (1998 [1978]) is a stellar example of this tendency. Matthiessen travelled 250 miles toward the Crystal Mountain in Nepal with the zoologist George Schaller ostensibly to view Tibetan blue sheep and the secretive big cat while also undertaking something akin to the Zen practice of close observation. These motivations interweave with personal memories of the death of Matthiessen’s second wife, the poet Deborah Love, from cancer. At the risk of glossing too neatly his complex and deft narrative, Matthiessen finds in his failure to see the snow leopard insights into the transience of human existence, the possessiveness of memory and the difficult art of letting go: ‘Now! Here is the secret. Now!’ (210; see Norman 1999, 197). Should such memory-​travelling be relatively pain-​free then it may well take on the properties of nostalgia, as is the case, self-​consciously so, with Bryson. Several recent studies have noted the prevalence of wistful longing for a past that never was in twentieth-​century travel writing. The whiff of nostalgia has been detected in postcolonial contexts, where it often appears to reveal reactionary attitudes (Lisle 2006, 207–​59), though Stacy Burton (2013, 85–​118) has detected more radical uses of nostalgia as a means of securing a better future in the writing of T. E. Lawrence among others. Given its persistence and ubiquity, it is incumbent upon critics of travel writing to follow Burton’s lead in seeking out the numerous meanings of nostalgia and other types of memory, political or otherwise.

Further Reading Burton, S. 2013. Travel Narrative and the Ends of Modernity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (especially Chapter 4).

Memory 147 Curtis, B.  and C.  Pajaczkowska. 1994. ‘ “Getting There”: Travel, Time, and Narratives’. In G. Robertson et al. (eds), Travellers’ Tales: Narratives of Home and Displacement. New York: Routledge: 199–​215. De Mul, S. 2014. Colonial Memory: Contemporary Women’s Travel Writing in Britain and the Netherlands. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Fabian, J. 1983. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object. New York: Columbia University Press. Schama, S. 1995. Landscape and Memory. London: HarperCollins.

51 MIGRATION Aedín Ní Loingsigh

From the Latin verb migrare, meaning ‘to move from one place to another’, migration is self-​evidently a correlative of travel. Broadly speaking, the term denotes the journeys undertaken by humans, or other species, to live elsewhere either temporarily or permanently. Migration is also recognized as having had a singularly transformative influence on places, cultures and identities throughout human history. Within the field of travel writing and its study, the potential of migration to alter the frames of reference used for defining the genre is also considerable. Nonetheless, migration’s competing meanings and critical uses mean that accounting for the journeys it encompasses is not straightforward. Caught between the liberating cultural contribution of the cosmopolitan migrant and the unsettling ‘fluidity of the masses’ that must be controlled (Urry 2000, 27), migration as concept and practice points to the open-​ended development of travel writing at the same time as it signals the need to reject its givenness. Migration understood as a transformative and ultimately enabling travel practice is evidenced most clearly in the widespread appeal of its metaphoricity within specific strands of critical discourse. In the later decades of the twentieth century, metaphorical uses of migration  –​and the recurrence of figures and tropes such as the nomad (see nomadism), the vagabond, exile, displacement, homelessness, borders –​ were increasingly used to conceptualize the emergent identities of a globalized world and the epistemic transformations of Western critical thought. A  migrant intelligentsia that understood theorization as a product of its own mobility and displacement spearheaded much of this development. For example, Trinh T. Minh-​Ha (1994, 9) argues that ‘the travelling self is both […] the self that moves physically from one place to another […] and the self that embarks on an undetermined journeying practice, having constantly to negotiate between home and abroad’. ‘Migrants’ are presented by Homi Bhabha (1990, 315) as part of the ‘wandering peoples who […] are the marks of a shifting boundary that alienates the frontiers of the modern nation [and] makes it unheimlich’. And Gloria Anzaldúa (1987) suggests that the borders negotiated by migrants are not just geographical spaces but embodied spaces that inflict unhealable wounds. Although the enabling dual (at least) perspective of these cultural migrants has been welcomed as a challenge to fixed positions, it has also been questioned for its failure to differentiate sufficiently between the material and the metaphorical. For many critics (see Kaplan 1996), the how, why and who of migration can be obscured

Migration 149 by formulations that present as universal what is often a privileged, unrestricted and romanticized mobility. A more sceptical engagement with the poetics of relocation has exposed the latter’s ‘forgetfulness about that other, economically enforced dispersal of the poor from Africa, Asia, Latin America’ (Parry 2002, 72), its transformation of migrants into ‘symbols in a battle of images’ (Durand and Massey 2004, 1) and its limitations in the face of changing patterns of global migration and political responses to them (see Woolley 2014). While the materiality of migration and the travel experiences of less privileged migrants have been explored in other forms (notably film, photo journalism and the graphic novel), the belated nature of attempts to match this interest within travel writing and related scholarship is notable. For example, neglect of clandestine migration, to take a paradigmatic example of twenty-​first-​century migrancy, not only exposes the limits of the representational properties of travel writing, but arguably contributes to widespread and complex practices that dehumanize migrants. However, rather than be defeated by the conventional structures and strictures of travel writing, writers are beginning to enlist other forms and methods that hold in suspension the creative potential of travel writing and attention to the material realities of migration. S.  Khosravi (2010, 6), for example, opts for an academic-​ informed ‘auto-​ethnographic’ narrative in order to restore a travelling identity to ‘illegal’ travellers and textualize the mobility of those who, like him, have seen their ‘history crushed underfoot’. Collaborative writing projects are emerging too as an effective means to provide a human portrait of undocumented migration. In Dem ak xabaar/​Partir et raconter (2012), co-​authorship with French journalist Bruno Le Dantec results in Senegalese migrant Mahmoud Traoré having the detail of his three-​and-​a-​half-​year trans-​Saharan odyssey translated, transcribed and published. Claire Lindsay (2010) identifies another strategy for undocumented migration’s textualization in the recent ‘ethico-​fictive ethnographies’ of two Latin American authors who retrace failed crossings of the US-​Mexican border. These writers’ ‘appeal to the fictive’ (105), she explains, is a necessary strategy to account for the complex subject positions of those who do not have first-​hand experience of the clandestine journeys that underpin their narratives. However, when the content of Omar Ba’s Soif d’Europe (2008) was exposed as fabricated in the French media, the text’s particular fictionalizing strategy was presented as invalidating its account of an undocumented journey from Senegal to France. Migration will continue to play a key part in challenging critical complacency with regard to travel writing and its evolution in the twenty-​first century. This does not mean established understandings of travel writing will be abandoned. Rather, emphasizing the correlation, and distinctions, between past traditions of travel and the mobility of modern-​day migration secures the place of the migrant in a broader history of travel. It also highlights the ways in which migrant narratives impose their own form of the recognized codes of travel writing and bestow new symbolic significance on paradigmatic sites of encounter such as the desert, the border, the sea. Reading migrant narratives as travel writing also underscores the enduring complexity of the respective mobilities involved and the multifarious journeys they describe. Most vital of all, migration’s relationship to travel guards against the dangerous equation of the former with powerless victimhood or threatening homogeneity.

150  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Further Reading Bessora and Barroux. 2016 [2014]. Alpha: Abidjan to Gare du Nord. Trans. by S. Ardizzone. Edinburgh: Barrington Stoke. Billet, C. and O. Jobard. 2013. Kotchok, sur la route avec les migrants. Paris: Robert Laffont. Calargé, C.  2015. ‘Clandestine or Conquistadores? Beyond Sensational Headlines, or a Literature of Urgency’. Research in African Literatures, 46.2: 1–​14. Fazzina, A. 2010. A Million Shillings: Escape from Somalia. London: Trolley Books. Triandafyllidou, A. (ed.). 2016. The Routledge Handbook of Immigration and Refugee Studies. London and New York: Routledge.

52 MINORITY Heather Williams

‘Minority’ literally refers to a group that makes up less than half of a whole, but in the politico-​legal discourse that surrounds culture, it has less to do with numbers and rather more with balances of power. So while it would be problematic to describe the Welsh heard by the Romantic-​era gentleman traveller in Wales as a ‘minority’ language (because it would have been spoken by the majority at that time), it would be correct to describe this language as oppressed, though the said traveller is more likely to have described it as a vestige, some fascinating survival of the past. ‘Minority’ describes the results of a process that takes place over time, and has to do with power and powerlessness, both economic and political. In Europe the term grew out of a political concern for minorities, especially in the aftermath of war (Okey 2000), but of course has a comparable evolution in other parts of the world. It also extends to other groups such as the ‘disabled’, or (and here’s proof that it has little to do with numbers) women, or can refer to ethnicity, race, wealth, religion or sexual orientation (see sex/​sexuality), and its main collocations are ‘ethnic’, ‘language’ and ‘rights’. It is also a word in a major language that has been imposed on ‘minorities’ from the outside, in the same way that whole languages have been imposed by one powerful group on another (such as French imposed on Bretons). Translation studies have shown how the ‘minority’, in writing in the imposed language, can subvert it from within, by creating texts that are ‘radically bilingual’ (Mehrez 1992, 132). Taking a similar trajectory, this term, imposed from without, mainly used by politicians and sociolinguists, was seized, only to be shaken off. Travel writing is necessarily about crossing borders between cultures, and there is invariably a power relation separating different cultures. The attitude of travel writing in majority languages (and this is the main source material used in travel writing studies to date) towards less powerful or ‘minority’ cultures, and the ethical question of travelling all over these is varied and evolving. Of course, travel and tourism shoulder some of the blame for the decline of cultural difference, even of language death (Minhinnick 1993; Cronin 2010, 335; 2014, 16). Less obviously damaging, but just as insidious, is the fact that though travelogues to Wales are packed to the brim with retellings of the history of conquest, in these texts the cultural capital belonging to the observed minority culture is too often confined to the level of the picture postcard home. Often the travellee has not realized that they form part of a ‘minority’, but when they do, they may well write back, though what they write to the majority

152  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies or centre of power has rarely received critical attention, partly because it is written in a minority language (but see Eoin 2003; Davies 2007; Drace-​Francis 2014). On the other hand, some travellers to Wales see nothing minor in it, but glimpse the future of Europe in the feats of engineering and industrial architecture that dominate the landscape. Another type of traveller seeks solidarity, or a model for their own ‘minority’ culture to follow (such as Bretons in Wales). However, in more recent travel writing, the ethical traveller who realizes that ‘minority’ is not static, but rather a staging post on the road to extinction, may construct himself or herself as a ‘minority’. What is clear is that rather like beauty, ‘minority’ status is in the eye of the beholder. There is no tradition of critical literature within the field of travel writing studies that uses this term (yet see Cronin 2000, 2010/​2014), but relevant work has been undertaken elsewhere. Postcolonialism has rightly made us focus on power relations between cultures. Indeed, the beginning of the internal colonialism discourse (perceived ‘colonialism’ within nation states) is where the issues start to be addressed by minorities themselves, albeit often in the majority language; work such as that of Ned Thomas, The Welsh Extremist (1971), and his journal Planet, which contained internationalist articles about other linguistic minorities and colonialism from the beginning, and Morvan Lebesque’s Comment peut-​on être Breton? (1970). Work on concepts such as the ‘contact zone’ (Pratt 2008), the ‘periphery’ (often used as a metaphor of minority status), ‘margins’, the ‘other’ and the ‘exotic’ have all made useful and relevant contributions to study of ‘minorities’ and travel. Being a cultural ‘minority’ is a predicament largely generated by the nation state, which achieved this either by drawing lines on maps that cut across cultures, or by promoting the idea that reached its apogee in post-​Revolutionary France, that one language equals one nation. ‘Minority’ languages cut across national borders, either by straddling them, with people living in adjacent states, or by transcending them by virtue of their internationalizing outlook. Now that the idea of literature being constituted by a series of national literary traditions has been all but abandoned, and the borders of nation states are no longer considered useful in literary study, it seems that we can hope that the twenty-​first century will be an age of post-​monolingualism (Forsdick 2015a, 24). The term ‘minority’ is now being replaced by ‘minoritized’ as this emphasizes a process of cause and effect over time. ‘Minoritized’ conveys the fact that you cannot be born a minority, rather somebody else has to construct you as one. Cultures are cast as ‘minorities’ by other cultures, and although this dynamic came about because of imperialist power, travel writing has also been guilty of reflecting if not contributing to it. Despite the ethical turn, even recent travel writing persists in portraying lesser used languages as either backward or (and this is equally bad) exotic (Cronin 2014, 28; 2010, 347). While the term ‘minority’ is now only to be used in quotation marks, the idea of minoritization has never been as important in travel writing.

Further Reading Cronin, M. 2000. Across the Lines: Travel, Languages, Translation. Cork: Cork University Press. ———. 2010. ‘Knowing One’s Place: Travel, Difference and Translation’. Translation Studies, 3.3: 334–​48.

Minority 153 ———. 2014. ‘Speech Acts: Language, Mobility, and Place.’ In C. Fowler et al. (eds), Travel and Ethics: Theory and Practice. London: Routledge: 16–​30. Lebesque, M. 1970. Comment peut-​on être Breton? Paris: Seuil. (A chapter is translated by Ned Thomas as ‘Becoming a Breton’, Planet, 17 (1973), 2–​20.) Petro, P. 1997. Travels in an Old Tongue: Touring the World in Welsh. London: Harper Collins. Thomas, N. 1991 [1971]. The Welsh Extremist: Modern Welsh Politics, Literature and Society. London: Gollancz. 2nd edn. Talybont: Y Lolfa.

53 MOBILITY Charles Forsdick

‘Mobility’ does not appear in either of the original editions of Raymond Williams’s Keywords, although the concept is implicit in a number of entries, not least ‘city’ and ‘country’, where the dynamics of rural exodus and urbanization are seen as major drivers in the formation of modern cultures and societies. The term is included, however, in New Keywords (Berland 2005), where it is one of several newly introduced cognate words –​others include ‘diaspora’, ‘movements’ and ‘space’ –​that betoken the increasing importance of various forms of mobility in social, political and cultural analysis. The term first appeared in the sixteenth century, describing, in the Latin phrase mobile vulgus, groups of people whose gathering was seen as threatening or dangerous –​elements that continue to be reflected in the association of mobile populations with various forms of moral panic. New Keywords extends this etymology to bring the term up to date, stressing its current associations with questions of physical immobility and disability. A recent volume explores this range further by offering essays on a number of ‘keywords of mobility’ (Salazar and Jayaram 2016, 2), an acknowledgement that ‘[i]‌n many parts of the world, mobility is seen as an important way of belonging to today’s society’. Various forms of mobility –​of which ‘travel’ may be seen as just one –​are central to the genesis and production of travel writing. It is the traveller’s mobility that distinguishes him or her from the ‘travellees’ met en route, although anthropologist James Clifford reminds us in his influential essay ‘Traveling Cultures’ (1997b) that no culture is in stasis, and that ‘travelling’ and ‘dwelling’ often exist in a complex and interdependent relationship. The assertion of the centrality of mobility to analyses of culture and society has been underlined by Mimi Sheller, John Urry and others, not least in the development of what they call the ‘new mobilities paradigm’ (Hannam et al. 2006). Such an emphasis on mobility and movement is also an invitation to explore the ‘complex relational dynamics’ that link the phenomenon to immobility  –​and to the key questions regarding ‘who and what is demobilized and remobilized across many different scales, and in what situations mobility or immobility might be desired options, coerced, or paradoxically interconnected’ (Sheller 2011, 2). These are dynamics explored in many accounts of return produced by diasporic travellers, including works by Haitian writers Edwidge Danticat (2002) and Dany Laferrière (2009), where the relationship between those who leave and those who stay is central to the narrative. Danticat (2010, 16) claims: ‘The nomad or immigrant who learns

Mobility 155 something rightly must always ponder travel and movement, just as the grief-​stricken must inevitably ponder death.’ Mobility has the potential to root the study of travel writing in the material conditions of the journey, and this is an approach privileged by Stephen Greenblatt in his Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto (2010); the apparent neutrality of the term also has the potential to avoid more value-​laden and ‘historically tainted’ (Clifford 1997b, 110) designations such as ‘travel’ and ‘tourism’, allowing clearer comparison of the intersecting experiences and trajectories of those in motion. Travel writing remains predominantly a literature of mobility, and this keyword remains central as a result of the genre’s contemporary pertinence, not least because it resonates with areas of public and political concern, especially questions of transnational migration. The challenge for readers and students of the genre is to discern the intersections of different regimes of mobility, and to understand how these are (or are not) represented in the literary text. It is becoming apparent that terms such as ‘mobility’ and ‘travel’ often fail to capture the differential experiences and opportunities that a pair of interconnected terms encompass. As the inclusion of the former in New Keywords makes clear, the mobility of certain travellers exists in a contrapuntal relationship with the restricted mobility (or even immobility) of others. This contrast may underpin an able-​ist critique of travel writing, which sees the genre as normalizing certain forms of physical ability to the detriment of others. It also relates to the class-​related assumptions for which travel writing has often been criticized, with some critics (e.g., Sugnet 1991) accusing the genre of policing its boundaries to privilege narratives by Western travellers with the financial resource and papers that allow the negotiation of international borders with relative ease. In her New Keywords discussion of ‘mobility’, Berland (2005) evokes Doreen Massey’s work on the ‘geometry of power’, for instance, to explore ‘upward’ and ‘downward mobility’. Sociologists have proposed a complementary term, ‘motility’, to underline the existence of these differential mobilities (Kaufmann et al. 2004). A recognition of ‘motility’, the often profoundly uneven distribution and appropriation of possibilities relative to movement, attenuates considerations of ‘mobility’ itself. This term describes ‘the manner in which an individual or group appropriates the field of possibilities relative to movement and uses them’ (Kaufmann and Montulet 2008, 45)  and relates to Cresswell’s (2008) concept of the ‘mobility poor’. Susan George (1999, 179)  in her Lugano Report describes a world divided into ‘fast castes’ (for whom resources and documentation allow the relatively effortless negotiation of international borders), and those for whom borders, internal and international, serve as a constant impediment to mobility (and lead to forms of social exclusion associated with what Margaret Grieco and Julian Hine (2008) have called ‘stranded mobilities’). These distinctions are important for the reading of the travelogue, whether they are found to be explicitly present or silenced by an emphasis on more privileged forms of journeying. Questions of motility have, however, traditionally attracted little attention in travel writing and criticism on it, especially while the form tended to be associated with more elite forms of mobility, policed in relation to genre, class and ethnicity. As the limits of the form are prized open to include other forms of journeying, not least those of the migrant and refugee (e.g., Favier 2016; Ndione 2008; Traoré 2012),

156  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies then travel writing may become a site at which authors and readers can explore what Sheller (2011) dubs the ‘frictions of differential mobilities’.

Further Reading Berland, J. 2005. ‘Mobility’. In Tony Bennett, Lawrence Grossberg and Meaghan Morris (eds), New Keywords: A Revised Vocabulary of Culture and Society. Oxford: Blackwell: 217–​19. Greenblatt, S.  (ed.). 2010. Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hannam, K., M. Sheller and J. Urry. 2006. ‘Editorial: Mobilities, Immobilities and Moorings’. Mobilities, 1.1: 1–​22. Salazar, N. B. and K. Jayaram (eds). 2016. Keywords of Mobility: Critical Engagements. New York and Oxford: Berghahn. Sheller, M. 2011. ‘Mobility’. Sociopedia.ita. http://​www.sagepub.net/​isa/​resources/​pdf/​mobility. pdf.

54 MONARCH-​OF-​ALL-​I-​SURVEY Claire Lindsay

‘Monarch of all I survey’ is a common phrase with a hybrid pedigree in travel writing history. It derives from William Cowper’s 1782 poem ‘Verses, Supposed to be Written by Alexander Selkirk’, about the castaway’s life on a desert island, his ‘sovereignty’ of that ‘horrible place’ a corollary of being ‘out of humanity’s reach’: ‘I am monarch of all I survey’, the poem begins, ‘My right there is none to dispute; /​From the center all round to the sea, /​I am lord of the fowl and the brute’ (Cowper 1980, 403). The verse –​redolent of power and irony in equal measure –​also provides a fitting title to the published diary of Sir Charles Rey of the Bechuanaland Protectorate in Southern Africa from 1929 and 1937, in the form of a quotation attributed to Rey (‘Monarch of all I survey –​What a joke!’) on the day of his appointment to office there, which fell on All Fools Day (Kirk-​Greene 1989, 449). ‘Monarch of all I survey’ has since passed into the theoretical lexicon to describe a familiar scene in many travel narratives. Conceptualized by Mary Louise Pratt in her authoritative study Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (2008 [1992]), the constituent parts of this phrase are equally resonant. Where ‘monarch’ invokes the colonial precedents of the experience described by Pratt (see colonialism), it also speaks to the elevated social and economic rank of the travelling subject in contradistinction to the landscape being observed, the expansive, indefinite ‘all’ which, as Stephen Greenblatt (1991, 53) puts it in another, analogous context, ‘prudently avoids any specification of what [it] amounts to’. Meanwhile, the verb ‘survey’ indicates another kind of elevation, that of the bird’s eye view, and denotes the visual observation and inspection at the heart of the experience. Typically taking place on peaks or promontories, the monarch-​of-​ all-​I-​survey scene expresses the deep connection in travel writing between aesthetics and ideology. In this situation (Pratt’s examples derive from Richard Burton’s 1860 Lake Regions of Central Africa, among other works), the aesthetic qualities of the landscape ‘constitute the social and material value of the [territory’s] discovery to the explorer’s home culture’ (Pratt 2008, 201) with any aesthetic deficiencies therein regarded as an invitation for and authorization of colonial ‘improvement’. The white male ‘heroic’ traveller describes a scene of ‘discovery’ that is essentially a ‘non-​event’, however, for the land is already a source of local knowledge: thus, the scene becomes a mechanism for converting local discourses into continental knowledge associated with European forms and relations of power. Moreover, the ‘discovery’ only gets made in retrospect when the traveller returns home and creates it textually, in the form of a map, report, lecture or travel book: ‘Here is language charged with making

158  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies the world in the most singlehanded way, and with high stakes’, writes Pratt, ‘as the explorers found out, lots of money and prestige rode on what you could convince others to give you credit for’ (200). There are three critical features of the monarch-​of-​ all-​I-​survey scene: aestheticization, density of meaning and mastery. In the first, the landscape is aestheticized (and organized) much as a painting might be, the value and significance of the journey located entirely in the corresponding aesthetic pleasure of the sight. In the second, the landscape is conferred with what Pratt calls material and semantic substance, through a narrative description rich in adjectives and modifiers. Meanwhile, in the third, there is a relation of mastery established between the viewer and the landscape, whereby the traveller is there to judge and appreciate the scene, as well as to produce it for others. Notwithstanding the serious, declamatory tone of that set-​up, the monarch-​of-​all-​ I-​survey scene has in turn invited satire and demystification, an eventuality hinted at even in its original form. Pratt points out that travellers in the nineteenth century and beyond  –​especially ‘hyphenated white men’ such as the Anglo-​Irishman Roger Casement and the Anglo-​Pole Joseph Conrad –​have responded to the trope by replacing it with what she calls ‘a rhetoric of illegitimate presence’ (205), thereby articulating an internal critique of empire. Women travellers, too, such as Mary Kingsley (and ‘exploratrices sociales’ like Maria Graham), significantly destabilized the gendered solemnity of the monarch-​of-​all-​I-​survey scene, both by eschewing the promontory positions of their male counterparts and forebears, and/​or by deploying an ironic or parodic rhetoric. Pratt identifies further contestatory reverberations in the work of twentieth-​century postcolonial travel writers such as Richard Wright and Albert Camus, who also seek out different positions and ‘alternative conventions of representation’ (218). Of course, the double bind of such expressions of the feminine or ‘post-​colonial’ monarchic voice is that they continue to assert a form of mastery (through irony) even as they challenge prevailing structures of domination and power (for more, see Logan 2008). Notwithstanding Pratt’s attentiveness to the apparent contradictions in the heroic perspective (namely, that of passive ‘seeing’ becoming active ‘discovery’), scholars have taken issue with the assumptions of power and sovereignty on which her concept rests. If, as Benedict Anderson (1991, 7) has averred, the nation rests on ‘deep, horizontal comradeship’, Bruce Robbins (1999) argues –​implicitly invoking the situation of Cowper’s poem  –​that the cosmopolitan who surveys from a great height is effectively alienated from the comforts of the emotional and erotic contact of the (horizontal) nation: such a subject occupies an unenviable and potentially untenable position, least of all one of triumphant mastery. Jessica Dubow (2000) reconsiders the paradigm from a different perspective, arguing against the very equation of vision and colonization that Pratt identifies, suggesting instead a dialogic conception of colonial sight and space. Dubow claims that discussions of colonial space and subjectivity too often ignore the processual nature of the colonizer’s ‘coming-​to-​be and coming-​to-​be-​located’, in which terms vision may be about not only the surveying of landscapes but also ‘the subject’s ability to enter into a dialogical relation with it’ (93). Robbins (1999), in his study of universalism, goes further still, contending that it is not sufficient to simply replace the perceived falsity of the view from the top (‘[to be] re-​catalogued as a relic of the past’) with ‘an account of the world as seen from

Monarch-of-All-I-Survey 159 the margins’. To do so would be to simply assume a ‘telos of marginality in relation to which the abandonment of “the view from the top” can and will appear as an improvement’ (62). Robbins observes, for example, that in the United States ‘self-​conscious hyphenation’ is a universalism in itself and, second, that Kingsley, who prefers the swamp to the promontory, is deeply invested in a logic of free trade. The levelling or liquefaction of the swamp, Robbins avows, exposing a further contradiction at stake in Pratt’s model of anti-​colonialism, is ‘anti-​hierarchical […] characterized not by fixity but by indeterminacy’, ‘collapsing high and low into obscure intimacy’ and is, thus, the very image of capitalism (65). If the mountaintop position has nonetheless persisted as ‘an [unfortunate] allegory of colonial continuance’ (Slemon 1998, 53), recent technological developments have interesting implications for the future of that experience and the monarch-​of-​ all-​I-​survey scene. Recently, volunteers walked up Snowdonia, with a 22-​kg backpack and 15 cameras apiece, taking 360-​degree pictures every two and a half seconds in order to photograph the mountain’s paths for Google’s Street View service (The Times, 12 December 2015: 18). That endeavour, among others, means that the mountaintop vision, along with its contested principles of revelation and sovereignty, is undergoing radical destabilization and democratization: the interactive relationships between subject and landscape promised by such digital tools now supplant the density and very economy of those ‘verbal paintings’ conceptualized by Pratt.

Further Reading Dubow, J. 2000. ‘ “From a View on the World to a Point of View on It”: Rethinking Sight, Space and the Colonial Subject’. Interventions: International Journal of Postcolonial Studies, 2.1: 87–​102. Greenblatt, S. 1991. Marvelous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Logan, J.  2008. ‘Crampons and Cook Pots: The Democratization and Feminizations of Adventure in Aconcagua’. In L.  A. Vivanco and R.  J. Gordon (eds), Tarzan was an Eco-​ Tourist and Other Tales of the Anthropology of Adventure. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books: 161–​78. Pratt, M.  L. 2008 [1992]. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. New  York: Routledge. Robbins, B. 1999. Feeling Global. New York: New York University Press.

55 MONEY Alasdair Pettinger

The word money is as old as English itself. (The etymology of the word is debated, and it came either from Old French or via Old French from the classical Latin term for a ‘mint’ –​ monēta was the name of a goddess whose temple in Rome was a place where coins were manufactured.) The Oxford English Dictionary –​whose earliest citations date from the fourteenth century  –​defines it as follows: ‘Any generally accepted medium of exchange which enables a society to trade goods without the need for barter; any objects or tokens regarded as a store of value and used as a medium of exchange.’ However, this may require some refinement, for anthropologists have begun to question the ‘tendency to postulate a fundamental division between non-​ monetary and monetary economies (or even societies)’, especially when they are treated as defining features of ‘traditional’ and ‘modern’ societies respectively (Parry and Bloch 1989, 7). In practice, different forms of exchange (monetary transactions, barter, the exchange of gifts) coexist and overlap in all societies (Thomas 1991, 7–​29). This qualification becomes especially important when studying the relations formed between early modern European travellers and the people they encountered in other parts of the world. For instance, the first reports of Columbus’s arrival in the Caribbean suggest an evident asymmetrical exchange of gold for ‘trifles’, but whose significance (for both parties) is unclear, as notions of friendship and economic calculation are complicated by other factors, including understandings of the acquisition of territory and the ‘gift’ of Christianity (Murray 2000,  3–​6). In their accounts of late eighteenth-​century French landings in Tahiti and Easter Island respectively, Bougainville and Laperouse attribute to the Pacific islanders both a childlike innocence that leads them to accept useless ‘pacotillage’ in exchange for objects of value, and a more calculating worldliness that dictates a preference for high-​ quality goods, in both cases ignoring the possibility that they might have valued them in terms other than those recognized by Europeans (Greene 2002). Contemporaneous overtures to authorities in China and Japan by Lord George Macartney and John Saris began with the offering of gifts, but while the recipients interpreted these as a recognition of their higher authority, the English traders were disappointed that they were not reciprocated by the granting of commercial privileges (Klekar 2006). Sometimes, it was the other’s apparent inability to recognize the value of their own possessions that preoccupied the European visitor. In his New and Accurate Description of the Coast of Guinea, the Dutch merchant Willem Bosman tells the

Money 161 story of the punitive massacre of pigs after one of them had killed a snake, the chief ‘fetish’ of the region. As Pietz (1988) argues, he depicts a society in which the true, commercial value of things is obscured by a sentimental respect for certain animals on the part of the common people fostered –​and ultimately enforced –​by a manipulative and knowing priesthood. But on other occasions, the Europeans themselves seem to betray some uncertainty as to the value of such objects. Nicholas Thomas (1991, 126–​51) has remarked on the unusual frequency of words like ‘curious’ in the various accounts of James Cook’s second voyage, suggesting that the users were unable to determine the significance of the native artefacts they encountered: they had no frame of reference that allowed them to endow them with commercial, scientific or aesthetic value. Curiosities also figured in the narratives of Europeans who travelled within Europe, such as those who undertook the Grand Tour in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Margocsy (2013) has examined how they routinely noted prices not only as a way of monitoring their spending but also to express admiration or astonishment. Collections of rare and unusual objects such as coins, shells and stuffed animals were especially problematic, for it was much harder to assess whether their prices were fair, and occasioned puzzled reflections on how prices were determined and why they changed over time. With the development of the tourist industry in the nineteenth century, the experience of travel became imbued with financial calculation. Guidebooks indicated, with reassuring precision, the prices its readers should expect to pay for accommodation, transport, refreshment, visitor attractions, even ‘gratuities’, sometimes interrupting –​ in the famous ‘Baedeker parenthesis’ (Mendelson 1985, 397)  –​passages of picturesque description: ‘The pier affords a pleasant and interesting promenade (donkey 1–​2 fr., according to the time), commanding beautiful views of the bay and the mountains enclosing it’ (Baedeker 1878, 405). In his study of British long-​haul travellers to Peru, Luke Desforges (2001, 355) noted the conflicting ways in which they imagine money both as ‘a source of freedom and liberation’ and as ‘a corrosive force in human relationships’. For themselves, it gives them access to experiences they might not otherwise afford, and yet may also inhibit genuine or authentic relationships with the people they meet. But they also express an interest in what happens to their money once it is spent: will it help to sustain local economies or ruin them? Claude Lévi-​Strauss (1984 [1955], 104) remarked that in travelling from France to Brazil in the 1930s, ‘from being poor I had become rich’. Literary travel narratives often express the uncertainties and annoyances that arise from their authors’ newly enhanced economic status, in the description of encounters with beggars or the purchase of goods and services (Pettinger 2014, 152–​56), sometimes prompting ethical reflections (Mee 2014, especially 107–​26) and more extended analyses on the relations of power involved, perhaps especially in the writings of anthropologists (Pettinger 2014, 156–​60; Senders and Truitt 2007). Travel writers sometimes refer to earning money as well as spending it: cash-​ strapped travellers who take whatever work they can get en route, for example (e.g., Bouvier 1992). Occasionally we might glimpse a traveller alluding to payments from home for a previous book or article that will sustain them (e.g., Lawrence 1994, 55). Self-​help guides (e.g., Dial 2001; George 2005) advise readers how to sell their work

162  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies to magazines and newspapers, offering hope to those who believe that travel writing can be an attractive way to earn a living. However, the propriety of accepting ‘freebies’ (trips paid for by travel companies and tourist businesses) remains a subject of keen debate.

Further Reading Mee, C.  2014. Interpersonal Encounters in Contemporary Travel Writing: French and Italian Perspectives. London: Anthem. Murray, D.  2000. Indian Giving: Economies of Power in Indian-​White Exchanges. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Parry, J. and M. Bloch (eds). 1989. Money and the Morality of Exchange. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pettinger, A. 2014. ‘Gourdes and Dollars: How Travel Writers Spend Money’. In C. Forsdick, C. Fowler and L. Kostova (eds), Travel and Ethics: Theory and Practice. New York: Routledge: 150–​64. Senders, S. and A. Truitt (eds). 2007. Money: Ethnographic Encounters. Oxford: Berg.

56 MOTIVATION Kathryn Walchester

‘Motivation’ is closely aligned with the semantics of travel, coming from the Latin root motus, a moving, before acquiring in the mid-​fourteenth century a link with human spirit in the Old French motif. In travel writing studies motivation has had a relatively short inculcation and yet as a concept it has always been present; the journey cannot take place without a reason to disembark. Motivation can be understood in two complementary and interrelated ways; first in terms of the will or prompt to travel and second, the desire or impulse to create a textual representation of the journey. The purpose of travel is central to the form, content and publication of its textual representation. Motivations for travel are, of course, numerous: encompassing those journeys made in search of land, water and food; for religious pilgrimage; trade; exploration and science; those journeys with imperial or expansionist aims; education and leisure. However, if we understand that, as Tim Youngs (2006, 2) has asserted, ‘[travel writing] is ideological’, these motivations can be seen according to larger, culturally dictated patterns of behaviour. Constituted socially and culturally, travel is imbued with the priorities and preferences of its agents. Dominant ideologies of the eighteenth century inflected travel as a pivotal resource to the acquisition of knowledge. For Enlightenment philosophy with its concomitant emphasis on empiricism, travel was an invaluable mode of scientific exploration of the world. As Alexander Humboldt (1814, 2) noted, ‘[T]‌he urge to travel to distant regions is the characteristic of the period of our existence.’ In the nineteenth century, part of the ideology of Imperial travel was to map and explore the areas of the globe which were as yet ‘blank’ for Western societies (Youngs 2006, 2). The individual is however induced to travel by what they perceive as a combination of external and internal prompts. For example, pilgrimage, while organized by external convention, is prompted by personal belief and desire. Faith, of whatever kind, leads the sick traveller to travel south to the sun or to the clean air of the mountains. Since the Romantic Movement the motivation of self-​discovery has prompted many writers to travel in order to experience enlightenment through the experience of alterity. In her account of travels to Antarctica, Sara Wheeler (1997, 114) admits that ‘I, too, often ask myself why […] fidgeting over the unanswerable question about escape or pursuit’. Few travel writers are as courageous as French traveller and writer Michel Butor (1974, 2), who asserts: ‘I travel to write.’ Following the Romantic period with its emphasis on spontaneity and emotional responsiveness, readers and critics

164  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies have met travel texts containing such an explicit connection between travel and writing with disdain. There is a long tradition of travellers eliding or mistaking their real motivation for travel. Psychoanalytic readings of travel have understood the motivation to undertake journeys as emanating from unconscious desires (see psychoanalysis). Writing in 1936 Freud (2006, 75) notes, ‘I had realized long ago that much of the pleasure of travel consists in the fulfilment of those early desires, and is thus rooted in dissatisfaction with home and family.’ In the opening section of his book about polar exploration I May Be Some Time, Francis Spufford (1996, 3)  admits ‘explorers are notoriously bad at saying why’. Such elision of purpose has been read critically by scholars considering travel from a postcolonial perspective. Steve Clarke (1999, 15), in Travel Writing and Empire, notes the ‘lacuna of motivation in the Western genre of travel writing’, which, he argues, ‘may itself be read as an encoding of the collective urge to dominate’. In Imperial Eyes: Travel and Transculturation, Mary Louise Pratt (1992, 9) has noted the ‘anti-​conquest’ rhetoric of colonial travellers and their construction of ‘innocuous personae’ with their ‘stated motive of mere curiosity’ (see colonialism). Since the 1990s motivation has been scrutinized as a way of considering the boundaries of the discipline. Scholars have drawn attention to the fact that principal motivations for travel are indicative of choice, necessity or enforcement. Some critics have seen travel as the ‘call to pleasure’ and note ‘the implicit declaration of leisure and affluence in travel’ (Porter 1991, 10; Rojek 1993). As bell hooks (2009, 100) notes: ‘ “Travel” is not a word that can be easily evoked to talk about the Middle Passage, the Trail of Tears, the landing of Chinese immigrants, the forced relocation of Japanese Americans, or the plight of the homeless.’ Despite attempts to categorize and distinguish between motivations in travelogues and travel fiction, as in A Sentimental Traveller where Sterne (2003 [1768], 24) outlines ‘the final causes of travelling’, prompts for journeys blur and overlap. For example, a journey made for educational purposes, such as the Grand Tour, could also be categorized as motivated by leisure. Journeys made by those who are not leisured often draw attention to some of the complexities of classification. Mary Wollstonecraft’s (1796) account details her journey to Scandinavia, where she was asked to visit to help recover the proceeds of a lost ship. Wollstonecraft’s journey is not one of leisure or for education, yet in her writing it is clear that she does enjoy parts of the journey and learns a lot from her travels. A final word should be included about the traveller who claims to have no desire to travel. Jenny Diski (2006, 300) has repeatedly described her reluctance to move beyond the familiar. In the epilogue to On Trying to Keep Still, she conjures up a fictional self, Daphne, who ‘having reached, somewhat to her surprise, her mid-​fifties, […] had done with wondering where in the world she belonged’ and, ‘using a mixture of conscientious research and free-​floating imagination, made up her travel books’. Ultimately the amount to which the motivation of a journey can be discerned and the agency of the traveller assessed is limited as a result of the crafted and constructed nature of the textual representation of travel. However, in Diski’s conceit we see the centrality of motivation; that without a purpose of one sort or another, there is no travel writing.

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Further Reading Clifford, J. 1997b. ‘Traveling Cultures’. In Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. New York: Harvard University Press: 17–​46. hooks, b. 2009. Belonging: A Culture of Place. New York: Routledge. Kaplan, C.  1996. Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Porter, D.  1991. Haunted Journeys: Desire and Transgression in European Travel Writing. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Rojek, C. 1993. Ways of Escape: Modern Transformations in Leisure and Travel. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

57 NATION Steve Clark

The Oxford English Dictionary defines ‘nation’ as ‘an extensive aggregate of persons, so closely related with each other by common descent, language or history, as to form a distinct race or people, usually organized as a separate political state and occupying a definite territory’ (1a). ‘Extensive aggregate’ sets the bar so high that ancient Athens or medieval Florence would not qualify; ‘closely related’ is difficult to reconcile with the anonymity of the metropolis, held together by newspapers and railway timetables more than personal ties; ‘common descent, language or history’ would scarcely apply to the UK archipelago; ‘distinct race’ is a decidedly loaded term; and ‘separate political state’ begs the question of the relation of Scotland to Britain, Catalonia to Spain, or Quebec to Canada. As to ‘occupying a definite territory’, one might imagine circumstances of exodus where entire populations are in transit: in the wake of war, as with Stalin’s mass transportations from the Caucasus or as a consequence of global warming, from desertification in sub-​Saharan Africa to rising sea-​levels in low-​lying coastal areas. The source of the idea of nation more usually would be metonymic: the individual is transposed to the level of the collective. Complex interiority would simply distract from the communal narration of the nation. As Benedict Anderson argues, the latter is constituted through the experience of empty homogeneous time, wholly devoid of the structured temporality of quest, obstacle and return. Furthermore, the travel book narrates a finite individual life-​segment rather than positing the continuity of nation across generations. Herodotus’s Histories establishes the fundamental binary of citizen/​barbarian and home/​abroad, but it is difficult to regard the fissiparous city-​states of ancient Greece as nations in any modern sense. This requires a fusion of Enlightenment sociology (national characteristics) with Romantic self-​definition (atavistic past projected into utopian horizon). The Enlightenment ideal of the disengaged universal citizen might appear incompatible with the Romantic traveller embedded in a unique cultural history, but both depend on increasing rates of literacy through the early eighteenth century. Using Britain as a single example, travel literature in the period may roughly be categorized as domestic tourism (see home tour); the European Grand Tour; and international Voyages. Defoe’s cartography in A Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain (1724–​26) takes the form not so much of mapping as a compendium, almanac, census or investment prospectus. Transportation as index of development of the modern state underpins both

Nation 167 narratives of demographic replenishment of the city by the country due to high mortality rates in London (Moll Flanders, Oliver Twist) and the reverse move from urban bustle to pastoral retreat, exemplified in Gilbert White’s The Natural History and Antiquities of Selbourne (1789). One might expect bonds of sympathy to be reinforced with fellow nationals, yet Johnson’s Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland (1775) ignited fierce antagonism, and picturesque guidebooks such as William Gilpin’s Observations on the River Wye (1782) arguably reinforce internal colonialism. Grand Tour literature offers both a differentiation of national traditions and transfer of cultural capital from weaker to stronger; in this case, southern to northern. Britain can define itself against a Catholic other still suspected of harbouring the Jacobite Pretender; educate its aristocratic youth in manners or diplomacy, or unleash Smollett’s ‘raw boys’ on a spree; and assert an economic ascendancy capable of funding longer, more ostentatious trips (and subsequent import of artefacts). The Grand Tour allows the citizen to be distinguished from those of comparably developed states, whereas Voyage literature allows the import of representations (William Hodges’s paintings), commodities (breadfruit) and persons (Omai) from newly discovered areas. The metropolis contains, consumes and absorbs what it is not as both stimulus and spectacle. The teleology implies a capacity for self-​ transformation but also for endurance (Crusoe’s stolidity defines his nationality). Yet territorial expansion may also prefigure imperial overstretch, eventual dissolution into polyglot multiculturalism. If, as Paul Gilroy contends, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack (1987), perhaps there is no longer any white, red or blue either. Can one even begin to understand one’s own nation, if one remains embedded in its language and preconceptions? To see oneself as others see us may only be possible to an outsider, though it is sobering (if not pitiful) that a text such as Bryson’s Notes on a Small Island (1995) could in any way be regarded as authoritative. More usually, national identity is externally ascribed through by bureaucratic surveillance, passport checks. We are apprised of what we are when reminded of what we are not. The travel book permits an estrangement through which a home culture can be reassessed; its narrator’s prejudices may be accentuated up to or beyond the point of self-​parody. The ‘Golden Age’ of Paul Fussell’s Abroad: British Literary Travelling between the Wars (1980) already displays internal disjunction in its characteristic use of a semi-​ parodic persona. The disconsolate, even self-​lacerating, mood already present in, for example, Robert Byron’s The Road to Oxiana (1937) becomes the dominant mode in Redmond O’Hanlon’s Into the Heart of Borneo (1984) and Jonathan Raban’s Hunting Mr Heartbreak (1991). To have a nation becomes as optional as to have a gender. Chatwin’s In Patagonia (1977) parallels his own sexual ambivalence with the refracted identity of the Welsh diaspora in South America; ex-​officer James Morris, chronicler of loss of empire in the Pax Britannica trilogy, re-​emerges as the worldly and engaging trans-​sexual Jan Morris (see sex/​sexuality). In a post-​or transnational world, the ideal of nationhood defined in terms of continuity of space, language and ethnicity has been made redundant. Complacent imperial entitlement mutates into embarrassed self-​ironization, evident in recent circumnavigations such as Paul Theroux’s The Kingdom by the Sea (1983) and Jonathan Raban’s Coasting: A Private Voyage (1986), which simply confirms the implosion of Britain as nation state, whether through internal divisiveness, imminent departure from the EU or increased globalization.

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Further Reading Anderson, B.  1991 [1983]. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Black, J.  2003. The British Abroad: The Grand Tour in the Eighteenth Century. Stroud: History Press. Gellner, E. 2006 [1983]. Nations and Nationalism. Oxford: Blackwell. Hartog, F.  1988. The Mirror of the Other: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History. Trans. by Janet Lloyd. Berkeley: University of California Press. Smethurst, P. 1992. Travel Writing and the Natural World. Basingstoke: Palgrave.

58 NATURE Catherine Armstrong

If we take it in its broadest sense, nature or the natural world refers to the multifarious physical environment around us. It is often contrasted with man-​made phenomena, such as settlements or individual homes, or to our attempts to control the environment such as dams. Nature is strongly linked to travel, as a motivation for travellers, as a key part of travellers’ observations and as a theme in travel literature. The desire to undertake scientific research into the natural world has been a motivating factor for travellers since the seventeenth century (see science). Scientific organizations such as the Royal Society in England encouraged travellers to record their observations of the natural world so that it might be measured, catalogued, understood and perhaps tamed. As early as 1620, Francis Bacon wrote a guide suggesting how travellers might structure their accounts so as to record the most useful information. However, this was also accompanied by a utilitarian understanding of the natural world. Early modern thinking determined that all animals and plants were on earth for man’s use and improvement. The idea of conserving the natural world for its own sake would have seemed alien during this period. Instead, natural resources were used to near-​ extinction, as in the case of the North American beaver on the East coast. One of the most influential works of natural history was Mark Catesby’s published in 1734. Catesby believed that ‘London was the centre of all science’, but he also realized the importance of travelling to America to observe ‘as well the animal and vegetable productions in their native countries which were strangers to England’. Catesby (1754, v) wanted to view this wildlife in situ because he could then make observations ‘shewing their several mechanical and other uses as in building, joynery, agriculture and others used for food and medicine’. The third strand in travellers’ understanding of nature was a religious and spiritual one. Christians in the early modern period believed that the natural world and its climactic phenomenon were evidence of the providence of God. Therefore, a hurricane or an earthquake occurred, or disease was spread because God was displeased with his people. Only through penitential acts such as fasting could these phenomena be prevented from happening again. This religious understanding of the natural world impacted on travellers such as the Puritan migrants to New England in the 1630s (see migration). They saw the diseases that wiped out the indigenous population from the region as a message from God, but they also saw the so-​called wilderness of the interior of the region as a fearful, God-​forsaken place. Although the area was far from a wilderness –​not empty of nature and certainly not empty

170  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies of native Americans –​this biblical fear of land outside human settlement pervaded the Puritans’ thinking. Calvinism was not the only doctrine to have this concept, folkloric perceptions of the wild man of the woods also influenced the idea that areas of human settlement were safe and that outside lurked danger. The natural world of areas far distant have often been labelled by travellers as exotic and ‘other’. Strange animals reinforced travellers’ ideas that places outside Europe did not fit into the fixed order of things. It made them question the classical authorities such as Pliny the Elder. Collecting artefacts from nature became a common pastime for European gentlemen who had travelled the world, for example, Hans Sloane, whose collection acquired in the Caribbean became the basis for the British Museum. The eighteenth century also saw one of the most important intellectual developments to affect travellers’ perceptions of the natural world: romanticism. As religious explanations of natural phenomena waned, art and text reflected the new idea that man could enjoy the harmony of the natural world by moving away from the corrupt ‘civilization’ built by man and into the supposedly unspoiled landscape. To do this did not require international travel. Places such as the Lake District became a destination of choice for wealthy young men and women, artists and poets such as William Wordsworth, who wished to immerse themselves and emerge with a stronger sense of self (see sublime). As Wordsworth wrote of the landscape in ‘Home at Grasmere’ (written 1814, first published 1888): ‘Majesty, and beauty and repose, a blended holiness of earth and sky.’ For day trippers, country estates of the elite were designed with the natural, untamed look in mind. But for many travellers, the right to experience wild landscape had to be fought for and then defended. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the realization that action had to be taken to preserve the natural environment impacted on travellers. In the United States, in the 1870s, national parks in Yosemite and Yellowstone were created. These became destinations for travellers in their own right. Simultaneously in Britain, rambling and walking had become important hobbies, but access to privately owned land was not guaranteed. The mass trespass in 1932 by over 400 people of Kinder Scout, a hill in the Derbyshire Peak District, highlighted the right to roam issue and led to the creation of national paths and parks (see pedestrianism). The loss of the natural environment, resources or flora and fauna due to overdevelopment or to climate change is becoming an increasingly important topic and travellers often highlight environmental pressures in their writing. Eco-​tourism, a term coined in the early 1980s, is increasingly popular as travel for leisure purposes is combined with projects to preserve or protect the natural world. Moreover, 2002 was declared the year of eco-​tourism, an entire industry has emerged around it and it is also now a field of academic study, with a Journal of Eco-​tourism. This has been further fragmented into ‘green’, ‘sustainable’ and ‘ethical’ travel. Concerns are now being raised about the environmental impact of this type of tourism, and about the tourism industry’s use of such terms to attract business without engaging in meaningful protection of natural resources.

Nature 171

Further Reading Brockway, L. H. 2002. Science and Colonial Expansion: The Role of the British Royal Botanic Gardens. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Colley, A. C. 2010. Victorians in the Mountains: Sinking the Sublime. Aldershot: Ashgate. Moring, J. 2002. Early American Naturalists: Exploring the American West, 1804–​1900. Cooper Square, NY: Rowman & Littlefield. Mulvey, C. 1983. Anglo-​American Landscapes: A Study of Nineteenth-​Century Anglo-​American Travel Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Scott Parish, S. 2006. American Curiosity –​Cultures of Natural History in the British Atlantic World. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

59 NOMADISM Claire Lindsay

‘Nomadism’ refers to the practice of wandering or perpetual journeying. It derives from the Greek nomas, meaning to roam in search of pasture but, as John Durham Peters (1999) has pointed out, it has a range of other suggestive etymological affiliations. Nomad is also related to nomos (law) and nemesis, the root of which (nem-​) has to do with allotment or sharing; the English term noma, meanwhile, which denotes an ulcerating sore, also invokes a sense of grazing, albeit harshly, across a surface (25–​26). Such origins and associations are useful in distinguishing this practice from other germane experiences, such as exile, both in terms of the motivation for departure and the idea of home. Exile, insofar as it ‘often occurs in relation to some looming authority figure who wields power over life and death’ (20), is a form of wandering that is typically, though not always necessarily, involuntary. By contrast, nomadism is usually informed by an antagonism that resides in an active evasion of or resistance to stasis and the fixity of state authority and society. Thus, if the exile longs for an impossible home/​coming (see Said 2000; Chambers 1994), nomads carry their home with and about them, it is ‘always already there, without any hope or dream of a homeland’. As Durham Peters (1999, 21) puts it, nomadism is about ‘being homeless and home-​full at once’. While nomadism has ancient roots, it has undergone several modern and postmodern reiterations and reinterpretations by travellers, travel writers and theorists alike. Indeed, it would seem that there is ‘nothing more nomadic than the concept of nomadism’ (Durham Peters 1999, 18). The Ancient Greeks disapproved of nomadism, deeming it inhumane to live without the benefits of the community or polis: for them, a wandering life was the sorry lot of society’s undesirables and outcasts. Odysseus is the archetypal abject wanderer here, expressing a conception of this particular modality of travel as a test, ‘a driven state of existence, a necessitated, even prophesied suffering’ (Leed 1992, 8). In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, however, nomadism as an ancient form of ‘loss that [also] brings a gain of stature’ (8) became a source of fascination for travellers to the Middle East, who found in the desert a redemptive space, an asylum of sorts, from a decadent Western modernity. Indeed, in many such ‘Arabian’ travelogues by writers including Richard Burton, T. E. Lawrence and Wilfred Thesiger, nomadism preserved its fundamental pastoral, dissident essence but was appropriated or co-​opted so that not only were tribesmen deemed models of an authentic, heroic and essentially masculinist way of being. In a gesture that countervails the time-​honoured individualism

Nomadism 173 of this form of wandering, tribesmen, essential as they were to Westerners’ protection in and negotiation of that environment, also became co-​travellers themselves, rather than mere travellees. Later, contemporary wanderers as diverse as Bruce Chatwin, Robyn Davidson and Pico Iyer have articulated influential and sometimes controversial expressions of nomadism in different parts of the world. Davidson trained with Aboriginal tribesmen before embarking on a six-​month solo expedition across the Central Australian desert by camel in Tracks (1980), while Chatwin wrote in various works about what he called ‘an anatomy of restlessness’ (including that of predecessors such as Thesiger, of Australia’s Aboriginal peoples, as well as his own), though it is The Songlines (1987) that made him famous as a travel writer and established his ‘authority’ on the subject. The romance and what Renato Rosaldo (1989) calls the ‘imperialist nostalgia’ of such endeavours –​a ‘yearning which tends to mask the historical role played by (Western) agents of destruction’ in the fate and disappearance of first cultures (Holland and Huggan 1998, 146) –​has not gone unnoticed by critics (see also Taylor 1999). Notwithstanding, travellers, writers, artists and activists across the world have in recent times reprised wandering on foot as a form of ‘slow’ travel, an antidote to or perambulant protest against the accelerated pace of neoliberal globalization and urban expansion (see Sinclair 1997; Solnit 2001; and slowness). Nomadism has also become a significant metaphorical concept in European post-​ structuralist theory, most notably in the work of Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari and Rosi Braidotti, where it features less as an empirical journey than as a means of subversion of set conventions. Deleuze and Guattari’s (1992 [1987], 24) conception of deterritorialization, for example, rests on a notion of radical displacement, a form of absolute, unfettered movement, and comprises ‘a war machine in opposition to the State apparatus’. Their conceptual desert is empty and emancipatory, an experimental laboratory where the rhizome, ‘always in the middle, between things, interbeing, intermezzo’ (25), is an elevated, paradigmatic form, one of a number of ‘alternative kinds of identity and modes of dwelling that counter the fixed commodifications of capitalist relations’ (Kaplan 1996, 86–​87). In turn, Braidotti (1994, 23) proposes nomadic consciousness as ‘a form of political resistance to hegemonic and exclusionary views of subjectivity’. While her proposal, which rests on a sense of identity that is contingent, rather than fixed (‘the intense desire to go on trespassing, transgressing’ (36)), has been widely interpreted as a feminist subjectivity (and thus has been of particular interest to feminist scholars of travel, e.g., Paes de Barros 2004), Braidotti (1994, 36) is keen to underscore its universalist objective to ‘rethink the subject […] without dualistic oppositions’. Nevertheless, as Caren Kaplan points out, in such ahistorical, theoretical forms of nomadology, there is still a colonizing impulse and an appropriative gesture at stake. Indeed, both theoretical and/​or contemporary expressions of nomadism run the risk of becoming overused, utopian metaphors or –​ in the cases of Chatwin and Iyer (2000), for e­ xample –​idealized, privileged forms of globe-​trotting that cannot be divested of their colonial legacy (see colonialism). For, as Kaplan (1996, 89) reminds us, ‘[d]‌eterritorialization is always reterritorialization, an increase of territory, an imperialization’. Nomadism is now widely commodified and fetishized as an experience and a ‘brand’ (of ‘independent’ travel stores or ethical clothing lines, for example) while

174  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies desert spaces and the itinerancy of tribal peoples are increasingly under threat of disappearance or at risk of arrest.

Further Reading Chatwin, B. 1987. The Songlines. London: Picador. Durham Peters, J. 1999. ‘Exile, Nomadism, and Diaspora: The Stakes of Mobility in the Western Canon’. In H. Naficy (ed.), Home, Exile, Homeland: Film, Media, and the Politics of Place. New York: Routledge: 17–​41. Homer. 2003. The Odyssey. Trans. by E. V. Rieu. London: Penguin. Kaplan, C.  1996. Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Thesiger, W. 1959. Arabian Sands. London: Collins.

60 ORIENTALISM Julia Kuehn

Etymologically, the term ‘orientalism’ has gone through three distinct stages of usage and meaning: based on the classical Latin word orient-​, oriens –​which denoted that part of the world situated to the east of a particular point (that point, originally, being the Roman Empire), or that part of the sky in which the sun rises  –​orientalism referred, in Britain from the eighteenth century, to the qualities, character, styles of oriental nations as opposed to occidental ones. In a global geography divided into east and west, orient and occident, the historian, literary scholar and Grand Tourist Joseph Spence (1726, 56) coined ‘a new Word, where we have no old one to my Purpose’, and referred to Homer’s Orientalism, or ‘Eastern way’. This connotation of orientalism as denoting some oriental essence was supplemented by a second strand of meaning, which emerged slightly later and referred to the field of Western knowledge about the languages, cultures and customs of the orient. In this vein, Lord Byron referred, in his notes to Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812–​16), to Thomas Thornton’s erudition about Turkey. Orientalist scholarship –​dominated by British, French and German philologists, linguists, (art) historians and biblical researchers –​ was at its height between the eighteenth and twentieth centuries, although the term ‘orientalism’ for such research about the Middle, Near and Far East by specialists from Barthélemy d’Herbelot via William Jones to Max Müller has since given way to the term ‘Asian studies’ and its subcategories. The third phase was, then, inaugurated by Edward Said with his 1978 publication Orientalism. Here, Orientalism (usually capitalized to denote an essentializing binarist position) denotes a specific discourse about the Orient, in which the representation does not follows the logic of truthfulness but rather the strategies of othering through stereotyping, inferiorization and exoticization (see exotic); all of which reveal and corroborate the struggle between knowledge and power and, more concretely, the supposed superiority of the West. As Said (1985 [1978], 12, 3) writes, showing his indebtedness to the theories of Michel Foucault and Antonio Gramsci, Orientalism is a hegemonic discourse which is dependent on ‘a distribution of geopolitical awareness into aesthetic, scholarly, economic, sociological, historical and philological texts’ (emphasis in the original); in short, it is ‘a Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient’. Incited by Orientalism and its early critical reception, scholars have progressively analysed the role of travellers and travel writing –​who are important agents in Said’s argument –​in contributing to and shaping all three semantic fields. It may not be

176  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies an exaggeration to claim that travel writing studies were, in a way, inaugurated by Said’s publication. The pioneering studies of travel by Peter Hulme, Sara Mills, Mary Louise Pratt, Sara Suleri and Tim Youngs and the cultural encounter in, specifically, colonial contexts established the parameters for many studies to follow: the travel text’s representation of otherness is analysed through the lenses of ideology and (generally unequal) power relations. The scholar’s agenda is, in Said’s (1985, 21) words, to uncover the ‘style, figures of speech, setting, narrative devices, historical and social circumstances, not the correctness of the representation nor its fidelity to some great original’ (emphasis in the original). Race, class and gender have proven to be popular ideologies to be seen in travel texts from particularly the colonial and postcolonial eras (see colonialism). Especially gender, and the question of whether female travellers exhibit a comparable or different version of Orientalism from their male colleagues, has been the focus of critical attention from Mills and Suleri to Alison Blunt, Indira Ghose, Reina Lewis, Billie Melman, Susan Morgan and beyond. The analysis of Orientalism in French and English travelogues –​hailing from these countries’ supremacy as colonial powers –​has dominated criticism, although studies of travel writing in German, Spanish, Italian, Scandinavian and Eastern European languages are now also becoming more plentiful. Orientalism as a framework has also found its way into art criticism, inaugurated by Linda Nochlin, and multimedial studies and exhibitions of painting travellers or travelling painters have emerged (e.g., Lynne Thornton). Orientalism and Orientalism as method have not been without criticism: among others, Dennis Porter and Aijaz Ahmad have critiqued Orientalism’s privileging of the representation over historical contextualization and the correctness of the representation. More recent criticism tends to question Orientalism’s monolithic model of domination and imposition (e.g., Lisa Lowe), often offering alternative, more flexible models such as exoticism (e.g., Charles Forsdick). These studies usually highlight processes of transculturation, negotiation and dialogue but also the individualist rather than collective nature of the traveller’s response to otherness. As Susan Morgan (1996, 9) writes, contemporary ‘critics approaching these [colonial] travel books need to resist […] more recent critiques [like Orientalism] which generalize about the […] imperialist project’. Another key paradigm shift in recent travel writing studies in the Orientalist tradition has occurred with the first studies on Occidentalism in travelogues, that is, the ‘other’s’ representation of ‘the West’ (e.g., Wendy Bracewell, Alex Drace-​Francis). Orientalism/​Orientalism continues to be debated by both travel writing and other scholars. If Said ended his Orientalism with a chapter and the acknowledgement that there was ‘Orientalism Now’ in 1978, this is still true in the second decade of the twenty-​first century as we continue to witness and critique Orientalism and its alternatives, as they present themselves in the discourses of religion, politics, history, ethnography, language, literature and contemporary travel writing.

Further Reading Burke, E. III and D. Prochaska (eds). 2008. Genealogies of Orientalism: History, Theory, Politics. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press.

Orientalism 177 Lewis, B. 1982. ‘The Question of Orientalism’. The New York Review of Books. 24 June. www. nybooks.com. Porter, D. 1983. ‘Orientalism and Its Problems’. In F. Barker et al. (eds), The Politics of Theory. Colchester: University of Essex: 179–​93. Said, E. 1985. ‘Orientalism Reconsidered’. Cultural Critique, 1 (Autumn): 89–​107. ———. 1993. Culture and Imperialism. New York: Knopf.

61 PEDESTRIANISM Alasdair Pettinger

The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) defines ‘pedestrianism’ as walking undertaken as a form of exercise or competitive sport, its earliest citation dating from the early nineteenth century, reflecting their growing popularity. Robin Jarvis (1997, 23) argues that, despite the long-​established association of walking with ‘indigence, necessity and fate’, long-​range excursions on foot became a sufficiently widespread leisure pursuit in Western Europe from the 1780s to create a demand for specialized guides and advice, such as the Instructions to Pedestrian Tourists offered by Robert Newell in 1821 (Jarvis 1997, 13). But, in the wake of recent historical studies (Amato 2004; Gros 2014 [2009]; Nicholson 2008; Solnit 2001), the term has found a new use that captures something the OED misses, the idea of walking ‘as an investigation, a ritual, a meditation’ (Solnit 2001, 3). It has come to refer to an art of walking, undertaken self-​consciously, sometimes as a defiantly transgressive practice. Pedestrianism in this sense embraces a wide range of activities from hiking trails to walkathons, from pilgrimages to protest marches, as well as solitary expeditions of varying lengths and levels of difficulty. Pedestrianism in this sense is primarily associated with the Romantic poets and philosophers who first celebrated and promoted it. To begin with, pedestrian travellers felt the need to justify their unusual activity –​pointing to the freedom it gave them to deviate from the standard route (and more figuratively from social, political and intellectual convention) (Jarvis 1997, 29–​61). As the practice became more accepted, it generated essays of a more reflective character, distinguishing walking from more routinized activities emblematic of modernity, becoming increasingly prescriptive and moralistic in tone (Solnit 2001, 118–​24). Frédéric Gros (2014 [2009], 140–​41) identifies two main forms of Romantic pedestrianism. First, those rambles ‘off the beaten track’ in woods, fields and mountains in which ‘the trekker with his rucksack opposes civilization with the burst of a clean break, the cutting edge of a rejection’. Second, the more ambivalent practice of the urban stroller or flâneur, whose mode of resistance, by contrast, involves not ‘opposing but evading, deflecting, altering with exaggeration, accepting blandly and moving rapidly on’, whose target is ‘solitude, speed, dubious business politics and consumerism’. If the first is often associated with writers like Rousseau, Wordsworth and Thoreau, the second might be represented by Baudelaire, Dickens or Poe. In the twentieth century, the literary form favoured by pedestrianism was the travel narrative rather than the moralizing essay. Accounts of long-​distance walks

Pedestrianism 179 tend to align themselves with the first tradition, and include those that follow established routes, such as the Silk Road (Ollivier 2000–​2003), ancient British by-​ ways (Macfarlane 2012) or the Appalachian Trail (Bryson 1997). Others follow in the footsteps of earlier travellers (e.g., Rush 2006; Cracknell 2014) or pursue itineraries of their own devising (e.g., Fermor 1977; Lacarrière 1974). The second tradition of urban walking has generated distinct subgenres of travelogue over the past few decades, more conveniently discussed under the headings of psychogeography and vertical travel. Examining recent pedestrian narratives in French for what they reveal about the reasons for their choice of locomotion, Forsdick et al. (2006, 178–​89) identify four key themes: (1) ‘perceptual advantage’ as deceleration allows one to appreciate one’s surroundings to a degree not possible at higher speeds (although walking can also give rise to boredom and desensitization); (2)  ‘active corporeality’, which may be couched in terms of an individualistic cult of physical fitness or a more politicized rejection of commodified forms of travel; (3) ‘receptivity to interpersonal encounters’ that is more likely to result in dialogue and more equitable exchanges; (4)  ‘self-​ distinction for its own sake’, or a somewhat wilful, even perverse, nonconformity and eccentricity. These rationales for walking can conflict with each other, perhaps most memorably in those unsatisfying encounters with motorized road-​users who express nothing but puzzlement or disdain at the narrator’s chosen mode of travel. Many of these observations may be extended to accounts of various walking experiences in other languages. One might add that active corporeality may be one of the attractions of pilgrimage where even modern, secular participants may value an unusual degree of physical suffering (see Egan 2012). Studies of pilgrimage have also highlighted the importance of rhythm (see Slavin (2003, 9–​11) who makes suggestive use of Nicholas Abraham’s term, ‘rhythmisation of perception’), a subject of interest to Robert Louis Stevenson (1992a [1876], 236–​38), who stressed the advantages of an ‘even stride’ and Robert Macfarlane (2014), who confessed that he ‘wanted to write each chapter [of The Old Ways] with a different base-​rhythm, a poetic foot (iamb, trochee, dactyl) that would tap its tempo through it’. The openness of walking to interpersonal encounters is perhaps especially pronounced when walking in groups, which can sometimes give rise to ‘a delicate but satisfying sense of cameraderie’ grounded in ‘nothing more than sharing the same space and same purpose while moving together in the same direction’ (Solnit 2001, 215) –​although as Catharine Mee (2014, 21) has observed encounters on, say, public transport can be just as rewarding. And we should indeed be wary of exceptionalist claims: other forms of self-​propulsion such as cycling, swimming, skiing may also offer some of the advantages sometimes assumed to be unique to walking (Forsdick et al. 2006, 189–​93). Furthermore, ‘insistence on walking as the ne plus ultra of natural, ethical, quintessentially human mobility has potentially dehumanizing implications for those who are confined to a wheelchair’ (196). Histories of pedestrianism typically chart its emergence against a background of walking undertaken out of sheer necessity, usually because of limited access to other forms of transport, and which remains the only kind of walking that most people in the world know (see esp. Amato 2004). Despite the widening range of activities denoted by pedestrianism, the term remains tied to voluntary travel and typically

180  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies excludes, for example, the journeys of fugitive slaves fleeing the Southern United States (see, e.g., Carbado and Weise 2012) or African migrants making their way to Europe (see, e.g., Triulzi and Mackenzie 2013), despite their personal experiences being recorded in print and increasingly attracting the notice of scholars. However, there are signs that the scope of pedestrianism is broadening (see, e.g., Ingold and Vergunst 2008) and may well require further elaboration in the near future.

Further Reading Amato, J. A. 2004. On Foot: A History of Walking. New York: New York University Press. Gros, F. 2014 [2009]. A Philosophy of Walking. Trans. by John Howe. London: Verso. (Orig. pub. as Marcher, une philosophie. Paris: Carnets Nord.) Jarvis, R. 1997. Romantic Writing and Pedestrian Travel. Houndmills, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Nicholson, G. 2008. The Lost Art of Walking: The History, Science, Philosophy, and Literature of Pedestrianism. London: Riverhead. Solnit, R. 2001. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. London: Verso.

62 PERSONA Alex Drace-​Francis

In classical Latin, ‘persona’ meant a mask used in a theatrical performance. The term came into Old English in the thirteenth century (via Anglo-​Norman parsone, parsoune, person, persoun), and was used, much as in other European languages, as a category in law, grammar and theology. ‘Personal’ and ‘personality’, also via Anglo-​ Norman, appeared in the fifteenth century, as did the term ‘personage’, which denoted a person in relation to their rank, appearance or generic status or type. The emergence of the term ‘parson’ for a clergyman is a curious offshoot, but shows how the word was understood to designate a role as much as a unique individual. Surprisingly, given the term’s origin and later productivity, persona was not part of theatrical terminology; and in contrast to French, ‘personage’ was only occasionally used in English to refer to a character in fiction. The term ‘dramatis personae’ was not adopted in printed plays until around the end of the seventeenth century. This was possibly influenced by European convention (there were lists of personas in Spanish plays, and of personnes/​personnages in French ones), but only in English was the term persona reintroduced in its Latin form, making it distinct from ‘person’ or ‘personage’. From here it was quickly and widely applied to real-​life contexts to capture the way an outward role might be performed socially or constructed rhetorically. Usages from the 1730s in the plays of Henry Fielding and the literary criticism of Richard Bentley are already metaphorical, referring to editorial personae, or the assembled company in a scene. As part of authorial strategy, the practice could involve the adoption of a pseudonym, or the projection of certain traits within the frame of a narrator figure or individual characters. Around the same time, the term ‘personification’ emerged, bestowing a name on the already familiar artistic practice of embodying abstract concepts or inanimate objects in the form of human figures or fictional characters. These semantic developments betokened a wider institutionalization of the by-​now established process of ‘self-​fashioning’ (Greenblatt 1980), through both textual and visual performance. It also coincided with the rise of first-​person literary fictions which very often deployed the persona of the traveller as narrator/​protagonist, for instance, in the foundational novels of Defoe and Swift (Adams 1983). In the course of the twentieth century, persona became a key concept in social psychology and social anthropology, as major thinkers such as Carl Gustav Jung, Marcel Mauss, Erving Goffmann and others accorded it a prominent place in their theories of the personal self and the boundaries and interfaces between the individual

182  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies and society. The term persona acknowledged particularly the understanding that social selves and interactions were modelled by ideas of role, script and other literary frames (Landy 1993). Modern literary analysis has focused on the use of personae in poetry, with reference both to ancient and medieval poets such as Horace and Chaucer, and to modernists from Browning and Baudelaire to Yeats and Pound. The concept is also popular among analysts of film stars and musical performers (e.g., Dyer; Marshall). In the theory of fiction, the status of narrative personae has been analysed especially in the subdiscipline of narratology (Bal; Walsh). In most Western travel narratives the persona of the traveller is quite highly developed, and traced historically to the early Romantic travellers’ focus on the self as an object of representation. Already in 1773 traveller Edward Ives asserted that ‘the man who writes his own journey, is under a necessity […] of making himself the hero of his own tale’ (cited by Adams 1962, 148), and if the traveller is considered broadly as a ‘hero’ along the lines of the epic and picaresque traditions, the roots of such an archetype could be traced back further. The themes of self-​making and self-​discovery through travel writing can also be traced forward in time, having what Jarvis calls a ‘long afterlife’ in the twentieth century (Jarvis). Travel writing theory has used concepts such as ‘subjectivity’ or simply ‘the ­traveller’. For analytical purposes the concept of persona is useful in foregrounding the rhetorical and performative processes at work in travel writing, and the fact that the figure of the traveller-​narrator is more a creation of the travel and writing processes than a discrete human agent preceding or producing them. The persona is also a key ingredient in travel writing’s enduring popularity, as readers’ sense of the places encountered is mediated through the idea of the traveller as ‘film director’ (Cardinal, 135), for whom locations and incidents assume the function of ‘a “scene” or stage for dramatizing the self ’ (Poirier, 86) or for ‘acting out a trope’ (Fussell, 215). Travel writing has been a crucial site for forming the personae of authors whose primary influence became manifest in other genres (see the studies of Smollett by Sena; Darwin by Tallmadge; and Twain by West), as well as, of course, for the formation of gender roles (Bassnett 2002; Bracewell 2009b; Moroz 2013). Studies of certain authorial personae, especially that of the exiled writer, show how paradigms of displacement impact on those of the author in general (see, e.g., Williams on Ovid, or Neubauerand Török on East-​Central European writers). Literary paratexts and authorial marketing also serve to enhance the status of the traveller-​persona as cultural icon, ensuring fame and aura across different media (Demoor), and extending the role-​playing function of the traveller figure into the social world.

Further Reading Bassnett, S. 2002. ‘Gender and Travel Writing’. In P. Hulme and T. Youngs (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 225–​41. Elliott, R. C. 1982. The Literary Persona. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Helmers, M. and T. Mazzeo. 2005. ‘Travel and the Body’. Special issue of Journal of Narrative Theory, 35.3.

Persona 183 Klaus, C. H. 2010. The Made-​Up Self: Impersonation in the Personal Essay. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. Moroz, G. 2013. Travellers, Novelists and Gentlemen. Constructing Male Narrative Personae in British Travel Books, From the Beginnings to the Second World War. Brussels: Peter Lang. Rorty, A.  O. 1976. ‘A Literary Postscript. Characters, Persons, Selves, Individuals’. In A. O. Rorty (ed.), The Identities of Persons. Berkeley: University of California Press: 301–​23.

63 PICTURESQUE Zoë Kinsley

Picturesque aesthetics emerged from a long tradition of writing exploring questions of ‘taste’, and in relation to the increasing popularity of travel in Britain in the eighteenth century. The picturesque responded to the binary aesthetics of Edmund Burke’s Philosophical Enquiry into the Origins of the Sublime and Beautiful (1757), suggesting that there were kinds of landscape observers would experience pleasurably, yet which fell outside the definitions of both sublime and beautiful. William Gilpin, a schoolmaster and clergyman from Cumberland in North West England, was the originator of the picturesque. He published Three Essays: On Picturesque Beauty; On Picturesque Travel; and On Sketching Landscape in 1792, but as early as the 1760s he had defined the picturesque as ‘expressive of that peculiar kind of beauty, which is agreeable in a picture’ (Gilpin 1768, 2). His early ideas were refined through experience during a series of home tours made from the late 1760s. The first published account of one of those tours was Observations on the River Wye, and Several Parts of South Wales, &c. Relative chiefly to Picturesque Beauty (1782), and each subsequent narrative followed the same titular formula. Gilpin’s picturesque emulated the paintings of artists such as Salvator Rosa and the Poussins, identified roughness and variety as its distinguishing characteristics and demonstrated a touristic appetite for travelling ‘knick-​knacks’ such as the Claude Glass (Andrews 1989, 67–​73). The claims Gilpin (Gilpin 1792) made for his travel writing were modest. In his essay ‘On Picturesque Travel’, he stated that his intention was not to bring the picturesque ‘into competition with any of the more useful ends of travelling’. Instead, he claimed his model for picturesque travel could be of value in two ways: first, it would provide purpose and direction for those with ‘vacant minds’ who otherwise travel without ‘any end at all’, and second, it would offer ‘a rational amusement to such as travel for more important purposes’ (41). Mary Wollstonecraft (Wollstonecraft 1989 [1789]) was one of many readers who approved of the picturesque precisely because it offered a method for organizing travelling experience. She celebrated Gilpin as an ‘ingenious author’ who offered readers ‘a grand object of pursuit to concentrate their thoughts’ (161). Gilpin’s theoretical precepts were developed by Uvedale Price and Richard Payne Knight, and the picturesque maintained its popularity into the early decades of the nineteenth century. By the 1820s, those wanting to follow the Gilpinian style could utilize T. D. Fosbroke’s Tourist’s Grammar; or Rules Relating to the Scenery and Antiquities Incident to Travellers (1826), which offered picturesque

Picturesque 185 principles and vocabulary neatly packaged in one portable volume. Not all readers were so enthusiastic about the picturesque, however, and its tenets became the subject of satire, for example, in William Combe’s The Tour of Doctor Syntax (1812), and Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey (1817). Other commentators expressed more serious misgivings: the ‘pleasure of picturesque tourism’ became inseparable from the ‘deeply conflicted pleasure of liberal guilt’ (Bohls 2016, 247; also Thompson 2007, 55). William Gilpin (1792, 7) had famously argued that the ‘mallet’ should be taken to elegant architecture in order to create the roughness required by the picturesque, promoting ‘deface[ment]’ and ‘mutilat[ion]’ as necessary in the pursuance of ideal scenes. For Gilpin, this alteration of the observed landscape could be enacted imaginatively, and by the pencil, yet nineteenth-​century critics such as John Ruskin criticized him for fetishizing scenes of suffering and decay (Ruskin 1904 [1843]). Picturesque tourism has been described as embodying ‘a set of paradoxes’: the traveller seeks to ‘discover Nature untouched by man’ yet attempts to ‘improve’ what he or she sees (Andrews 1989, 3; also Robinson 1991, 2). Modern scholarship has explored the moral and ethical problems of the picturesque, such as its celebration of the ‘primacy of [visual] perception’, and promotion of ways of seeing only available to a particular class of leisured ‘gentleman’ traveller (Orestano 2003, 163; Copley and Garside 1994; and Bohls 1995). Elizabeth Bohls (1995, ­chapter  3; and 2016) has demonstrated the ways in which female travellers such as Dorothy Wordsworth employed picturesque modes of viewing and description, in doing so challenging contemporary assumptions about the male aesthetic subject. Elsewhere, postcolonial critiques have drawn attention to the utilization of picturesque discourse by British travellers abroad in the nineteenth century. The picturesque offered travellers a way of familiarizing the foreign, as is evidenced by works such as the travel memoirs of the Welsh woman Fanny Parkes, who published Wanderings of a Pilgrim in Search of the Picturesque During Four-​and-​Twenty Years in the East in 1850. Romita Ray (2013, 3)  has argued that the picturesque is significant for our understanding of Britain’s Indian empire: it served as a ‘frame through which India was visualized from the outside, as well as the epistemology through which India was reconstructed on the ground from inside out’. Picturesque discourse is not always exclusionist, however; nor does it always perpetuate social and political inequalities. Other studies have returned to the late eighteenth-​century beginnings of the picturesque to highlight the breadth of the interests and writings of its originator William Gilpin. It is easy to read the picturesque as a set of aesthetic values employed by travellers who want to frame and control what they see. Yet as Tim Fulford (1996) has argued, Gilpin’s tour accounts often set the individual traveller’s experiences in dialogue with local oral traditions, undermining the distanced aesthetics of vision and democratizing the language of travel. Robert Mayhew (2000) has reminded us of the significance of Gilpin’s role as an Anglican clergyman and educator for the way in which he conceptualized human relationships with the natural world. More recently, writing on Gilpin’s maritime interests has revealed his complex spatial and historical understanding of place, the importance of non-​visual forms of experience in his writings, and the consequent possibilities for picturesque travel writing to move beyond pictorialism to read local landscapes in relation to wider national and global narratives (Kinsley 2017).

186  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Further Reading Andrews, M. 1989. The Search for the Picturesque: Landscape Aesthetics and Tourism in Britain, 1760–​1800. Aldershot: Scholar Press. Bohls, E. A. 1995. Women Travel Writers and the Language of Aesthetics, 1716–​1818. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Copley, S.  and P.  Garside. 1994. The Politics of the Picturesque: Literature, Landscape and Aesthetics since 1770. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kinsley, Z.  2017. ‘William Gilpin at the Coast: A New Perspective on Picturesque Travel Writing.’ The Review of English Studies, 68.284: 322–​41. Ray, R. 2013. Under the Banyan Tree: Relocating the Picturesque in British India. New Haven: Yale University Press.

64 PILGRIMAGE Mary Baine Campbell

The most resonant intersection of travel and religion is pilgrimage, from the Latin peregrinatio, a word capacious enough after centuries of allegorical and metaphoric expansion to take on even the most attenuated ‘spiritual’ motives or responses. In Europe and the Americas, and in most writing in European languages, latter-​day pilgrimages of secular people constitute allusions to a form of both travelling and writing that emerged in the Mediterranean littoral in the first centuries of Christian Holy Land travel, though pagan Greeks and Romans had visited shrines and oracles. The Hindu practice of pilgrimage to legendary places in the Indian subcontinent has ancient roots, but like pagan Greek shrine-​going did not generate a written corpus (except the genealogies maintained by the Pandits of the pilgrimage city of Haridwar). Modern Jews make aliyah to Israel, the ‘Jewish homeland’, and before the destruction of the Second Temple individual men made pilgrimages from other cities to Jerusalem’s Temple (though see Friedman 1996). Expansionist Islam would generate its own spectacular pilgrimage, the mandatory hajj to Mecca’s scene of revelation, but again, produce no distinct literary genre. The Chinese Buddhist Xuanzang’s solo pilgrimage to the India of Buddha’s revelation  –​also a journey to a sacred spot outside one’s native land –​did produce a major work of travel writing, which inspired the classic novel, Journey to the West (1592). But the English word ‘pilgrim’ mispronounces Old French pèlerin (Latin peregrinus, stranger), which arose during the crusades, and pèlerinage (the ‘general passage’ that generated chronicles like Jean de Joinville’s Vie de Saint-​Louis) is first attested in reference to crusade rather than individual journeys. In Europe, pilgrimage was a ritualized, collective, sometimes military Christian activity directed to the foreign landscape of a sacred past –​though Gerhard Ladner (1967) (in ‘Homo Viator’) describes the first Christian wanderers as hatless loners, sans destination, homeless and unaccompanied by choice on the peregrinatio of earthly life. This Latin peregrinatio initially referred to travelling or living abroad. Literally: per-​(before, around, through) -​agri (fields, ‘acres’). There is a hint in Indo-​European etymologies that per-​ looks back rather than out and beyond, as if a peregrinatio heads towards a lost homeland. This is literalized in Christian Holy Land pilgrimage, which understands in the ‘earthly Jerusalem’ to which it makes its way a symbol of the heavenly Jerusalem, the pilgrim’s proper home, or the celestial Paradise, transcendent mirror of a first, forsaken home in Eden’s earthly paradise. Thus, early Christians who went to Palestine to live as anchorites described the sights as memories, ‘remembered’

188  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies from a book, the Bible. Their time-​travelling or time-​obliterating model holds: we read about a place before we go, or go because we have read about it or seen pictures. The emotional charge is in the discovery that not only is a site of past action present, but a textual place is also actual –​and for some, in the challenge of reinscribing that actuality in a new text. In Christianity –​like Judaism, a religion and culture of the book –​this oscillation between reading, seeing and writing was a fundamental therapeutic, suturing the gap between the wonders of scriptural time and space and the officially miracle-​free fields of home. The later medieval church, the bureaucratized spiritual power that unified the dukedoms and city-​states of ‘Christendom’, preferred its religious cloistered and its Christians fixed in parishes beyond which it took a bishop’s permission to travel. Pilgrimage went increasingly out of favour –​thus the materialist tendency of Chaucer’s profane Canterbury Tales, though England’s first memoir was dictated in his lifetime by the pilgrim Margery Kempe. Spiritual questing should take place in the cells of convent and hermitage, inside the soul of a hyperbolically located person. Travel across the boundary-​fraught social space of the Mediterranean world was looked upon as a form of disruptive nomadism, a space of unregulated liberty (Braidotti’s (2011) Nomadic Subjects makes that term relevant to some forms of pilgrim travel). Missionary work, however, remained an institutionally approved religious motive for travel, responsible for many striking thirteenth-​and fourteenth-​century itineraries, as well as the proto-​ethnographies of sixteenth-​to eighteenth-​century missionaries from imperial nations. For historians of the high Middle Ages, one of the most useful is the observant Itinerarium (c.1254) of the Franciscan William of Rubruck, who at the end of a Holy Land pilgrimage travelled through Central Asia to convert the Mongols in Karakorum. Early modern writings came from still farther-​flung Dominicans and Jesuits in China and the Americas, famously Bartolomé de las Casas, Matteo Ricci, Bernard da Sahagún, José Acosta, Paul Le Jeune and Jean de Brébeuf. The diversity of missionary writings, which continue throughout the lifespans of the European empires, is greater than that of the more formalized corpus of the peregrinatio. Anglo-​American influences on contemporary discourse about pilgrimage have been dominant, though that is changing (see, for instance, the Introduction to Albera and Eade (2015)). They originated in Victor and Edith Turner’s epochal Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives (1978), for whom the essence of pilgrimage lay in the pilgrim’s singular and collective experience of communitas, with its erasure of social distinction, and in ‘liminal space’. This work was followed by John Eade and Michael Sallnow’s collection Contesting the Sacred (2000 [1991]), which problematized the universalism of the Turners’ famous formulations. Dean MacCannell extended the idea of pilgrimage to encompass modern tourism tout court, in The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class (1976) and conversely Marc Augé (1997) grafted modern pilgrimage onto tourism. Among historians of Christian pilgrimage Jonathan Sumption’s Pilgrimage: An Image of Medieval Religion (1975) has been useful, including its treatment of relics; and Surinder Bhardwaj and Gisbert Rinschede (1988) have explored pilgrimage in other religions. Literary studies have moved in on this province of the history of religion, bringing to the textual corpus the development of vocabularies for analyzing subjectivity, affect and the body as site of experience, conflict and liberty, as well as traditional tools of rhetorical analysis and

Pilgrimage 189 narratology and the materialist frameworks of postcolonial studies: for examples of these various approaches, see Fahey (2003), Weber (2005), Williams (2009), Zacher (1976) and the present author (1988). Pilgrimage formed a narrative model for such major early fictions as Dante’s Purgatorio (1320), whose landscape mimics pilgrim accounts of staged progress up Mt. Zion; Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (c.1380–​1400; see Benson 1987) (which exemplifies the Turners’ concepts); William Langland’s allegorical Piers Ploughman (c.1370–​90); and John Bunyan’s Protestant allegory Pilgrim’s Progress (1678). The early modern genres of the picaresque and the fantastic voyage contest the primacy of pilgrimage as a model for the journey of heightened experience, offering open-​ended wandering or the individual journey towards a secular goal as liberations, or as replacements for the denigrated social form (primarily Catholic) of pilgrimage. The post-​Reformation European pèlerin is Lazarillo de Tormes, Don Quixote or Moll Flanders; her descendant is Kurt Vonnegut’s Billy Pilgrim, forever houseless and godless in the loops of The Sirens of Titan’s ‘chronosynclastic infundibulum’ (1959).

Further Reading Bhardwaj, S.  and G.  Rinschede (eds). 1988. Pilgrimage in World Religions. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. Campbell, M. B. 2010. ‘Spiritual Quest and Social Space: Hard Travel for God on Earth and in the Heart’. In E. Treharne and G. Walker (eds), Oxford Handbook of Medieval Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press: 707–​724. Coleman, S. and J. Elsner. 1995. Pilgrimage: Past and Present in the World Religions. London: British Museum Press. Sumption, J. 1975. Pilgrimage: An Image of Medieval Religion. London: Faber and Faber. Turner, E.  and V.  Turner. 1978. Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives. Oxford: Blackwell.

65 PLACE Rune Graulund

Place is at one and the same time easy and impossible to define. For most of us, certain locations provide us with a distinct sense of place. The family home, the hotel in which we stayed on a memorable journey, the bench on which we had our first kiss; all such would quite naturally count as ‘places’. While it may make a great deal of sense to us intuitively and practically, place has however proven very hard to theorize. ‘Place can be difficult to locate’, artists Tacita Dean and Jeremy Millar (2005, 11, 14) point out, precisely because ‘place is something more often sensed than understood, an indistinct region of awareness rather than something clearly defined’. Place is also politically volatile. As geographer Doreen Massey remarks, place is often used for reactionary purposes, deployed as a ‘locus of denial, of attempted withdrawal from invasion/​difference’ (2005, 5–​6), as well as ‘sites of nostalgia, of the opting-​out from Progress and History’ (1994, 5). Place in this instance can be construed as the very opposite of travel: as a bastion of stasis and sameness intended to keep out all that which is different, itinerant, other and exotic. Place, as well as the absence of place, is however of great importance to travel writing. For if travel is dependent on a sensation of difference and otherness, of moving from one (familiar) place to another (different) place, then the very activity of travel may seem nonsensical without such changes in spatial register. Indeed, as Robert T. Tally Jr. (2013, 13) argues in Spatiality, ‘the traveller, whether forced into exile or willingly engaged in tourism, cannot help but be more aware of the distinctiveness of a given place, and of the remarkable differences between places’. Travel, if we are to take Tally’s lead, makes us acutely aware of the ‘distinctiveness’ of place. Hence to engage in the activity of travel is to engage in the practice of place. Whereas earlier forms of travel writing had little difficulty in discerning such ‘remarkable differences between places’ (Tally 2013), contemporary travellers have found it increasingly challenging to locate any such distinctions. For early travellers, it was simply a question of going where no, or at least very few, of their kind had gone before. As Charles Darwin circumnavigated the globe in the years 1831–​36, a journey later to be recounted in The Voyage of the Beagle (1839), there was no doubt in the young naturalist’s mind that he was passing through places of ‘remarkable difference’, with almost every single page describing a shift in scenery. The further we move through history, though, the more problematic such claims to a distinctive sense of place become. In Video Night in Kathmandu, for instance, Pico Iyer (1988) describes

Place 191 how he travels halfway around the world, to Hong Kong. Once there, however, he discovers not only that ‘everyone I met was talking about New York’, but that those same people believe that ‘[t]‌here’s absolutely no difference between the two’ (249–​50). Philosopher Edward S. Casey (1997, xiii) remarks that we are now living in an age in which we experience ‘the encroachment of an indifferent sameness-​of-​place on a global scale’. If the modern period led to the proliferation of the ‘phenomenon of displacement [which] derives in large measure from a failure to link up with places’ (Casey 1993, xiv), then such sensations of displacement have intensified even further in the present. Anthropologist Marc Augé (1992, 78) therefore argues that we are at present seeing place turn into ‘non-​place’. That is to say spaces that ‘do not integrate the earlier places’. Significantly, Augé claims that the ‘traveller’s space may […] be the archetype of non-​place’ (86; emphasis in the original). Airports, railway stations and hotels are all exemplary everyday instances of non-​place. While the encroachment of non-​place is a general malaise of contemporary life, it is in places of transit that we feel the onslaught of non-​place most acutely. We may have travelled thousands of miles, but with all airports constructed round the same universal template, it is in the generic and ahistorical blandness of such loci of mobility that Casey’s ‘sameness-​of-​place’ is felt most acutely. Arguably, non-​places like airports may seem extreme examples of our contemporary (non)relations with place. But if aero travel prophets such as John Kasarda are to be believed, airport life is a harbinger of our globally airlinked future. According to Kasarda, we are all headed towards the spatial singularity of the ‘aerotropolis’, a universal urban form in which all cities will conform to ‘the logic of globalization made flesh in the form of cities’ (Kasarda and Lindsay 2011, 6). Needless to say, for travel writing such dissolutions of place have played an important role. If we are now living in a world where ‘everyone’s from somewhere else’, we also seem to be living in a world in which ‘everywhere is made up of somewhere else’ (Iyer 2001, 43, 11). In such a world, nothing is distant anymore, everything is connected and ‘sameness-​of-​place’ rules supreme. Add to this the proliferation of virtual, digital spaces that may seem as meaningful as any physical location, and the traditional notion of place as a specific and distinct geographical location begins to wither fast. Indeed, ‘not only does the Internet provide a new mental geography; it alters one’s reading of the external world’ (Youngs 2013, 179). We see this, for instance, in Sam Miller’s Delhi: Adventures in a Megacity (2009). While Miller spends a great deal of time and effort in traversing Delhi on foot, he spends as much time online, equally content to form his impressions of ‘the’ place of Delhi from online as from IRL experiences. In such a world, in which a sense of place is increasingly dependent on a wide range of inputs, actual and virtual, local and global, geographical and digital, it begs the question as to what exactly constitutes travel in place, too.

Further Reading Augé, M. 1995 [1992]. Non-​places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity. Trans. by John Howe. London and New York: Verso. Casey, E. 1997. The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press.

192  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Heise, U. K. 2008. Sense of Place, Sense of Planet: The Environmental Imagination of the Global. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Massey, D. 2005. For Space. London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi: Sage Publications. Stiegler, B.  2013 [2010]. A History of Armchair Travel. Trans. by Peter Filkins. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press.

66 POETICS Julia Kuehn

The word ‘poetics’ derives from the Greek ‘poietikos’ (ποιητικός), meaning ‘pertaining to poetry’ or, literally, ‘creative, productive’ (from ‘poietos’, ποιητός, ‘made’). ‘Poetics’ entered the English language in the late fifteenth century via the Middle French ‘poétique’; first as an adjective and then as a noun. The singular noun form ‘poetic’ occurs, although the plural form is more common. ‘Poetics’ is interested in the creative principles informing a literary construction: it denotes, as in the earliest manifestation, Aristotle’s Poetics (ca.335 B C E ), a study or theory of form. Poetics is thus distinguished from hermeneutics by its focus not on the meaning of a text but rather its understanding of how a text’s different elements come together and produce a certain effect. The issue of the form of travel writing or, more precisely, the difficulty of defining travel writing as a genre has occupied travel writing scholars since the inauguration of the field. Paul Fussell’s (1980, 203)  early definition of the travel book as ‘a sub-​ species of memoir in which the autobiographical narrative arises from the speaker’s encounter with distant or unfamiliar data, and in which the narrative –​unlike that in a novel or a romance –​claims literal validity by constant reference to actuality’ has, although still widely used today and representing central texts, subsequently drawn criticism as being too narrow and too exclusive, especially in its insistence on the travelogue’s personal element and literary merits. Looking beyond Fussell’s sources and into earlier and later texts, scholars have broadened the corpus and, accordingly, travel writing’s generic boundaries. In addition to Fussell’s autobiographical-​literary travel book, traveller’s journals and letters, ships’ logs, accounts of exploration, pilgrimage and colonial conquest and administration, guidebooks, itineraries, maps, memoirs, place writings, road movies and ‘simple’ descriptions of experiences abroad have been argued to constitute travel writing in a broader sense. Jonathan Raban (1987b, 231) has called travel writing ‘a notoriously raffish open house where different genres are likely to end up in the same bed’. Barbara Korte (2000 [1996], 9) speaks of the genre’s ‘hybridity and flexibility’, as do Patrick Holland and Graham Huggan (1998, 8), who write that travel writing ‘straddles categories and disciplines’, borrowing freely from, among others, history, geography, anthropology and social science. Peter Hulme and Tim Youngs (2002, 10) see travel writing as ‘a broad and ever-​shifting genre’ and Jan Borm (2004, 13) defines it, equally broadly and in opposition to Fussell’s travel book, as ‘a collective term for a variety of texts both fictional and non-​fictional whose main theme is travel’. Youngs’s (2013, 6)  summary that

194  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies travel writing is a ‘mixed form that feeds off other genres’ seems most appropriate, although it should be noted that some scholars and practitioners, including Raban, Bruce Chatwin and Jan Morris, object to the very notion of travel writing as a genre or to ‘travel writing’ as a useful label, given the diverse range of available forms (see Youngs 2013, 7). A second point related to travel writing’s formal features is the intrinsic conflict between information-​providing and more aesthetic ends. In fact, many critics see this battle between fact and fiction as the central challenge posed to the travelogue (see Fussell 1980, 212; Kowaleski 1992, 7; Von Martels 1994, xvii; Korte 2000, 1; Thompson 2011, 28; Youngs 2013, 1–​2). Whether these critics speak of travelogues as ‘fictions of factual representations’ (Holland and Huggan 1998, 10), as ‘the literature of fact’, as ‘creative nonfiction’ or as ‘factual writing’, border permeability, border crossings and border anxiety have always been part of travel writing and its formalist discussion. As Debbie Lisle (2006, 30) writes, ‘[A]‌travelogue that is too real and descriptive is boring (too much like a guidebook), but a travelogue that is too imaginative and metaphoric is a lie (too much like a novel)’ (emphases in the original). Lying is a recurring concept in travel writing, as Percy Adams (1962; 1983, 82–​102) has shown, and while the idea of ‘the lie’ in travel writing may need differentiation it is useful to remember, says Carl Thompson (2011, 29), that Hermes was, after all, the god of both travellers and lies. In tackling the notion of travel writing as a genre and a predatory and hybrid one at that, one could suggest that travel writing has an affinity with certain kinds of language and use of language; especially those to do with motion, borders, margins and crossings, masking and revelation, vision and visibility, journeys and paths, and othering. A provisional list of some of travel writing’s recurring tropes, figures, themes and narrative strategies may also be useful, as these form, in Foucauldian (1994 [1966], xxi) terms, the ‘ordering codes’ through which representation and meaning-​ making happens. Note that these formal codes in Foucault are at all times informed by the epistemes, or deep-​seated structures of ideology-​informed knowledge, which the traveler carries with him into the encounter with otherness. Recurring binaries are: home-​away, self-​ other, centre-​ periphery, superior culture-​ inferior culture, civilization-​savagery, modernity-​primitiveness, enlightenment-​darkness, scientific worldview-​superstition. Common tropes and themes are: familiarity, strangeness, escapism, primitivism, the noble savage, the natural man, enchantment, ethnocentrism, egocentrism, the (spiritual) quest, the mysterious other, the dark other, the picturesque, the sublime, eroticism, exoticism (see exotic). Other narrative strategies and modalities include: documentation, idealization, limitation, aestheticization, copia, functionality, the thinning of the psychological for the magnificent surface, or vice versa. Paul Smethurst (2009, 4)  reminds us that the vocabulary and aesthetic considerations that traditional literary criticism uses for analyses of ‘high’ literature –​vide Fussell –​may not be appropriate for all kinds of travel writing, just as foregrounding form but ignoring content and meaning may be unproductive. What can be said is that formal approaches to travel writing  –​a focus on narratology, tropes and language –​should be seen to work in tandem with attention to how these formal features are used, enable, blend into or are combined with the provision of information and

Poetics 195 the revelation of a particular (ideological) perspective. The poetics of travel writing must remain a focus for scholars today as the genre continues to develop, expanding its range of themes, figures, tropes, linguistic and narrative strategies and, with it, its overall shape.

Further Reading Borm, J.  2004. ‘Defining Travel: On the Travel Book, Travel Writing and Terminology’. In G. Hooper and T. Youngs (eds), Perspectives on Travel Writing. Aldershot: Ashgate: 13–​26. Fussell, P.  1980. Abroad: British Literary Traveling between the Wars. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Korte, B. 2000. English Travel Writing from Pilgrimages to Postcolonial Explorations. Trans. by C. Matthias. Houndmills, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Kuehn, J.  and P. Smethurst (eds). 2009. Travel Writing, Form, and Empire: The Poetics and Politics of Mobility. New York and London: Routledge. Zilcosky, J. (ed.). 2008. Writing Travel: The Poetics and Politics of the Modern Journey. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

67 POLITICS Paul Smethurst

Although Raymond Williams omits ‘politics’ from his Keywords (1976), it was always for him a key element in the production and criticism of cultural texts. In travel writing studies, the most obvious form of politics is ‘geopolitics’, defined as the power relations between states and the geographical factors affecting these. A  word not coined until the twentieth century, ‘geopolitics’ covers the influences and ideologies operating through four centuries of European expansion from Columbus onwards. While their provenance may be dubious, Columbus’s Journal and Letter to the King and Queen of Spain strike indubitable political stances, revealing Spain’s geographical ambitions and the internal politics of the Spanish Court. Similarly, Sir Walter Raleigh’s Discoverie of the Large, Rich, and Bewtiful Empyre of Guiana (1596), though unsuccessful in its intent of promoting Raleigh’s next voyage and in furthering his political career, was instrumental in seeding the political vision of an English empire overseas (Lorimer 2006). The involvement of travel writing in imperial practices, such as furthering trade and expansion, as well as its role in articulating a political consciousness of empire, is well known, and this continues to be a theoretical touchstone in many studies (Clark 1999; Smethurst and Kuehn 2009; Miller and Reill 1996; Spurr 1993). The politics of empire can be expressed indirectly when travel writing appears to normalize the asymmetrical relations by which Europe held sway over its colonies. Furthermore, an imperial mindset can shape the form as well as the content of travel writing, as can be seen in the structure and order underlying both scientific and romantic travel writing in the eighteenth century (Smethurst 2013). Travellers are sometimes motivated by the desire to explore changing political landscapes and alternative ideologies. Helen Maria Williams (1798), who wrote in the aftermath of the French Revolution, and Agnes Smedley (1934), who recorded first-​hand the rise of Chinese communism, would fall into this category, alongside more radical ‘game-​changers’ like Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara (1996). Travel writing that contemplated political change was especially prevalent in the 1930s as writers anticipated the maelstrom of World War II (Fleming 1936; Auden and Isherwood 1939). This form marks a decisive turn towards political journalism, which for Paul Fussell signals the demise of narratives of travel, to be replaced by more self-​ conscious writing about contemporary issues. Given the tectonic shifts in the political landscape of the twentieth century, it is not surprising that politics would loom large. Fussell (1980) is probably not alone in lamenting the passing of the ocean liners

Politics 197 that encapsulated the ‘heyday’ of travel, even though this was an age of privilege and leisure captured in the humorous political insouciance of Evelyn Waugh. Travel books written immediately before and after World War II would ‘mark the transition to a more politicized and self-​conscious mode of travel writing’ that has shaped contemporary travel writing (Gendron 1992, 265). While the genre has widened considerably since then, writers like Colin Thubron (1983, 1987) continue to follow political developments in Russia and China during the Communist era, and other contemporary writers explore the shifting geopolitics of Central Asia from a determinedly post-​Soviet perspective (Taylor 2009; Robbins 2007). As well as focusing on foreign countries, politicized travel writing also explores home truths. Daniel Defoe’s A Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain (1724–26) is already political in merely envisioning a homogenous ‘Britain’ in living memory of the violent conjunction of Scotland and England. The part-​real, part-​ imagined geography captured in Defoe’s biased political lens emphasizes prospects for trade and development. Such progressive and patriotic approaches to homeland contrast with twentieth-​century writing where social conscience is pricked by manifest deprivation of the underclass. George Orwell set the tone for modern sociopolitical, self-​ethnography in Down and Out in Paris and London (1933) and The Road to Wigan Pier (1937). More recently, Nick Danzinger (1998) finds class division still prevalent when, as D-​Day anniversary celebrations begin, he measures postwar promises of equality and ‘freedom from want’ against the damage caused to Britain’s social fabric by a decade of Thatcherism. Just as contemporary travel writing has taken a more explicitly politicized form, so has the study of travel writing. Since the 1980s this has coincided with the rise of ‘theory’ and a demand for sociopolitical critique. To this end, travel writing studies has favoured recontextualizing over historicization and promoted the rereading of texts through the politics of the day, invariably cast in a matrix of single issues: empire, race, ethnicity, gender and class. Through recontextualization, political subtexts are highlighted in the assumptions, principles and underlying ideologies where questions of power and status arise. ‘Otherness’ is paramount, as doubts are expressed about the ability of Western writers especially to create representations of place as ‘imaginary geographies’ subject to the interplay between power, desire and place (Duncan and Gregory 1999). The politics of place can lead to the deconstruction of traditional power structures embedded in place, fostering sites of resistance (Keith and Pile 1993). Extending this place-​centred approach, environmentalism is now a major theme in contemporary travel writing (Lopez 2001; Matthiessen 1978; Macfarlane 2013). In Green Imperialism, Richard Grove (1995) shows that representations of the tropical island paradise show an awareness of environmental damage and climate change as far back as the seventeenth century. In retrospect, environmentalism has been a continuing theme through the travel writing of William Wordsworth, John Muir and Alfred Russell Wallace, among others. Pratt’s persuasive argument that a benign imperialism underlies the whole project of natural history overshadows early environmentalist politics. In focusing on Alexander von Humboldt’s ‘planetary consciousness’ as an expression of colonial desire (see colonialism), it is easy to discount evidence of the ecological stance in the traveller-​scientist’s study of the distribution of plants and the

198  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies impact of climate change (Smethurst 2013). It is perhaps time now for a reappraisal of the politics of nature writing along these lines.

Further Reading Brisson, U. and B. Schweizer (eds). 2009. Not So Innocent Abroad: The Politics of Travel and Travel Writing. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press. Huggan, G.  2012. Extreme Pursuits: Travel/​Writing in an Age of Globalization. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Keith, M.  and S.  Pile (eds). 1993. Place and the Politics of Identity. London and New  York: Routledge. Kuehn, J.  and P.  Smethurst (eds). 2009. Travel Writing, Form and Empire: The Poetics and Politics of Mobility. London and New York: Routledge. Lisle, D.  2006. The Global Politics of Contemporary Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

68 POLYGRAPHY Eimear Kennedy

The term ‘polygraphy’, rooted in the Latin polygraphia or poligraphia, dates as far back as the early sixteenth century, but has evolved considerably since and now has a variety of uses in modern-​day English. The entry in the Oxford English Dictionary for the term ‘polygraphy’, which is most relevant to studies of travel writing, however, defines it as ‘[c]‌opious writing or literary work; literary productiveness; (also) writing dealing with many subjects’; it defines those travel writers who write multiple accounts of a journey they have undertaken. The related term ‘polygraph’ has been adopted by the field of travel writing to describe a writer who continuously re-​textualizes his/​her journey, in different genres and in different forms. Beyond the field of travel writing, it can refer to an instrument that simultaneously produces two or more identical copies of a drawing or document. Such a definition seems removed from the sphere of travel writing; it may even appear antithetical given it refers to mechanized production of multiple ‘identical’ documents, while travel writing evokes the numerous and varying human responses to a journey undertaken. Introducing a further paradox, the term ‘polygraph’ also refers to an instrument for the recording of physiological characteristics (such as rates of pulse and respiration) that can be used as a lie detector. While these definitions may seem contradictory, they do, in fact, encapsulate many of the key issues explored by contemporary scholarship in the genre, such as the instability of travel writing and the uncertainty with regard to the truthfulness of the travel narratives. First, it is important to question why it is that many travel writers are involved in the practice of polygraphy and what the ethical implications are of undertaking multiple rewritings of a journey. Given the intergenericity of travel writing (Borm 2004; Holland and Huggan 1998; Youngs 2013), it is not uncommon for travel writers to reproduce their journeys in a variety of forms. Journeys are often re-​presented in the form of travel books, diaries, newspaper articles, memoirs, lectures and even in photographic or televised accounts. Forsdick (2009b, 299) notes that Swiss travel writer and photographer Ella Maillart exemplifies such polygraphy, remarking that her travelogue Oasis interdites/​Forbidden Journeys is part of a ‘network of self-​authored representations of the same journey’. Re-​presentations of this kind can be linked, in part, to the retrospective nature of travel writing. Returning home from his/​her adventure the travel writer then begins to craft and filter the narrative (Thompson 2011, 28) and, as prolific travel writer Jonathan Raban (2006) emphasizes, the travel

200  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies writer’s outlook changes in this time: ‘The [travel] writer, looking back at the journey from a distance of a year or two (or three), is a different character from the hapless character who undertook the trip.’ Thus, as time passes and perspectives change, the form and content of the journey narrative evolve accordingly. Building on Raban’s comments on the retrospective nature of travel, Irish-​ language travel writer, broadcaster and journalist Manchán Magan (2007, 275), who has written both Irish-​and English-​language accounts of his journeys, notes in the epilogue of one of his texts, ‘This book definitely contains truth, but certain elements have been expanded, contracted and embellished. It is hard to pin down any experience […] Life just isn’t that stable. Consciousness is capricious and volatile.’ Magan’s reference here to the truth of travel texts is particularly fitting when it comes to discussions of ‘polygraphy’. As was previously mentioned, the word ‘polygraph’ can have multiple meanings and Forsdick (2009b, 301)  notes that this semantic ambiguity is telling given that the authenticity or truthfulness of travel texts is often called into question. Percy Adams (1980 [1962]), for example, draws a parallel between the traveller and the ‘travel-​liar’, while Holland and Huggan (1998, 9)  suggest that travel writers freely mix fact and fable, anecdote and analysis. This debate over the truthfulness of travel accounts also brings another important issue to the fore, that is, the commercialization of travel narratives and the financial gain to be made from multiple re-​textualizations of a journey. The travel writer will be remunerated for their various efforts and so may be required to mould their story depending on the requests of the individual or company who is paying for the work. Thus travellers who practise polygraphy in this way are, in a sense, commodifying culture  –​that is, repackaging it in order to sell a product to a specific audience –​an issue which raises further questions about travel and ethics. It is also possible, however, that the traveller has more ethical reasons for reproducing his/​her journey in different forms. Margaret Topping (2009) suggests that while, at times, Swiss travel writer Nicolas Bouvier was driven to photography out of economic necessity, he also used photography as a means of destabilizing monolithic discourses of otherness. The practice of polygraphy can, therefore, be used as an enabling tool for travel writers to challenge cultural essentialism. Ultimately, while the polygraphic nature of travel writing can give a multifaceted insight into the journeys undertaken, it also emphasizes that journeys are not only constructed and filtered when they are first told but that, over time, they are remoulded. Whether the remoulding of travel experience is an unconscious act because of the retrospective nature of travel writing, whether it is a conscious ‘fictionalization’ of travel experience (Korte, in Youngs 2013) in order to make a specific product for a specific audience, or if it is an effort to challenge the cultural hegemony of representation, we must be wary of how and why these journeys are repackaged and sold to different audiences. Overall, the concept of ‘polygraphy’ sums up the epistemological image of travel writing and highlights many of the ethical dilemmas of the genre. It reminds us that while knowledge seems to be promised to the reader it is, in fact, elusive and highly unstable. Travel writing can only ever be a representation of other peoples and cultures; a single, ‘true’ account of any journey is an impossibility.

Polygraphy 201

Further Reading Forsdick, C. 2009. ‘Peter Fleming and Ella Maillart in China: Travel Writing as Stereoscopic and Polygraphic Form’. Studies in Travel Writing, 13.4: 293–​303. Forsdick, C., C.  Fowler and L.  Kostova (eds). 2013. Travel and Ethics: Theory and Practice. London: Routledge. Holland, P. and G. Huggan. 1998. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflections on Contemporary Travel Writing. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Topping, M. 2009. ‘Phototextual Journeys: Nicolas Bouvier in Asia’. Studies in Travel Writing, 13.4: 317–​34. Youngs, T.  2013. The Cambridge Introduction to Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

69 PRIMITIVISM Aedín Ní Loingsigh

Primitivism has a long history. Its beginnings as a distinctive discourse, however, are more widely associated with early-​modern encounters between European explorers and the New World. As this early era of exploration developed into a sustained period of global conquest and colonization, primitivist figures began to feature heavily in textual and visual representations of the non-​European Other. The term ‘primitivism’ itself is derived from the Latin primitivus, meaning the first or earliest of its kind. As used or evoked by writers from the sixteenth century and beyond, primitivism broadly denotes humankind in a ‘wild’, ‘savage’, ‘unrefined’ or ‘natural’ state. However, the tensions underlying these understandings suggest a much wider field of signification. For if primitivism connotes notions of ‘purity’, ‘innocence’ and ‘authenticity’, it also suggests anxieties about the ‘wild’, the ‘savage’ and the ‘unnatural’. Ultimately, however, primitivism is as much about the exportation of a Western cultural malaise as it is about representing the culturally primitive other. As Adam Kuper (2005, 23) explains, ‘[T]‌hey define us, as we define them.’ A key text for identifying critical pathways into the paradoxical discourses of primitivism is Michel de Montaigne’s late sixteenth-​century essay, ‘On the Cannibals’. Honed in reaction to textual accounts of journeys to the New World, Montaigne’s insights reveal in the first instance the role travel writing played in disseminating primitivism’s salient meanings. Features of early modern accounts resonate in Montaigne’s (1991, 233)  description of people he has not encountered yet who he confidently asserts have ‘no acquaintance with writing, no knowledge of numbers, no terms for governor or political superior […] no words for treachery, lying, cheating, avarice, envy’. This initial eulogization of a society unencumbered by ‘civilization’ fits with uses of the ‘Noble Savage’, a figure into which much of primitivism’s imaginary is condensed in the centuries that follow. Ter Ellingson (2001) demonstrates the predominance of this archetype in seventeenth-​century French travel accounts depicting North American Indians, and traces its emergence to Marc Lescarbot’s analysis of ‘savage’ society published in his 1609 compendium of travel writing, Histoire de la Nouvelle France. Fiction further popularized the fecund figure of the Noble Savage who, alongside related primitivist tropes of unspoiled societies and authentic selves, becomes central to many of the philosophical and sentimental writings of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (see Todorov 1989). Later, the archetype fed into Romanticism’s interest in the natural and the exoticist landscapes to which readers of

Primitivism 203 a certain form of colonial fiction were transported (see Libersohn 1994; and colonialism and exotic). The gentle savage, or bon sauvage, embodied an innate but primitive nobility characterized by uncontaminated virtue. This enduring association of primitivism with simple lifestyles indicates how the concept becomes a repository for Europeans seeking to salvage uncorrupted qualities that have been lost in the name of progress and modernity. This notion of the West’s chronological degeneration is another central element of primitivism. In an adapted form, this whimsical version of an edenic elsewhere spills over into the anxieties of more contemporary forms of travel writing and travel that seek ‘to retreat from the world into a manufactured environment of often imagined contentment’ (Huggan 2009, 177). Another prime signifier of primitivism is the Cannibal of Montaigne’s essay title. This monstrous figure is overlaid by the virtuous Noble Savage. The existence of the Cannibal proves that primitivism’s apparent endorsement of ‘natural’ freedom through the figure of the uncorrupted savage is always misleading. While the ‘natural state’ of the ‘primitive’ can inspire admiration, it can also shift back and forth between opprobrium as arbitrary signs of difference begin to signal moral depravity. Thus in Amerigo Vespucci’s Mundus novus (1503), one of the earliest accounts of travel to the New World, initial wonder at the natural state of undress of the indigenous people morphs into disgust at the absence of mores governing sexual intimacy (particularly among ‘libidinous women’), and horror at the cruelty and cannibalism of primitive warfare. Vespucci’s text forms part of the early modern ‘encylopedia of bizarre customs’ (Avramescu and Blyth 2011, 14) to which travel writing was a significant contributor and in which anthropophagy figures heavily. The term ‘cannibalism’ itself derives from the name of an indigenous Caribbean people, but allegations of the practice would also come to feature in European travellers’ ‘inventions’ of ‘barbaric’ Africa such as William Snelgrave’s A New Account of Some Parts of Guinea (1734). If noble savagery is a canvas for projecting anxieties about the deleterious effects of Western ‘civilization’, travel writing’s use of cannibalistic ‘depravity’ is deployed to reassert the ‘naturalness’ of Western laws of decency and morality. For primitivism is, in the end, about maintaining travel writing’s fundamental opposition between ‘them’ and ‘us’. In this light, Montaigne’s (1991, 231) exposure of travel writers who ‘never show you anything as it is: they bend it and disguise it to fit in with their own views’ is an indication of the radical nature of his thinking on the Other. It is this sceptical refrain in Montaigne’s work that transforms his version of primitivism into a form of cultural relativism. He recognizes that judging the Other is conducted according to the standards of ‘home’, but argues in the context of France’s Religious Wars that any account of the barbarity of ‘Cannibals’ must in the end conclude that ‘we […] surpass them in every kind of barbarism’ (236). A final way in which the question of primitivism arises in Montaigne’s essay is in the depiction of the ‘primitive’ travelling to the ‘metropolis’. With customary lucidity, Montaigne signals the importance of translation for countering primitivism’s reductive interpretations and giving voice to the figures constructed by its related discourse. For all that, the persistence of primitivist discourse, either explicitly or lurking behind newer ones, suggests his perspective has remained a marginal one and has been largely impotent in the face of ‘stereotyping’ and travel writings’ delay in opening up a more meaningful space for ‘primitive’ perspectives on ‘us’. From the

204  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies sexually threatening/​desirable to childishly innocent/​murderously scheming, travel writing has continued to present the primitive other as a split subject that mirrors the West’s anxieties about its own pasts and futures.

Further Reading Archer-​Straw, P. 2000. Negrophilia: Avant-​Garde Paris and Black Culture in the 1920s. London: Thames and Hudson. Baker, F., P. Hulme and M. Iversen. 1998. Cannibalism and the Colonial World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hulme. P. 1986. Colonial Encounters: Europe and the Native Caribbean 1492–​1797. London: Methuen. Lévi-​Strauss, C. 1984 [1955]. Tristes Tropiques: An Anthropological Study of Primitive Societies in Brazil. Trans. by J. Russell. New York: Antheneum. Todorov, T.  1984. The Conquest of America. Trans. by R.  Howard. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

70 PSYCHOANALYSIS Robert Burroughs

Travel writing is shaped in its modern forms by Freudian and post-​Freudian theory. It emerges out of some of the same ideas and images as psychoanalysis. In its pre-​ Freudian forms, what is more, travel writing is an important source material in Sigmund Freud’s theories of the workings of the mind and its effects on behaviour. Freud’s theory that the repression of traumatic experiences, often of childhood, manifests as hysteria was first published in 1896. In the same year, Joseph Conrad began work on Heart of Darkness, the story of a voyage, laden with symbols of and references to psychological revelation, up an unnamed river (that is nevertheless clearly the Congo) towards an ‘Inner Station’ of which the traveller recalls: ‘It seemed to throw a kind of light on everything about me –​and into my thoughts’ (Conrad 1988 [1899], 11; Burroughs 2010, 12–​13). Working in ignorance of one another, the two writers ‘discovered’ primal drives in the unconscious mind and in tropical parts of the world, both betraying the influence of earlier travelogues and travel fictions, notably Rider H. Haggard’s adventure novel She (1887) (Mazlisch 1993). Freud (1995 [1896], 97–​8) encouraged associations of his work with exploration (and, relatedly, archaeological excavation). Notoriously in 1926 he referred to sexual desire in adult females as the ‘dark continent’ of his research (McLaughlin 2013, 149; see sex/​sexuality). He recreated the analogy for the presumed benefit of his patients in his office furnished with primitivist curios (see Torgovnick 1990, 194–​209). As for his own dreams about and experiences of travel, from early writings onwards he tends to explain these in terms of wish fulfilment (see Freud 2010 [1899], 215–​18, 229–​32; Porter 1991, 189–​95). Under the influence of modernism, not least modernist writers’ rediscovery of Conrad as their own literary forebear (Burroughs 2010, 151), much twentieth-​ century travel writing narrates inner, mental exploration. Having spent his publisher’s advance, Graham Greene recalled consciously imposing a Freudian ‘parallel’ on his journey through Sierra Leone, French Guinea and Liberia in 1934 in order to add depth to an otherwise unremarkable experience (Fussell 1980, 67). In the resulting travelogue, Journeys without Maps (1936), Greene tentatively refers to his childhood while also suggesting the influence of Freud’s ‘Civilisation and its Discontents’ (1995 [1930]) in broader statements about West Africa’s relationship to ‘civilization’. Representing to Greene (2002 [1936], 19, 21) ‘a stage further back’, he believes the region serves to reveal ‘from what we have come, to recall at which point we went astray’. In these colonial contexts, psychoanalytically charged travel writing plots a

206  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies troubling primitivism which associates Africa and Africans with the unconscious and its base drives. As Chinua Achebe (1988 [1975]) famously contended, the real ‘horror’ expressed by Marlow in Heart of Darkness is his realization of Europeans’ likeness to those that he regards as a brutish race. Though we must keep in mind this fundamental affinity between Freudian and racial theory, it would be unsafe to assume that all psychoanalytical approaches to travel are complicit in the perpetuation of imperialistic beliefs. As I  have shown elsewhere (Burroughs 2006, 935), postcolonial authors such as Ama Ataa Aido in her long travel poem Our Sister Killjoy (1977) redeploy some of the same tropes as Heart of Darkness to confront its self-​destructive racism. The rich tapestry of Freudian theory moreover offers other constructive insights. According to Brian Musgrove (1999, 31), postcolonial criticism of the 1990s too often interpreted colonial travel as the manifestation of Freud’s ‘instinct of destruction’, or as the libido run rampant. Rather than repudiating colonialism’s universalizing claims, postcolonial interventions thus reinforced them. Building upon a key work in the field, Dennis Porter’s Haunted Journeys: Desire and Transgression in European Travel Writing (1991), Musgrove (1999, 43) turns attention to the ways in which psychoanalysis reveals the ‘critical unsettling of belief and value’ in travel texts (see Porter 1991, 188–​89). Crucial to both Porter’s and Musgrove’s work is Freud’s travel letter, ‘A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis’ (2006 [1936]). Freud’s letter, which contemplates his disappointment upon gazing at the landmark he had first learned of in school, complicates the relation between acts of travel, witnessing, knowing and possessing, in a fashion which suggests its potency for upsetting imperialist ideologies (Musgrove 1999, 44), but which also diagnoses broader epistemological doubts in modernist and postmodernist subjectivities of the twentieth century. Reading ‘Disturbance’ leads Porter to suggest an overarching theory for the travel impulse in European literature as lying in Oedipal dramas which create dissatisfaction with home life (1991, esp. 195–​98). Though Freud’s ‘Disturbance’ is a subtle essay, many of its implications are most intriguingly worked through in the later writings of W.  G. Sebald. The desire to ‘journey without maps’ –​to lose one’s self while exploring but ultimately to recover one’s bearings – of course predates Greene and is fundamental to much Western literature from Homer onwards (Zilcosky 2004, 103–​4). In various works including The Rings of Saturn (1995) Sebald upends this fundamental narrative drive in describing his uncanny failure to lose his way while travelling (Zilcosky 2004). Haunted by his inability to make new discoveries, in The Rings of Saturn, Sebald is left in a kind of paralysis which John Zilcosky explains in terms of Freud’s death drive (110). Ultimately Sebald reveals that the real ‘dark continent’ is the travelling self, though it is vital to note that this ‘self ’ remains primarily the Western-​European-​educated male, not the selves of other genders and ethnicities. Noting the historical situatedness of Freudian theory, James Clifford (1989, 180) has observed that ‘[t]‌here are places in the world where psychoanalysis may never travel with any degree of comfort’. Readers of travel writing might nonetheless fruitfully seek to test further the ways in which psychoanalysis can venture across cultural boundaries, however uncomfortably, in interpreting discourses of travel, including not least those discourses which give rise to psychoanalysis itself.

Psychoanalysis 207

Further Reading Clifford, J. 1989. ‘Notes on Travel and Theory’. Inscriptions, 5: 177–​86. Freud, S. 2006 [1936]. ‘Letter to Romain Rolland (A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis)’. In A. Phillips (ed.), The Penguin Freud Reader. London: Penguin: 68–​76. Porter, D.  1991. Haunted Journeys: Desire and Transgression in European Travel Writing. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Torgovnick, M. 1990. Gone Primitive: Savage Intellects, Modern Lives. London: University of Chicago Press. Youngs, T.  2013. The Cambridge Introduction to Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, Chapter 7.

71 PSYCHOGEOGRAPHY Alasdair Pettinger

As one of several related concepts developed by Guy Debord (1981a, 5) and other members of the Lettrist International (1952–​57) and the Situationist International (1957–​72), psychogeography, to cite the 1955 text in which it first appeared in print, is ‘the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, whether consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behavior of individuals’. As it stands, this definition is somewhat misleading, for it is elaborated in the context of a ‘critique of urban geography’ that aims not simply to investigate the effects of ‘present-​day urbanism’ (typically, the stupefying consumerist pleasures it tends to promote), but to transform the environment (in order to fulfil desires barely yet formed). At its heart is a utopian and often ludic vision of ‘the architecture of tomorrow’ (Chtcheglov 1981, 2) and the ‘groping search for a new way of life’ (Debord 1981a, 5). One of the key methods of psychogeography is the dérive: a form of pedestrian free-​association designed to reveal lines of force and zones of influence normally hidden from those who only know the conventional routines dictated by work or leisure. The dériveur (alone, but preferably in several small groups) would record the different ambiences observed on the walk, and through a process of cross-​checking designed to produce more accurate conclusions, construct maps and diagrams which consolidate their findings and form the basis of future activity. But the practice of the dérive itself is already transformative, at least for those taking part, disrupting their own habitual responses to the city they traverse (Debord 1981b), and as such is an example of détournement, a more general technique by which existing (and often commonplace) objects, texts, images and rituals are recontextualized to create disorienting effects (Debord and Wolman 1981). To the extent that psychogeography resembled a field of study that aspired to a degree of cartographical objectivity (see cartography), its proponents failed to acknowledge the extent to which different social relations will produce radically diverse interpretations of one’s surroundings, a tendency that was reinforced by their emphasis on the built environment, fondness for aerial views and recommendation that research should be conducted by small numbers of like-​minded people. For this reason, critics have referred to its ‘bohemian solipsism’ and ‘cadre mentality’ (Ball 1987, 24), and its failure ‘to reveal its own situated-​ness in terms of gender and class’ (Highmore 2002, 141).

Psychogeography 209 However, understood as an artistic or political intervention that was intended to transform the way people experience the city, psychogeography would seem to be at least open to the suggestion that the same places might be imaginatively inhabited in different ways, and thus carries more possibilities than the criticisms allow. This is illustrated powerfully by Debord’s (somewhat, and perhaps deliberately, implausible) account of an extended dérive undertaken over Christmas and New Year 1953–​54 in which he and his two Letterist companions come face to face with –​and seem to wilfully misunderstand –​Algerian, Caribbean and Jewish Parisians who are discomfited by, or feel the need to contest, their presence (Debord 1996, 28–​31). Other tensions are evident in the psychogeographical investigations of Abdelhafid Khatib who (according to an editorial note omitted from the English translation) was unable to complete his report on Les Halles due to his arrest and detention for contravening the curfew imposed on North Africans by the French government in September 1958 (Khatib 1996). Since the 1990s, psychogeography has enjoyed a revival, especially in Britain. In his survey of ‘psychogeography today’, Merlin Coverley (2010, 111–​39) singles out the writings of Stewart Home, Peter Ackroyd, Iain Sinclair and the films of Patrick Keiller, whose antecedents, he argues, are eighteenth-​and nineteenth-​century heroes of urban pedestrianism as much as the situationists of the 1950s. He summarizes the key characteristics of their work as follows: [T]‌he act of urban wandering, the spirit of political radicalism, allied to a playful sense of subversion and governed by an inquiry into the methods by which we can transform our relationship to the urban environment. This entire project is then further coloured by an engagement with the occult and is one that is as preoccupied with excavating the past as it is with recording the present. (14) Iain Sinclair, as ‘the mass media’s psychogeographer of choice’ (March-​Russell 2013, 84), has attracted the most critical attention. In Lights Out for the Territory (1997) he records a number of walks across London, in which he self-​consciously adopts the strategy of the ‘born-​again flâneur’ committed to ‘noticing everything’ (4). But in practice he is drawn to talk about only particular things, to trace only specific histories […] Sinclair is fascinated with those exciting tales of the underworld, of leftist revolutionaries, of artists, writers and film-​makers, but not with stories about those mundane trips to the shops with kids in tow, the interminable wait for the bus or the difficulty of using public transport when you’re sick and tired. (Pile 2002, 122–​23) And yet, in the end, ‘in his stories, we can discern how it is that different histories might sit side by side in the city’, that ‘London is made up of very different groups’ which ‘are located in different parts of the city, and/​or […] use the city in very different ways, and/​or […] have access to different parts of the city at different times’ (123).

210  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Furthermore, contemporary psychogeography embraces projects more generically and geographically diverse –​as well as more participatory and inclusive –​than the small group of (largely London-​based) writers and film-​makers with which it is often identified. In a survey of recent work, Phil Smith (2010a) refers to site-​specific theatre and performance, public art, festivals, conferences and playful self-​help ‘mis-​ guides’ for counter-​tourists, suggesting a range of local initiatives as likely to be recorded in blogs and zines as in published books. At the same time, a certain unease with the mainstream appropriation of psychogeography may be evident in the way some practitioners have devised distinctive subgenres with names of their own, such as schizo-​cartography (Richardson 2013), deep topography (Papadimitrou 2012) and Smith’s own mythogeography (Smith 2010b).

Further Reading Coverley, M. 2010. Psychogeography. Harpenden: Pocket Essentials. Knabb, K.  (ed.). 1981. Situationist International Anthology. Berkeley, CA: Bureau of Public Secrets. Smith, P.  2010. ‘The Contemporary Dérive: A Partial Review of Issues Concerning the Contemporary Practice of Psychogeography’. Cultural Geographies, 17.1: 103–​22. Wark, M.  2011. The Beach beneath the Street: The Everyday Life and Glorious Times of the Situationist International. London: Verso.

72 READING Catherine Armstrong

Reading is an activity closely linked with travelling. Surprisingly, the definition of reading is malleable; there are different types of reading, referring to the depth of experience of the text by the reader, but a basic definition is that of the consumption of a text. It is possible to ‘read’ images and events too, but the main focus of reading is textual. Once literacy has been acquired, reading is an activity that is automatic: if you see text before your eyes, you cannot help but consume it. Reading or purchasing reading material while travelling has also been an important leisure and business pastime from the era of the stagecoach through to the present. Literacy is a skill that had religious and political significance in the past. In the Classical and Renaissance eras, few outside the political and religious elites could read. The ability to read was linked with power and rebellion; for example, in the Atlantic World, legislation banned slave-​owners from teaching their slaves to read. From the sixteenth century onwards, as printing in the vernacular spread throughout Europe, literacy gradually rose among the middle classes. However, mass literacy was not achieved until the mid-​late nineteenth century with universal child education. In 1957, Richard Altick’s The English Common Reader placed reading in the context of the coming of the industrial society and the democratization of education (1). He traced the development of a mass reading public as they moved to cities and towns, but also showed how the rhythm of their reading and travelling lives changed, for example, with the coming of shorter working weeks, more leisure time and, later on in the century, better-​lit homes. However, the prevalence of reading is not solely determined by literacy. The availability and cost of reading material changed, so that as the production of cheap print expanded, in the form of broadsides, newspapers and later novels and didactic literature, so did the reading opportunities of ordinary people (see class). Reading books about travel has been a popular pastime since the sixteenth century. Some readers do this for leisure, as ‘armchair travellers’ who vicariously experience the far distant places to which they themselves will never travel (see virtual travel). Others read books about travel to prepare themselves for a journey. This is not an exclusively modern phenomenon. Migrants travelling to the North American colonies in the early seventeenth century read the travel accounts produced by their predecessors so that they would know what to expect on the journey and on arrival in the ‘New World’. Among the most popular of these was John Smith’s A Map of Virginia of 1612, and the huge gathering of travel and promotional tracts collected by Samuel Purchas entitled Purchas, His Pilgrimage, published in 1613. In fact this

212  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies phenomenon became so common that, in a sermon delivered to encourage settlement in Virginia, John Donne (1622) described the acts of reading and writing about travelling as a metaphor for travelling itself: punning on the words ‘travel’ and ‘travail’. Later, in the era of mass migration, many migrants were literate and absorbed the messages provided by promotional material, while communicating them to those who were illiterate, by word of mouth. Other reading travellers include those moving for military purposes. Soldiers in the Crimea and World War I valued the books and magazines sent from home almost as much as the personal letters because of the sense of nostalgia and potential for escapism that they produced (see war). However, reading and travelling are connected in another way. Since the eighteenth century, reading while travelling has become hugely popular. This may involve reading to alleviate the boredom, fear of travelling or to supplement the educational impulse of travelling. John Ruskin described two American female tourists, travelling between Venice and Verona, who settled into their train seats and immediately pulled down the window blinds and began to read their trashy novels. Ruskin’s disapproval of these uncultured Americans was palpable, but we learn, as Kate Flint (2010, 27–​29) suggests, that reading can transport one just as easily as travel itself. Reading while travelling by train in Britain became synonymous with the development of the railway bookstall, of which Smith’s led the way. Some publications were explicitly designed to be read while travelling. For example, Travelling Charts or Iron Road Books for Perusal on the Journey published in the 1840s by the Railway Chronicle Office, designed, as the title claimed ‘for perusal on the journey’. However, unlike the novels read by Ruskin’s American tourists, these charts were designed to be used while looking out of the train window and appreciating the scenery, as the title suggested to offer ‘a companion for the railway carriage’. Later, in the mid-​twentieth century, airport book sales similarly developed. Nicole Matthews examined book jackets of ‘airport books’ from the 1950s and she argues that the novels of authors such as Helen MacInnes were signposted by the publishers as good travelling books by their use of touristic imagery on the book jackets. Matthews shows how the airport bookstall was a direct descendent of the railway bookstall, with Smith’s in Heathrow Airport the first of this kind (Gunzenhauser 2010, 71). However, is it truly possible for a publisher or author to micromanage a reader’s response? As Rachel Ablow (2010, 2) argues, when examining readers in the past, we usually look at ‘how were they expected to read’ rather than ‘how they read’. Most readers were not passive, vulnerable to suggestion, but rather active, creating their own meaning based on their own experience, knowledge and background. In the twenty-​first century, travelling readers are as likely to be consuming texts via electronic devices such as e-​readers or mobile phones as they are to be using a codex (technology). This discussion reveals a fundamental problem in the study of readership: the lack of precise evidence of reading. We can sometimes know that a particular book was borrowed or purchased, but we do not know that it was ever read. Occasionally we see marginalia that illustrate how a book was read, for example, which passages a single reader considered most important, but we cannot really penetrate into the interior world of the reader and understand how he or she experienced the text. Commonplacing, a method of note-​taking common in the early-​modern period, can allow us to put a particular book in someone’s hands, but

Reading 213 as most commonplacers simply copied quotations directly, again we have trouble accessing readers’ experiences. Reception Theory has tried to address this problem. According to Daniel Allington such an approach involves examining a lay account of reader response, often told as a transformational narrative, and then theorizing it (Gunzenhauser 2010, 13–​14). This problem is sometimes overcome by literary scholars’ discussion of an ideal reading of a particular text, but this does not get around the problem: we know why readers read travel books or read while they travelled, but accessing their interior world is very challenging.

Further Reading Buzard, J. 1993. The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature and the Ways to Culture, 1800–​ 1918. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Duncan, J.  and D.  Gregory (eds). 1999. Writes of Passage: Reading Travel Writing. London: Routledge. Esbester, M. 2009. ‘Nineteenth-​Century Timetables and the History of Reading’. Book History, 12: 156–​85. Hammond, M. 2006. Reading, Publishing and the Formation of Literary Taste in England, 1880–​ 1914. Aldershot: Ashgate. Towheed, S., R. Crone and K. Halsey (eds). 2010. The History of Reading. London: Routledge.

73 SCIENCE Mary Orr

‘Science’ from scientia, knowledge (Latin, then Old French in the eleventh century), originally comprised imaginative, inductive and observational understanding of what could be known, and made knowable. In travel writing studies, science has been more narrowly demarcated: it equates with empirical, expert and imperial European knowledge-​gathering missions that were undertaken from the early eighteenth century (Raby 1996; Driver 2000). Scientific travelling and its forms of factual writing –​travelogues, field notebooks and journals, official government reports from overseas –​therefore focus on the investigative exploration, discovery and ‘bioprospecting’ of (non-​European) New Worlds (Jardine et al. 1996; Schiebinger 2004). In consequence the model for the scientific traveller is the European explorer of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, such as James Cook, Alexander von Humboldt and Charles Darwin (Williams 2013). Science has however always been imparted throughout history by the users of transport and trade routes, and through resource and knowledge collection from territories of the unfamiliar. It has also been purveyed in multiple forms and recording traditions. The prehistoric cave paintings uncovered in 1994 at Pont d’Arc (‘La Grotte Chauvet-​Pont d’Arc’ 2015) testify to sophisticated human understandings of the natural, and supernatural, worlds of the Palaeolithic period, and to advanced technical skills in recording its significance. In more recent millennia, peoples in the world’s tundra, desserts and equatorial rainforests have deployed rock art, textiles and narration in song-​line, dance and ritual ornamentation of the human body to pass on similar knowledge (scientia) about the forms, maps and phenomena of the outer reaches of known worlds. Other templates for speculative and observational science therefore include astrological monuments, astronomies, epics, (medieval) bestiaries, mappa mundi and portulans. Indeed, in its hybrid mix of real and imagined travel knowledge, postmodern science fiction about new intergalactic worlds only rediscovers the many roots, and routes, of ‘real-​imaginary’ Western travel writing traditions, not only Swift’s satire Gulliver’s Travels (1726) or Voltaire’s Micromégas (1752) (Kerslake 2007), but also On the Nature of Things by Lucretius (c.55–​c.99 B C ), The Geography and Almagest (Astronomy) of Ptolemy of Alexandria (c.90–​c.168 A D ), the Natural History of Pliny the Elder (23–​79 A D ) and Verne’s Voyage au centre de la terre (1864). If science fiction problematizes the unalloyed bases in fact of scientific travel writing, the subset of travel writing studies designated ‘science’ or ‘scientific

Science 215 travel’–​meaning the pursuit of expert knowledge gathering by specialists undertaking arduous expeditions to the extremities of the globe –​has been challenged and variously reinterpreted by critics since the 1990s. As Nigel Leask’s (2002) Curiosity and the Aesthetics of Travel Writing, 1770–​1840 everywhere makes clear, ‘literary representation of the foreign was at the cutting edge of emergent discourses both of the self and of scientific knowledge’ (10; emphasis added). Moreover this ‘self’ as synonymous with the model Enlightenment hero-​explorer was roundly challenged in women’s travel writing studies spearheaded by Mary Louise Pratt (1992), Sara Mills (1991) and Dea Birkett (1994). The problematic sexism, imperialism and Eurocentrism of the model not only discounted women automatically from histories and geographies of scientific travel from the 1790s, it also erased local knowledge and expertise of significant others –​such as indigenous guides –​in the ‘contact zone’ (Pratt 1992, 6). Since the 2000s, studies of the nineteenth and earlier centuries have uncovered growing lists of women (scientific) travellers using travel and other genres, including for children, as a vehicle to display their ‘scientific vocation’ (Harper 2001). Religious and diplomatic travel, as well as leisure and/​or medical tourism over extended periods could be equally and seriously ‘scientific’ for the curious and adventurous regardless of their sex or class. The further important consequence of both greater inclusivity and broader definitions for ‘science’ in (scientific) travel writing is that the genre and form do not become obsolete when the earth’s most inhospitable regions, such as Antarctica (Larson 2011), have been added to the known continents, and empires, of knowledge. Irrespective of time period and specific geography travel writing studies have always engaged, to borrow Barbara M.  Stafford’s (1984) title, in a ‘voyage into substance’ renewing the intersecting negotiation of ‘art, science, nature and the illustrated travel account’ from different perspectives. Critical attention since 2000 has proactively sought new understanding and the restoration of the many (non-​Western) traditions and heritages of travel and science narration that had been largely erased by European epistemologies, determined at once by advances in measuring and navigation instruments (Shapin and Schaffer 2011), and by ignorance (Sullivan and Tuana 2007). A first line of counter-​inquiry is focus on Western travellers as the recipients of other forms of scientific knowledge from elsewhere, through being ‘sojourners in a strange land’ as were Jesuit missionaries in China (Hsia 2009), or Scottish medical doctors in South Asia and Australasia (Beattie 2011). A second approach is to rezone the territories of science (and its conduits of travel and transportation) not by geographical continent, but by world religion –​Christian, Hindu, Islamic, Jewish and so on –​as ideological framework of reference and interpretation whether comparatively by period (Huff 2003) or by location (Gottschalt 2012), or longitudinally through study of one composite heritage (Rashid 2006). A third means of resetting the agendas of travel writing and science inquiry is to map other trajectories for expert knowledge gathering, for example, in military campaigns, and their related mobilization of new engineering and plant knowledge, especially by women (Mernissi 1994). Electronic Boolean word searches for ‘travel’ and ‘science’ as yet harvest relatively few monograph studies that extend the narrowly Eurocentric demarcations for ‘science’ given initially above. One has therefore to know where, but also how to look to understand the ‘science’ in travel, and also its study. ‘Scientific travellers’

216  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies therefore comprise a much larger community than the select company of ‘explorers’. These are an important subset, rather than the determining model for the activities of passionate observation and recording that underpin all scientific traveling. The motivations for a scientific journey are less for omnivorous, idle or nomadic curiosity (see nomadism), than for the enhancement and dedicated pursuit of a greater sum of human knowledge.

Further Reading Jardine, N. et al. (eds). 1996. Cultures of Natural History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leask, N.  2002. Curiosity and the Aesthetics of Travel Writing, 1770–​1840. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pratt, M. L. 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel and Transculturation. London: Routledge. Raby, P. 1996. Bright Paradise: Victorian Scientific Travellers. London: Chatto & Windus. Stafford, B.  M. 1984. Voyage into Substance: Art, Science, Nature and the Illustrated Travel Account, 1760–​1840. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

74 SELF Stacy Burton

‘Self ’ has a long history in English and its Germanic antecedents. A juxtaposition of two Oxford English Dictionary definitions demonstrates its complexity: (1) ‘[t]‌hat which in a person is really and intrinsically he (in contradistinction to what is adventitious); the ego (often identified with the soul or mind as opposed to the body); a permanent subject of successive and varying states of consciousness’; and (2) ‘[w]hat one is at a particular time or in a particular aspect or relation; one’s nature, character, or (sometimes) physical constitution or appearance, considered as different at different times.’ These definitions signal key questions for travellers, writers and readers: Who travels, and writes about travel: an intrinsic, permanent self, or one that may be transformed by difference or disaster? Can a ‘true self ’ be identified, or is the self an ever-​changing construct? In responding, the familiar tropes linking ‘self ’ and ‘travel’ rely upon varied assumptions. One might prove oneself through arduous experience, journey in order to find oneself, or become oneself through encounters with others. In writing one might adopt the uncertain voice of the traveller in danger or the ‘solemnity and self-​congratulatory tone’ of the confident imperialist (Pratt 1992, 208). Travel writing may feature a picaresque hero and plot or a character who evolves and matures through experience. Its meanings are bound up with deep-​set assumptions about the nature of the self who travels, experiences and reports. Notions about the self are particularly important in analysing the extensive, varied body of travel writing in which a first-​person narrator recounts first-​hand experience. Some texts, such as Charles Dickens’s American Notes for General Circulation and Edith Wharton’s A Motor-​Flight through France, provide descriptive analysis of people and places observed. Some narrate arduous travel and personal crisis: Robyn Davidson’s Tracks, Andrew Pham’s Catfish and Mandala. Others, such as Jan Morris’s Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere, use travel to occasion retrospection. In all, the narrative’s truth claims rest upon the presumed authority and proclaimed authenticity of the narrator who speaks from experience. Such claims require critical scrutiny, as Sara Mills (1991, 36) explains concisely: When talking about ‘the self ’ in writing of any kind there are immediate problems. Firstly, we are making an assumption that we all know what the self is: it is used as an easy shorthand for something amorphous and untextualisable […] Secondly, we have to deal with the problem of assuming that this self can be faithfully transcribed into a text […] Since words have

218  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies potentially multiple meanings, and multiple reference, various connotations, and therefore different possible interpretations, dependent on the text’s context or the reader’s frame of reference, I would argue that a coherent ‘self ’, in textual terms, is impossible. ‘Authenticity’ and ‘experience’, similarly complex, warrant comparable scrutiny. Since the nineteenth century, thinkers have challenged premises that align the ‘self ’ with religious conceptions of the soul as innate or humanist notions of the individual as agent. ‘It is not the consciousness of men that determines their being’, Karl Marx (1978, 4) wrote, ‘but, on the contrary, their social being that determines their consciousness.’ Michel Foucault influentially theorized that what was taken to be a given ‘self ’ is rather a created ‘subject’, the complex effect of social forces and discourses rather than their independent cause. Judith Butler (1993, 21)  provocatively extended this by asserting that aspects of identity that appear ontological are instead performative: in her analysis, ‘gender is a kind of imitation for which there is no original’. This critique profoundly disturbed assumptions about uniqueness, embodiment and autonomy, advancing instead an understanding of ‘subjectivity’ as culturally produced in exchange with other beings, ideology and the physical world, and determined in ways beyond one’s control. It has been significant for a broad range of scholarship, from the colonial discourse analysis of Mills and Mary Louise Pratt to the autobiographical scholarship of Leigh Gilmore, Sidonie Smith and Marianne Hirsch as well as the urban ethnography of Marc Augé. This scholarship provides varied means for understanding the layers and omissions of the traveling ‘self ’ created in the narrative of which it claims to be both origin and guarantee. It illuminates Wharton’s cultural formation as she measures what she sees in the province of Berry against what she expects from the novels of Georges Sand. It compels a sceptical analysis of Dickens’s (1985 [1842], 292) proclamation that he has ‘written the Truth in relation to the mass of those who form their judgments and express their opinions’. It provides ways to read the twinned experiences of self-​ discovery and self-​loss as Davidson (1980, 92), attempting ‘a pure gesture of independence’ by crossing the Australian desert by camel, finds herself vulnerable to the arduous physical environment and the media representation she has allowed. Or the troubled oscillation as Pham (1999, 98) bicycles through Vietnam, seeking traces of ‘a pocketful of unconnected but terribly vivid memories’, or at least a narrative thread ‘to hold them in a continuity that I can comprehend’. David Scott (2004, 80)  writes of French travel writing that ‘the discovery of a deeper and hitherto unknown or unrecognized self through interaction with the other was often made at a moment of extreme personal vulnerability or exhaustion, a moment of excitement or panic when psychological defences were low and when familiar (western) strategies of identification and control began to lose their purchase on the foreign or alien environment’. This results in a blurring of self and other that, in his analysis, ‘manifests itself as a process in which signs are taken for objects or objects taken for signs; or, in other words, in which the real is experienced as imaginary, or the imaginary as real’ (80–​81). The faltering of familiar identification and intertwining of real and imagined continue to matter in travel experience and travel writing. ‘Jorge Luis Borges got it right’, Morris (2001, 200) writes, ‘when he told

Self 219 of an artist setting out to portray the world, but discovering that his “patient labyrinth of lines framed the image of his own face”; so it is with me, after a lifetime of describing the planet, and I look at Trieste now as I would look into a mirror’.

Further Reading Augé, M.  2002 [1986]. In the Metro. Trans. by Tom Conley. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Gilmore, L. 1994. Autobiographics: A Feminist Theory of Women’s Self-​Representation. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Hirsch, M. 1997. Family Frames: Photography, Narrative, and Postmemory. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Smith, S. 1993. Subjectivity, Identity, and the Body: Women’s Autobiographical Practices in the Twentieth Century. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. ———. 2001. Moving Lives: Twentieth-​Century Women’s Travel Writing. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Thompson, C. 2011. Travel Writing. London: Routledge.

75 SEMIOTICS David Scott

As Théophile Gautier writes in his Voyage en Espagne (1840), travellers are ‘grands lecteurs d’enseignes’ (great readers of signs). This is because different cultures, languages and indigenous codes, in presenting alternative semiological systems, challenge the traveller’s presuppositions in relation both to identifying signs and to interpreting them. As Semiotics or Semiology is the study of signs, each traveller or travel writer becomes, like Gautier in 1840, consciously or unconsciously a budding semiotician. Two theoretical sources in particular enable the modern traveller and the reader of travel writing to facilitate the analysis of what is at stake in this situation. The first theory is articulated in European semiology or sémiologie as derived from the science of linguistics pioneered by Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–​1913) and published posthumously in his Cours de linguistique générale (1916). The second is American, Semiotics, and is inspired by the work of Charles Sanders Peirce (1839–​ 1914) as expressed in writings scattered across his works published fully only from the second half of the twentieth century. Saussurian semiology brings with it the valuable significant/​signifié (signifier/​signified) distinction which, in differentiating the form of the sign from its concept or meaning, opens up a space that is often perceived in the travel situation as exotic, in the original meaning of the word. Peircian semiology on the other hand, in proposing a triadic model, within which the sign is linked to its object by the interpretant, offers a promising framework with which to explore the complexity of semiosis or the creation of meaning in exotic situations. This is so in particular since the interpretant can operate in both an immediate and a dynamic relation with the object: when confronted with the exotic, the traveller has to be prepared to think dynamically, that is to say, to supplement the rational deductive processes of the mind with imagination (or abduction) and/​or empirical experience (induction). In this way initially unrecognizable or incomprehensible signs may be made to deliver up their meaning. In this context, a valuable distinction is made by Michel Foucault (1966, 44)  between semiology  –​‘the knowledge and techniques requisite for the indentification of signs’ –​and hermeneutics –​‘the knowledge and techniques requisite for the interpretation of signs’. Whereas Saussure’s method enhances the semiological approach, Peirce’s offers a range of categories within which to enrich a hermeneutic reading. In this sense, the two frameworks are complementary and may be fruitfully applied to different travel writers and experiences in various ways. The pertinence of semiology to the enrichment and the analysis of travel experience has naturally been exploited in the twentieth century, particularly by the

Semiotics 221 French, when a theory of signs structures the methodological perspective of the writer or traveller in question. Thus Claude Lévi-​Strauss (1908–​2009), as a structural anthropologist, used Saussurian semiology in the 1930s as a technique of analysis in identifying and reconstructing sign systems as they were seen to operate in the indigenous tribes of South America and recorded in his memorable work Tristes Tropiques (1955). In this book, which is both a travelogue and an ethnological study, semiology also enhances Levi-​Strauss’s experience as a subjective individual, and thus enables him to relativize it in relation to the indigenous tribes he attempts to describe in scientific terms. Roland Barthes (1915–​80) was another travel writer who used the disciplinary frame of semiology to structure and analyse his part-​imagined experience of other cultures, notably Japan in L’Empire des signes (1970). In this work, Japan becomes for Barthes a semi-​fictive world whose language sign systems, in particular language, opened up the possibility of challenging the preconceptions on which Western thinking and experience were based. It is in particular the play of the sign that is Barthes’s focus as he shows how sign structure as much as content determines human experience. Similarly, Jean Baudrillard (1929–​ 2007) in Amérique shows how the confrontation with another culture not only disturbs native understanding in relation to the exotic or other, but also challenges the validity of any sign system, showing semiosis to be an essentially arbitrary and artificial process, a revelation that strikes Baudrillard with particular intensity in Death Valley, California. But it is not only specifically semiotic approaches (whether ethnological, sociological or political) to travel experience and to travel writing that are able to release valuable insights into sign construction in different cultures. As Gautier’s remark implied, all travellers and, a fortiori, travel writers are potential semioticians. So Chateaubriand in his Itinéraire de Paris et Jérusalem (1806), while analysing the desolate landscape of the Dead Sea, eloquently articulates the way signs reveal themselves and open themselves up for hermeneutic investigation, even in the seemingly most desolate environments. Similarly, Eugène Fromentin (1820–​76) finds in the arid deserts of North Africa a terrain as rich for the identification and interpretation of signs (sound, colour, form and movement as well as language and other more acculturated forms of expression) as any other landscape, in the process pinpointing mental operations that lend themselves perfectly to analysis in terms of the Peircian concept of the interpretant. A semiotic approach to travel and to travel writing remains valid in the contemporary period, whether it be in the ethnography of the present as explored by Marc Augé in his study of non-​places (as in Non-​lieux. Introduction à une anthropolgie de la surmodernité, 1992), the sociology of travel or travel destinations (such as the beach) as explored by the social scientist Jean-​Didier Urbain (1993) or other writers, especially in England and France, focusing on the potentially strange unfamiliarity of the everyday and the urban peripheral. This latter field has been widely explored in two broad thematic areas: first, non-​places such as motorways (Sinclair 2002), metro lines (Maspero 1990), banlieues (Rolin 1995) or Disneyland (Marin 1973); second, neglected backwaters such as rivers (Rolin 1992; Kauffmann 2013). In addition, the semiology of food, in particular as explored by Patrick Boman (1989, 1999), opens up a rich vein for exploration.

222  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Further Reading Deledalle, G. 1979. Théorie et pratique du signe. Introduction à la pensée de Charles S. Peirce. Paris: Payot. Leiris, M. 1981[1934]. L’Afrique fantôme. Paris: Gallimard. Marin, L. 1973. Utopiques: jeux d’espaces. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit. Scott, D.  2004. Semiologies of Travel from Gautier to Baudrillard. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Segalen, V. 1978 [1908]. Essai sur l’exotisme, une esthétique du divers. Fontfroide: Fata Morgana.

76 SEX/​SEXUALITY David Scott

Whereas ‘sex’ implies gender, the sexual act and/​or sexual enjoyment, sexuality further implies gender and identity issues that themselves form a nexus of preoccupations, conscious or unconscious, on the part of travellers and travel writers. It is therefore sexuality as much as sex that is prioritized here. Like age, place of birth and nationality, sex or gender are supposedly factual details obligatorily entered on the European traveller’s passport. However they are categories that may be quick to unravel or undergo transformation once the traveller is beyond the realm of home society and its shaping pressures and expectations. Indeed for some, the possibility of escaping native expectations –​moral, sexual, cultural –​is one of travel’s keenest attractions. The scope for innovation in this area can be enhanced by chance encounters, an aesthetic project, a scientific investigation (ethnographic, sociological or political) or a combination of these and other factors. Sex and sexuality in the modern (i.e., post-​Renaissance Western) world has been linked with the exotic, in particular as viewed by Europeans, from the age of exploration onwards, becoming explicitly linked in travel writing and literature from the eighteenth century. The encounter of the human other or difference outside the realm of the known produced a shock to the sensual as well as rational categories that gave the exotic powerful sexual or erotic as well as cultural overtones. Such surprises are recorded in Louis-​Antoine de Bougainville’s exploratory voyages in the Pacific Ocean (Voyage autour du monde, 1771) and elaborated on with gusto by sensualist writers such as Denis Diderot in his Supplément au voyage de Bougainville (1772). The association of indigenous nakedness with European academic painting’s representation of nudity was also a powerfully eroticizing dimension of exotic travel. The attractions and illusions of this (mis-​)apprehension are nowhere better explored than in the travel experience, travel writing and painting of Paul Gauguin at the turn of the nineteenth/​twentieth century. For Gauguin, the nakedness of the Tahitians both enhanced and de-​eroticized the prurient Western fascination with nudity, in particular as expressed in academic painting. So in confronting the nudity of Tahitian men and women, Gauguin (1974 [1892–​1903], 140) attempts to recreate it as a natural state, not as the lewd subterfuge that it had become in European academic art: ‘The Eve of my choice is almost an animal; that is why, even though she is naked, she is chaste. All the Venuses of western art are indecent, obviously lewd.’ The nudity/​nakedness tension is also explored in the work of anthropologists whose observation of the seemingly more socialized and/​or ritualistic forms of

224  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies sexuality in some indigenous tribes leads to a profound questioning of sexual feeling. For Michel Leiris (1981 [1934]), as recorded in Afrique fantôme, sexual desire is the trigger to an interrogation of his own sexuality, explored in terms of masturbation (303), auto-​eroticism (235) and erotic dreams (148). His unfulfilled but complex desires in relation to the Abyssinian woman Emawayish become part of a further investigation into the construction of sexuality, in particular as compared between the different cultures (see Scott 2004, 178–​88). Sexuality as a component theme of the identity crisis that foreign travel often induces, such as the exploring or consolidating of new or repressed sexual options, is also a vein richly explored in travel writing, whether in terms of bisexuality or homosexuality. Gauguin’s (1974 [1892–​1903], 111–​15) discovery of the androgynous appearance of the Tahitians leads him to record in Oviri the quandary he faces in trying to balance conflicting impulses of desire and guilt: attraction for the unknown, desire for the native androgynous body, a wish to relinquish the responsibilities of masculinity and become feminine and submissive for a moment, awareness of the relative naturalness of sexual relations in Tahiti and the innocence of erotic impulses. In central Africa, as recorded in his Voyage au Congo (1926), André Gide’s agenda is similarly ambivalent: although his concern for the African natives under French colonial exploitation is genuine, they are also for him objects of sexual fantasy. This is evident in the frequent evocation in the Voyage au Congo of young black African males and of scenes which re-​enact in allegorical terms the male sexual act, as in the passage in which the actions of the black oarsmen as they brace their oars against their muscular thighs make the boat’s prow rear up out of the water, showering the passengers in the boat with an ejaculation of spray (1927–​28, 21). The ambiguity of Gide’s relationship with African males he encounters is symptomatic of another problem relating to travel experience: that of distinguishing sexuality from eroticism. Eroticism, as in Gide’s text just referred to, implies suggestion rather than overt articulation and, when recorded in writing, leads to an often-​ suggestive ambiguity. Roland Barthes shows himself to be a master in this respect in the veiled indication in L’Empire de signes (1970) of his homosexuality in which the mythical inscrutability of the Chinese or Japanese face is recognized to be a mask concealing a perhaps unwritten subtext of desire running through the work. So the photos of the young male Japanese actor that open and close the work express in graphic terms the sexual gratification that seemingly transforms Barthes’s experience of the far-​Eastern male. Issues relating to sexuality are treated more directly and comprehensively by later twentieth-​century travel writers, such as Jean Baudrillard, for whom sexuality in the postmodern world implies the problematization of gender. In Amérique (1986), for Baudrillard, it is genetics as much as individual conscience, social archetypes or psychoanalysis that govern psychical impulses and will soon be manipulatable to provide the desired sexual identity. The (sexual) identity crisis of the future will be based less on a perception of a void at the heart of the self or an agonizing selection between strong alternatives, and more on infinite consumer choice. In the same period, travel writing has been much more critical of the colonial dimension of travel experience, in particular in relation to sexuality, with sex tourism from the 1960s interpreted as a form of mass postcolonial exploitation (see

Sex/Sexuality 225 colonialism). The impact of developments in queer theory have also in recent decades enhanced the understanding of travel (as well as allowing for the rereading of earlier travel literature), as has the recent surge in Anglophone travel writing criticism on gender and identity issues. But a question still worth asking is whether contemporary travel writing provides new insights into sex and sexuality or rather involves retracing the steps of previous travellers.

Further Reading Bird, D.  2012. Travelling in Different Skins: Gender Identity in European Women’s Oriental Travelogues 1850–​1950. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Boone, J. A. 2014. The Homoerotics of Orientalism. New York: Columbia University Press. Jacobs, J. 2010. Sex, Tourism and the Postcolonial Encounter: Landscapes of Longing in Egypt. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate. Siegel, K.  (ed.). 2004. Gender, Genre and Identity in Women’s Travel Writing. New  York: Peter Lang. Thurnell-​ Read, T.  and M.  Casey (eds). 2014. Men, Masculinities, Travel and Tourism. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

77 SKIN Charles Forsdick

The term ‘skin’, whose etymology leads back to the early Scandinavian, referred initially to the natural covering of an animal’s body, removed and worked to serve a number of utilitarian purposes. The word also refers to the layer of tissue that constitutes the external container of the body in vertebrates, and, in this sense, it designates the largest organ on the human body, the dermatological cover that forms the principal point of contact between travellers and the field through which they move. Often protected with clothing and other forms of covering, skin can nevertheless be tanned, blistered, cut and scarred as a result of friction and other impact during the journey. The skin is also the page on which –​through tattoos and other forms of marking –​the traveller can inscribe traces of his or her itinerary, turning the body itself into a site of the travel narrative. A subgenre of the travelogue involves a more metaphorical understanding, foregrounding ‘getting into someone else’s skin’ (Bird 2012), that is, achieving a degree of cultural transvestism associated with authors ranging from Pierre Loti to Alexandra David-​Neel, from Richard Burton to Michel Vieuchange. There is a need also to revert to one of the term’s first meanings, to focus on other skins. As suggested above, those from animals serve additional purposes in the field of travel, for instance, acting as clothing, water carrier, purse or even shelter. In Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia (1977), a fragment of Mylodon skin belonging to the narrator’s grandmother (initially thought to be that of a Brontosaurus) even serves as the impetus for the journey, recalling ‘not only the Golden Fleece (the object of Jason’s quest) but also Proust’s madeleine, as an object inspiring memory’ (Cooke 2016, 22). Leather was also traditionally, on return, the means of binding the journey narrative into a book, and fixing the transformation of travel into text. As suggested above, many travellers spend their journey minimizing the contact of their actual skin with the field through which they travel, protecting it from the extremes of heat and cold, and covering it from exposure to the elements. The epidermis is nevertheless the organ of touch, the means whereby the primary physical and haptic sensations of the journey are translated into the experience of travel. ‘Touch’  –​a keyword in its own right, associated with ‘smell’, ‘taste’, ‘hearing’ and ‘vision’ –​is both a verb and noun, describing the act of making contact (often via the hand, but also with other parts of the body) with another surface, and also designating the senses in which such physical contact is predominant (Classen 2005, 2012). One of the most sustained reflections on travel and skin is provided by Victor Segalen (2017 [1929]), who devotes a chapter of his Chinese travelogue Equipée to

Skin 227 questions of touch. This section is part of a wider reflection sustained throughout the text on travel as a multisensory experience in which the privileging of the gaze is presented as culturally conditioned. In a chapter describing the passage of his narrator to an imaginary world associated with imperial China, the traveller relies on his hands to fumble his way through to this other side: ‘I keep walking, blindly, feeling my way with my hands’ (95). As such, Segalen alludes to the ways in which touch is heightened in narratives by travellers for whom another sense is temporarily or permanently impaired. Such privileging of the haptic is evident, for instance, in the work of James Holman (see Roberts 2006), especially in the author’s description of the use of touch to feel his way through unfamiliar environments. Equipée shows an interest instead in the role of touch as a form of sensation in its own right, and uses a description of the traveller showering beneath a waterfall to reflect on the sensory capacities of the skin: ‘Contrary to the slightly too food-​related idea of taste, which you cannot slow down or hold on to […] the skin is a marvellous, expansive organ, both sensitive and subtle, and the only one which can, so to speak, take pleasure from its twin: another skin with the same grain or different, tactile, fine-​textured’ (Segalen 2017 [1929], 63). Drawing on a further meaning of ‘touch’, suggesting the ways in which two or more things come into contact with each other, Segalen reflects on the distinctiveness of this sense, ignoring the subject-​object dynamics on which it depends and focusing exclusively on sensation: ‘Only the eyes have this same immediacy of response –​but seeing is quite different from being seen, whereas touching is identical to being touched’ (63). He concludes by bemoaning the irregular attention paid by (travel) writers to ‘the immediacy and charm and pleasures of the skin’ (63). The shift from the sensory to the sensual is a common one, and alongside taste and smell, touch is often associated with the eroticism of travel. The skin of the other becomes an object of desire, with unveiling, undressing and caressing seen as part of privileged access to elsewhere (Littlewood 2001; Stewart 2000). Such fantasies are invariably gendered, and often involve male travellers seeking out female bodies, but skin is equally to be understood in terms of race and ethnicity, as a marker of that of either the traveller or those he or she meets. In the case of Philippa Duke Schuyler, pianist, war correspondent and author of Adventures in Black and White (1960), travel becomes a means of exploring the writer’s own ethnic origins as well as questions of racial ambiguity, a process reflected in her close attention to the skin colour of those she meets (see Kelley 2015). Despite the centrality of skin to travel, attention paid within studies of travel writing to the skin and to the touch it permits is rare. This is in part because skin plays such an ambiguous role in travel writing: visible to those encountered en route as a marker of age, ethnicity and other key social variables, it serves also as the main boundary between the self and the world. Travel is described by Karen Connelly as ‘experienced through the skin’ (Sperling Beck 2017), and the phenomena of ‘tactile tourism’ (Mills 2015) or ‘haptic geography’ (Paterson 2007; see also Crang 2003) have attracted increasing interest, in line with the growing interest in tactility in literary studies (e.g., Garrington 2015; Jackson 2015). Studies of nineteenth-​century mountaineering have identified evidence of the ‘haptic sublime’ in the period, a new aesthetic of mountain appreciation associated with close physical engagement with the terrain (McNee 2014). Recognition of the need to factor touch into the shifting

228  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies sensorium according to which travel is studied is overdue, but the evocative reach of the keyword was already reflected in the work of Henry Thoreau, who described the land around his house in Massachusetts as a form of skinscape, suggesting –​in David Howes’s terms (2005: 31) –​that contact with the earth, and by extension travel across it, can be understood as a ‘skin-​to-​skin’ relationship.

Further Reading Classen, C. (ed.). 2005. The Book of Touch. Oxford: Berg. ———. 2012. The Deepest Sense: A Cultural History of Touch. Champaign: University of Illinois Press. Howe, D. 2005. ‘Skinscapes: Embodiment, Culture and Environment’. In Constance Classen (ed.), The Book of Touch. Oxford: Berg: 27–​39. Paterson, M.  2007. ‘Haptic Geographies: Ethnography, Haptic Knowledges and Sensuous Dispositions’. Progress in Human Geography, 33.6: 766–​88.

78 SLOWNESS Sharon Ouditt

The concept of ‘slowness’ in travel writing is best understood in its relation to ‘slow travel’, a branch of the increasingly popular ‘slow’ movement. The slow food movement was initiated in 1986 by the Italian activist Carlo Petrini in opposition to the opening of a McDonald’s by the Spanish Steps in Rome. It celebrates localism, regional products, time spent with fellow humans and ecological concerns. For slow travellers these values translate as abjuring the jet engine; paying attention to one’s immediate environment rather than to tourist attractions; obtaining local produce from local producers rather than from globalized outlets. Slow travel, then, is not just about reducing speed, it is about doing less harm to the planet, to communities and –​ by extension –​to those encountered on the journey. Taken literally the term ‘slow travel’ could take us back to the earliest travel narratives. Reliance on sail power rather than steam for the nautical voyager might have meant weeks in static observation awaiting the right kind of wind. Pilgrimages –​pagan, medieval, Christian or Islamic –​were undertaken on foot. Even the Grand Tour was measured in years rather than weeks, although it assumed a perspective of social superiority, a level of capital accumulation and the practice of extracting art and artefacts from their local environments that is antithetical to the politics of the slow movement. Perhaps the pedestrian tours of the nineteenth century provide the earliest examples of the values we now associate with slow travel: avoiding the display of wealth or rank, accepting hospitality locally where it is offered and actively contemplating the minutiae of the landscape free from the prophylactics of speed, screen or elevation (see pedestrianism). Translated to the present day, this might manifest as travel by foot, bus, barge or ferry; slow train possibly (especially if one is engaging with local travellers) or even car, if highways are ignored in favour of back roads. The implied traveller here, of course, is Western and affluent. The ‘sacrifice’ of air travel or high-​speed railways could only be a culturally relative choice. Unlike the slow food movement and participating slow cities, slow travel is not an institution with membership, policy statements and criteria for certification. It does, however, have a manifesto by travel writer Nicky Gardner, which was published in the online magazine Hidden Europe in 2009. In this Gardner urges travellers to decelerate, engage with and give back to the communities through which travel is undertaken, embrace the uncertainties that might arise from using local transport,

230  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies resist the urge to associate speed with success and be aware of one’s carbon footprint. In order to locate these ideals in the historical practice of travel, Gardner (2009) refers to Théophile Gautier’s impatience with the discomforts of rapid carriage travel and his boredom at the banality of being met with ‘home comforts’ no matter what his destination, and claims Patrick Leigh Fermour’s journey across Europe on foot and Freya Stark’s trip with a donkey as further examples. Robin Jarvis contributes to the argument, although from an academic perspective rather than a polemical one. In his book on pedestrian travel in the Romantic era, he argues that travelling on foot signified a radical assertion of autonomy in an age when there was pressure to assert one’s social standing and family connections by one’s means of travel. He also suggests that walking demands a participatory approach to landscape rather than allowing a disinterested mastery over it: the constant contact with the road, passers-​by, with hedges, trees, tangled vegetation, sounds, smells, gradient and so on requires a response that might be screened out by a carriage window. Wordsworth and Hazlitt are probably the more celebrated pedestrians of their time, but the less well known Craufurd Tait Ramage (1868, vi) is a perfect exemplar of the walking traveller: he set off entirely alone through politically unstable southern Italy in 1828, relied on his knowledge of the language to secure accommodation and sustenance en route and discovered a great deal about the habits, histories, superstitions and religious beliefs of his hosts, who were ready to enter into conversation with ‘one who made no pretence to be different from themselves’. In the early twentieth century, Norman Douglas (2001 [1915]) was another exemplary slow traveller. He spoke not only Italian, but some local dialects and would always make the effort to learn more. He went out of his way to converse with the old and the young, would tramp across mountains, would follow his instincts and take short cuts through crumbling river valleys, heedless of the figure he cut (‘boots torn to rags, lame, famished and drenched to the skin’; 213) when he got to his destination. Slow travel, then, although a relatively new term, has been with us for a long time. More recently Dan Kieran (2012) has written about his own philosophy of the subject in The Idle Traveller: The Art of Slow Travel. Here he tells the tale of his –​very slow –​trip across Britain in a milk float, his aversion to ‘sights’ in favour of ‘people’ (‘discovered from following our own instincts and sense of curiosity’; 164)  and his view of the paradox of modern travel: that we seek to experience the exotic and the unfamiliar via the perspective of order and familiarity (171). Something of a moralizing tendency can be discerned in these writings –​a point noted by Rebecca Solnit (2012, 7). At its more reactionary end slow travel speaks to an alienation from modernity, and a nostalgia for some kind of lost innocence. At its most cynical it might be seen as a way of repackaging, for tourist purposes, something quite familiar –​renting a cottage in rural France, say, has always been a cheaper option than a whistle-​stop tour of major European capitals for a family holiday. What separates its recent form from its precursors, though, is a conscientious decision to reject mass consumption of air miles. The related fields of ecotourism, ‘volontourism’ and digital detoxing build in to a similar field of ecological and ethical concerns.

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Further Reading Dickinson, J. E. and L. Lumsdon. 2010. Slow Travel and Tourism. London: Earthscan. Gardner, N.  2009. ‘A Manifesto for Slow Travel’ (Online). Available at: http://​www. hiddeneurope.co.uk/​a-​manifesto-​for-​slow-​travel (accessed 30 June 2015). Jarvis, R. 2000. Romantic Writing and Pedestrian Travel. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Kieran, D. 2012. The Idle Traveller: The Art of Slow Travel. Basingstoke: AA Publishing. Solnit, R. 2000. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. New York: Viking.

79 SMELL Charles Forsdick

Despite the importance –​and complex significations –​of smell across most world cultures, the term does not feature in Williams’s original volume or in New Keywords. The emergence of the sensory humanities has nevertheless asserted the importance of smell in cross-​cultural enquiry (Classen et  al. 1994; Drobnick 2006), with such studies providing a clear indication of the potential contribution to studies of travel writing. The term ‘smell’ –​referring to odours emitted as well as to the sensory capacity and physiological mechanisms by which these are detected and processed –​is more common than the formal ‘olfaction’, although the latter has the benefit of relative neutrality. Mary Louise Pratt  –​in Imperial Eyes (1992)  –​was one of the first to explore the ocularcentrism of travel writing and the dominance of the genre by the gaze. As scholars of tourism have however suggested (e.g., Dann and Jakobsen 2003), although often culturally denigrated according to the sensory logic Pratt and others have described, aroma can be as important as vision in encapsulating the character of place. Smell can be associated closely with the memories of a location with which visitors are accompanied as they travel home, although the subtleties of olfactory memory tend to fade more swiftly than other forms and may as a result feature less often in retrospectively narrated travelogues. Smellscapes are nevertheless implicit through often fleeting detail in much travel writing, and relate to natural elements of both rural landscapes and cityscapes, the fauna and flora that inhabit them and various aspects of human culture (most notably cuisine, suggesting that there is often a clear overlap between the olfactory and the gustatory). Smell forewarns of dangers and delights to come, and is regularly associated with means of transport themselves, mechanized and other. Herodotus is one of the first, in his Histories, to associate place and smell, but the traditional ocularcentrism of much Western travel writing has often led to a confirmation of cultural hierarchies of the senses within the genre: smellscapes encountered in the field of travel are often pushed to the background of descriptions, and also associated with the more abject ‘odour’ and its synonyms than with the relatively more pleasing ‘aroma’, ‘fragrance’ or ‘scent’. Visceral reactions to smells in the field of travel reflect the specific nature of the sense to which they relate. As such, smell, along with taste, arguably represents the most bodily of the senses for it does not imply the cognitive processing of stimuli to the body’s skin or membranes, but involves instead the ingestion and then internal consumption of traces of otherness. The smell

Smell 233 of elsewhere and its inhabitants assumes, therefore, intimate dimensions, associated with a variety of emotions ranging from desire to fear, from sensual pleasure to extreme hatred. Identifying travellers’ descriptions of smells encountered is a major way of exploring the cultural assumptions and prejudices that accompany them. In Norway, for instance, Mary Wollstonecraft (1796, 53)  describes being repeatedly ‘assailed’ by ‘herring effluvia’. Whereas there exists a subgenre of travel writing that uses sensory impairment to explore the ways in which deaf and blind travellers experience soundscapes and landscapes differently (see hearing and vision), the same is not true for olfaction. Rare exceptions exist, such as works by the traveller Peter Fleming, who writes in News from Tartary (1936) about his anosmia, a form of sensory deprivation that also features in the parallel account of the same journey by Ella Maillart, Oasis interdites (1937). In both texts, the traveller’s lack of a sense of smell is seen not as a disability but as a blessing, with Fleming presented as shielded from the various odours –​human and animal –​into proximity with which their journey across Xinjiang forces him. In many travel narratives, smell is associated along these lines with the abject nature of the other encountered in the field of travel and can take on clearly racist overtones. This is the case in Victor Segalen’s Equipée (1929), in which the Chinese population of the areas he crosses are defined as much by smell as by their physical appearance. Travelogues on occasion also reflect an anthropological approach to the senses –​evident in the observations of travellers such as Alfred Cort Haddon among the Torres Straits islanders (Herle and Rouse 1998) –​that explore the culturally determined nature of the sensorium, often associating ‘primitive’ people with a greater degree of olfactory tolerance (and ignoring the extent to which the acceptability of smells themselves is itself linked to cultural conditioning). In other texts, ‘exotic’ smells are conscripted to serve more positively as an olfactory form of intangible heritage: in Couleur cannelle (2004), for instance, Nicole-​Lise Bernheim describes her journey through Sri Lanka via a repeated encounter with the aromas of cinnamon on the island. As studies in travel writing move beyond challenging the dominance of the gaze, and reflect actively on the ways in which a range of senses contribute to the experiences of the journey, the role of smell in the travelogue is likely to attract increasing attention. The possibilities of drawing on work exploring olfactory histories (e.g., Corbin 1986) are also suggestive of new directions in scholarship. As shifting smellscapes allowed travellers to track the decline of rural cultures and the rise of industrialization, so the emergence in certain parts of the world of postindustrial societies and the accompanying development of ecologically friendly modes of travel has an olfactory impact, with the pollution associated with mechanized transport in cities in the Global South contributing to the continuation of a certain ‘denial of coevalness’ (Fabian 1983). It is in the context of such shifts that there is an increasing interest in forms of travel in which smell dominates, either heightened alongside other senses in a deliberate attempt to reorder the sensorium often through the downplaying of the importance of vision, or actively privileged as the sense through which the experience of travel is mediated (Henshaw 2013). In the latter category is the practice of undertaking ‘smellwalks’. Unlike the visual traces of the journey, often obsessively captured via photography to the detriment of direct and detailed observation in the field, mechanisms to capture smell are not available to the majority of travellers. The

234  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies artist Kate McLean (http://​sensorymaps.com) has developed, however, the notion of the ‘smellmap’, and invites participants in her projects to differentiate the multiple smells that characterize urban space, associate them with changing conditions of climate and temperature, challenge their prejudices relating to them and analyse their relationship to shifting histories in what might be understood as an olfactory palimpsest (Reinarz 2014). Such experiments currently relate more to travel-​related performance art than traditional travel writing, although the efforts of artists such as McLean to capture their findings in cartographic form reveal the potential for privileging smell in the travelogue itself.

Further Reading Classen, C., D. Howes and A. Synnott. 1994. Aroma: The Cultural History of Smell. London: Routledge. Dann, G. and J. K. Steen Jacobsen. 2003. ‘Tourism Smellscapes’. Tourism Geographies, 5.1:  3–​25. Drobnick, J. (ed.). 2006. The Smell Culture Reader. Oxford: Berg. Henshaw, V. 2013. Urban Smellscapes: Understanding and Designing City Smell Environments. London: Routledge. Reinarz, J.  2014. Past Scents: Historical Perspectives on Smell. Champaign: University of Illinois Press.

80 SOLITUDE Joe Moran

The English word ‘solitude’ derives from the Latin sōlitūdo (solitariness, loneliness, destitution), which itself derives from sōlus, alone. The word’s first citation in the Oxford English Dictionary is from Chaucer’s poem ‘The Complaint of Mars’ (c. 1374), but it has only been in common use in English from the late sixteenth century, with the rise of modern ideas of the self and private life. A common motive or explanation for travel from the early-​modern era onwards was the pursuit of solitude. Until around the end of the nineteenth century, only men of a certain class could be solitary travellers, the lower classes having neither the time nor resources for such leisured travel, and travelling women being likely to be chaperoned. In the Romantic era, travel became associated with solitary encounters with nature and the sublime, and texts such as Jean-​Jacques Rousseau’s Reveries of the Solitary Walker (1782) made the link between solitary walking and creative thinking. As Patrick Parrinder (2006, 242) argues, when it spread through the British empire, English solitariness and reserve also became an expression of ‘the governing mystique of an imperial elite’ in the face of a native population seen as voluble, herd-​ like and brazen-​faced. All these myths of the solitary traveller find expression in Alexander Kinglake’s classic travel book, Eothen: Or Traces of Travel Brought Home from the East (1844), which narrates his journey, in 1834 at the age of 25, through the Middle East. The most difficult part of his journey was crossing the Sinai Desert, and it was Kinglake’s desire to be alone in this fabled place of silence, solitude and retreat that drove him. (The Latin sōlitūdo, as the classicist Kinglake would certainly have known, also means desert.) ‘Often enough’, he wrote, ‘the wandering Englishman is guilty, (if guilt it be,) of some pride, or ambition, big or small, imperial, or parochial, which being offended has made the lone place more tolerable than ball rooms to him’ (264). One of Eothen’s semi-​comic (and racist) conceits is that Kinglake’s desire for solitude is constantly thwarted by the excitable natives. If you adopt the Arab life in search of solitude you will be thwarted, he warns his readers, for you will be ‘in perpetual contact with a mass of hot fellow-​creatures’ (250). In fact, Kinglake was accompanied by several European attendants and Bedouin guides: the supposedly solitary traveller was rarely as alone as he claimed. But Eothen became the template for a certain kind of European travel writing: the (usually male) traveller experiences the world alone and his interiorized romantic sensibility is changed by its encounter

236  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies with the ‘other’. A travel book is, as Paul Theroux ([1979] 2008, 11) writes at the start of The Old Patagonian Express, ‘the loner bouncing back bigger than life to tell the story of his experiment with space’. With the rise of mass tourism, a new trope developed: the lone traveller distinguishing himself from the package-​tour hordes. In his book Abroad, Paul Fussell’s (1980, 210)  admiration for interwar travel writers like Graham Greene, Wilfred Thesiger and Robert Byron is precisely that they privilege solitude and autonomy over the imperatives of mass tourism. ‘One among some fifty million globe-​trotters, the traveller maintains his difference mostly by despising others like himself ’, Trinh T. Minh-​Ha (1994) writes, both summarizing and critiquing this attitude. ‘I sneeze at organized tours, for the things I see in the wild or in the remote parts of the world, are those You can’t see when You abide by prepaid, ready-​made routes’ (22). Some of the most thoughtful writers on travel have understood the paradox of this pursuit of solitude: that it inevitably brings us into contact with others. In his ‘long walk’ across Asia from Istanbul to Xi’an, recounted in his three-​volume Longue Marche, the French travel writer Bernard Ollivier always travels alone and admits to being ‘imprisoned in profound solitude’, partly because of his ignorance of local languages, but also convinced that his solitude enables creative and enriching encounters with local people (cited in Mee 2014, 227, 47). The pianist, writer and broadcaster Glenn Gould made a ‘Solitude Trilogy’ of radio documentaries on the theme of withdrawal from the world, all based in the Canadian north. The first and most memorable of these programmes, The Idea of North (1967), was inspired by a 1015-​mile journey he took on the Muskeg Express from Winnipeg to Churchill in subarctic Northern Manitoba. Gould knew full well that his idea of the north as a place where you could escape others was a romantic fallacy: his interviewees, old hands who have lived for years in Canada’s northern third, often remind him that the isolation and harshness of the environment means that people stick close together. Gould, who did not even like the cold much, knew you could just as easily experience solitude in a hotel suite with room service, as he often did. As Gould (1993, 391–​92) acknowledged in the liner notes for the album of The Idea of North, ‘there are probably people living in the heart of Manhattan who can manage every bit as independent and hermitlike an existence as a prospector trampling the […] lichen-​covered tundra’. But his Romantic attitude to the far north embodied two notions he held dear: that solitude was a precondition for creativity, and that the most worthwhile and enduring forms of communication came in the wake of such imposed solitariness. Ultimately, this is what makes solitude a key mode in travel writing: its suggestive link with the solitariness of writing. As David Espey (1992, 167) puts it in a discussion of the American non-​fiction writer John McPhee, ‘Travel writers tend to face travel as they face writing –​alone.’ Travel may only rarely be as solitary as the travel writer claims, but writing is necessarily a solitary act. ‘Travel is a creative act –​not simply loafing and inviting your soul, but feeding the imagination, accounting for each fresh wonder, memorizing and moving on’, Paul Theroux (1985) writes. ‘The discoveries the traveler makes in broad daylight –​the curious problems of the eye he solves –​ resemble those that thrill and sustain a novelist in his solitude’ (140).

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Further Reading Colegate, I.  2002. A Pelican in the Wilderness: Hermits, Solitaries and Recluses. London: HarperCollins. Diski, J. 2007. On Trying to Keep Still. London: Virago. Ferguson, F. 1992. Solitude and the Sublime: Romanticism and the Aesthetics of Individuation. London: Routledge. Meurice, M.  F. 1995. Solitudes: From Rimbaud to Heidegger. Albany: State University of New York Press. Storr, A. 1988. Solitude. London: Flamingo.

81 SUBJECTIVITY Joanna Price

‘Subjectivity’ derives from the Old French suget, from the Latin subjectivus, meaning ‘brought under’, and the past participle of subicere, from sub, ‘under’, and jacere, ‘throw’. This connotation is retained in the late Middle English sense of the term, as ‘characteristic of a political subject, submissive’ (Oxford Ad L’s Dic), and it persists in the meaning ‘that is under the rule of power’ (Concise OD of EE). Since the early nineteenth century, ‘subjectivity’ has also pertained to the mind, as in ‘the fact of existing in the mind only’, ‘consciousness of one’s states or actions’ and ‘a conscious being’ (Oxford English Dictionary). Related to these meanings, ‘subjective’ denotes the perception, perspective or expression of an individual person. The idea of ‘the subject’ is inherently ambiguous, as the term may be used to designate the passive subject to the actions of another, or the active subject of his/​her own actions (Macey 2000, 369). Until the late twentieth century, ideas about ‘the subject’ derived mainly from Descartes’s proposition that the defining characteristic of humans is self-​conscious thinking. Post-​1968 European thinkers challenged Cartesian humanism, however, and its modern development in the idea that each person possesses a centred and unified ‘self ’ with a deep interior life. These thinkers replaced the concept of the self with that of the subject, to designate the production of identity by pre-​existing systems or structures. Key theorists in this tradition include Louis Althusser, who argued that the subject is a product of ideology; Michel Foucault, whose work explored subjectivity as an effect of discourse; and psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, who, revisiting Freud and drawing on the linguistic theory of structuralist Ferdinand de Saussure, showed how the subject, identified initially with the unconscious, comes into being as a social entity through interaction with the gaze and the language of the Other. Travel writing often foregrounds the subjectivity of the traveller and the ways in which it is produced. Dennis Porter (1991), commenting on texts by European travel writers, proposes that unconscious desires and fantasies, formed in childhood, shape the travel writer’s experience and representation of his/​her journey. He argues, however, that the traveller’s subjectivity is not produced only through the projection of pre-​formed ideas or fantasies, which would amount to ‘cultural solipsism’ and the ‘obliteration of otherness’ but by ‘self-​transformation through a dialogic engagement with alien modes of life’ (5). Such dialogic engagement with others is central to Mary Louise Pratt’s seminal concept of the ‘contact zone’, the space of encounter between the traveller and others, typically in a colonial context (see colonialism). Pratt (1992, 7) observes

Subjectivity 239 that the ‘ “contact” perspective emphasizes how subjects are constituted in and by their relations to each other’, whether this be through ‘coercion […] and intractable conflict’ (6) or through negotiation of the power structures that organize those relations. The formation of subjectivity through travelling in modern ‘contact zones’ is the central theme of Jenny Diski’s self-​reflexive travel memoirs, Skating to Antarctica and Stranger on a Train: Daydreaming and Smoking around America with Interruptions. Diski (2004, 8) is well aware that she views the landscapes she visits through her own projections, whether it be the comforting whiteness she has sought since childhood and finds in Antarctica, or an America that resembles images from films she watched in the 1950s, and which she describes as ‘like the moon […] what mattered was the light it bathed me in, its universal but private reach’. This narcissistic orientation informs Diski’s preference for being a stranger surrounded by strangers. On the train she takes ‘occasional wanders, using my separation from others as a mirror, or looking into the dark centre of strangers’ eyes to catch my reflection’ (155). But her texts show the adaptations of her subjectivity as she contemplates the Antarctic landscape or listens to the stories of her fellow Amtrak passengers. The often traumatic psychic history upon which Diski reflects also ‘interrupts’ both her narrative of self and her experience of her travels. Her travel memoirs articulate a temporizing of subjectivity which, according to Debbie Lisle (2006, 41), challenges a dominant trope of travel writing: the fixity of the colonial self ‘secure[d]‌in contrast to the difference of others’. Diski’s use of the travel memoir to map the temporal journeys of memory as well as her spatial travels shows how travel writing as a hybrid genre accommodates exploration of the ‘fractures’ (Huggan 2009, 159)  of subjectivity. These fractures gain particular visibility in the travel writing of exiles, migrants and emigrants (see m ­ igration). Frances Bartowski (1995, xviii–​xix) argues that in the work of such travellers, constitutive ambivalence, mis-​identifications and mis-​recognitions, as theorized by Lacan, are amplified by cultural displacement and its attendant estrangements of language and identity. These estrangements are the focus of Eva Hoffman’s Lost in Translation: Life in a New Language (1991). Versed in critical theory, Hoffman casts herself as ‘a living avatar of structuralist wisdom’ (107). ‘Exiled’ to North America, she is irrevocably separated from Poland and her childhood and is nostalgic for the ‘not yet divided’ identity’ (74) she associates with them. She is also displaced in the American language, for its words do not evoke for her the things they signify. Hoffman painfully embodies the rupture between language and the world, as, for instance, when she is given an anglicized version of her name on starting school and is unable to write ‘I’ in her diary. Eventually, however, she embraces alterity and her own hybridity, having ‘learned the relativity of cultural meanings on my skin’ (275). Travel writing affords a way of exploring and asserting a subjectivity that has been defined and marginalized, by, for instance, gender, race, ethnicity, class or sexual preference (see sex/​sexuality). In the short fictional piece ‘Pages from the Book of the Unknown Explorer’, for example, the American artist Judit Hersko, having travelled to Antarctica and been inspired by Lisa Bloom’s (1993) feminist critique of masculine and imperialist ideology in polar exploration, inserts a woman explorer into a history of Antarctic expedition from which women have been largely absent. Using a

240  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies photograph of her mother, a Jewish Hungarian emigrant, to represent ‘Anna Schwarz’, Hersko connects the absence of women from polar exploration to modernity’s broader repression of women and the female body, and erasure of cultures, homelands and species. Hersko’s piece, like Hoffman’s and Diski’s work, illustrates how travel writing, through its articulation of personal and cultural memory and observation, maps the fissures of subjectivity onto the spatial dislocations of travel.

Further Reading Bartowksi, F. 1995. Travellers, Immigrants, Inmates: Essays in Estrangement. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press. Huggan, G.  2009. Extreme Pursuits: Travel/​Writing in an Age of Globalization. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Lisle, D.  2006. The Global Politics of Contemporary Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Porter, D.  1991. Haunted Journeys: Desire and Transgression in European Travel Writing. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Pratt, M. L. 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London: Routledge.

82 SUBLIME Sharon Ouditt

The term ‘sublime’, the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) tells us, means ‘lofty’, ‘high up’ or ‘elevated’. More specifically it applies to ‘that quality in nature or art’ ‘that fills the mind with an overwhelming sense of grandeur or irresistible power’ (OED). In travel texts the sublime is often associated with an encounter with a natural phenomenon that stretches the observer’s powers of imaginative comprehension to their very limits. As Philip Shaw (2006, 2) puts it, ‘[W]‌henever experience slips out of conventional understanding, whenever the power of an object or event is such that words fail and points of comparison disappear, then we resort to the feeling of the sublime.’ Majestic mountain scenery, limitless oceans and vast, solitary deserts invoke the sublime, particularly in the Romantic period when the response of the individual traveller was often seen to be a marker of the authenticity of the journey. In the present day awe and wonder remain part of the traveller’s currency, although they are often reformulated into a postmodern take on sublimity. Although the term had been present since ancient times (see, e.g., Chard 1999, 111), it was in the eighteenth century that Edmund Burke (1958) gave it the aesthetic dimension with which we continue to associate it. He proposed that the aesthetic emotion engendered by an encounter with the sublime in nature is astonishment held in suspension by a degree of horror that precludes all other rational activity: ‘In this case the mind is so entirely filled with its object that it cannot entertain any other’ (57). This state of being, associated with silence, melancholy, power and strength, is to be distinguished from the languorous pleasantness of beauty in nature, and from the picturesque, which lacks the terror associated with the sublime. These terms were central to the perceptions of travellers in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and the implied gendering is not to be underestimated: the masculine connotations of the sublime were inextricable from the image of the indefatigable, questing male. The Romantic travellers most associated with these qualities are Byron, Coleridge, Shelley and Wordsworth. To these we might add Captain Cook, Joseph Banks and the ‘visionary’ traveller and collector William Beckford. Wordsworth is perhaps the most determined to articulate the effect of the sublime, not just on the mind of the traveller but also on the consciousness of the poet. In Book 6 of The Prelude he offers a textbook version of the sublime as he is descending the Gondo Gorge: And every where along the hollow rent Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn,

242  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-​side As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and regions of the heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light. (ll. 559–​68) As Philip Shaw (2006) notes, this passage epitomizes some of the key tropes of the Alpine sublime: vertiginous heights and depths; a sense of nature’s capacity to overwhelm, astonishment and horror yoked together. But the Wordsworthian vision requires a further phase. If, in the Gondo Gorge the poet runs the risk of losing selfhood in ‘delirious fusion with Eternity’ (102), the end of the poem steadies the lurch towards horror with the reconciling power of the imagination. In the words of the poem, the ‘mighty Mind […] that feeds upon eternity’ is also ‘exalted by an under-​ presence/​The sense of God, or whatso’er is dim/​And vast in its own being’ (Book 13, ll. 69–​73). It is this exalting ‘under-​presence’ that is lacking in, for example, William Beckford’s encounter with the sublime in the campi phlegrei near Naples. Dissolving heights, unfathomable gulphs and a sense of limitlessness are all present but Beckford remains only the mediator of these sensations; no exalting under-​presence rescues him from the visionary confusion of his feelings. For some travel writers, Grand Tourists especially (see Grand Tour), accessing the language of the sublime was simply a way of differentiating themselves from less animated travellers (Chard 1999, 112). Later in the nineteenth century, as Nigel Leask (2002, 78–​79, 141–​42) points out, a wariness of sublime discourse led some travellers –​even those making major discoveries such as the source of the Nile –​to undercut the discourse, and with it a claim to epic heroism. Although the sublime reappears in travelogues throughout the nineteenth century (see Dickens and other visitors to the Niagara Falls, for example) and into the twentieth, a countervailing narrative of self-​conscious bathos begins to emerge. A good example of this is Evelyn Waugh’s (1930) response to the sun setting on the volcanic terrain of Etna and Stromboli: ‘Nothing I  have ever seen in Art or Nature was quite so revolting’. The comic, self-​deprecating, anti-​heroic traveller (Waugh, Robert Byron or later in the century, Bill Bryson) displaces his sublime precursor (see also Youngs 2013, 82–​83). One recent twist in the tale of the sublime is the advent of the ‘accelerated’ sublime. This takes something of the Romantic essence of the concept but, instead of assuming imaginative contemplation of the landscape, registers the tumult of total immersion in it via, for example, a bungee jump. In a postmodern environment, both the experience of fear and its total control are permitted (health and safety features are a given) and superfast technological devices guarantee that the experience is captured and transmitted. Further along the ‘extreme’ spectrum adventure tourism shades into thanatourism. Graham Huggan (2009) analyses three instances in which superhuman endurance in the face of overwhelming, hostile natural phenomena invoke something like the sublime, but end up not with distanced, contained horror, but the real thing, in the form of actual or imminent death. So here we have the sublime doing what it has always threatened to do: to overwhelm, envelop, engulf –​and in

Sublime 243 some cases kill the subjects of these travel texts. Huggan’s argument is that in our late-​capitalist, postmodern, secular age, what might once have been terrifying or awe-​inspiring is anti-​climactic (2009, 120). As Philip Shaw (2006, 3) suggests, we no longer see the breakdown of expression as indicative of access to a higher imaginative or spiritual realm.

Further Reading Burke, E. 1958 [1757]. Burke’s Enquiry into the Sublime and the Beautiful. Ed. and intro. by J. T. Bolton. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Chard, C. 1999. Pleasure and Guilt on the Grand Tour, Travel Writing and Imaginative Geography 1600–​1830. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Huggan, G.  2009. Extreme Pursuits: Travel/​Writing in an Age of Globalization. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Leask, N.  2002. Curiosity and the Aesthetics of Travel Writing 1770–​1840. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Shaw, P. 2006. The Sublime: New Critical Idiom. London: Routledge.

83 TASTE Charles Forsdick

‘Taste’ appeared among the original keywords proposed by Raymond Williams, and was selected again for inclusion in New Keywords (2005). Williams (1976 [2014], 308) focuses on the physical sense of the word, but points out that its meaning from the thirteenth century was much wider and closer to the modern terms ‘touch’ or ‘feel’. The current association with gustatory sensation and specifically the mouth emerged in the fourteenth century, although current scientific research shows an increased interest in the interdependence of the senses, and specifically the association of taste and smell. The term is double-​edged, however, not only implying perception of the flavour of an item (most notably food) via the organs of taste, but also reflecting (from the eighteenth century onwards) forms of supposedly objective discernment and discrimination associated with what is deemed aesthetically pleasing in art and other areas of cultural production. The latter meaning might be associated with the important traveller/​tourist dichotomy (Buzard 1993; Urbain 1993 [1991]), with the traveller’s (good) taste or tastefulness often contrasted with the more tawdry and tasteless appetites of tourism. Anti-​tourism may therefore be seen –​in the terms of Pierre Bourdieu (1984)  –​as an attempt to translate, via taste, class distinctions into the cultural capital relating to travel. As Williams (2014 [1976], 310) presciently comments, ‘[T]‌he idea of taste cannot now be separated from the idea of the consumer.’ The entry in Keywords comments that –​unlike other sense words with metaphorical uses such as ‘touch’ and ‘feel’ –​the extended uses of ‘taste’ have been almost entirely abstracted from physical sensation, but it might nevertheless be argued that in the area of gastro-​or enotourism, the ability to appreciate the flavours of indigenous produce represents the acme of good taste. The specific focus on taste as a form of sensation is central to travel writing, notwithstanding the shifting semantics of the term discussed above. David Scott (2004) –​ exploring the place of taste in Claude Lévi-​Strauss, Roland Barthes, Michel Leiris and Patrick Boman –​describes ‘grammars of gastronomy’ evident in the travelogue, and taste is an integral part of many key anthropological texts, including work by Jack Goody and Claude Lévi-​Strauss. Food and drink play a practical purpose too, providing fuel for the journey, especially when this depends on extremes of physical endurance. Peter Fleming (1936) and Ella Maillart (1937) make clear in accounts of their journey across Xinjiang that the lack of food in the field of travel can lead to excesses of culinary nostalgia, but eating and drinking also often provide the context for conviviality and the construction of community within groups of travellers,

Taste 245 a dimension evident in early journey narratives such as Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and reflected in the importance of the inn in many later travelogues (McMorran 2002). The extent to which such activities relate specifically to taste does not become apparent, however, until the emergence of modern travel writing, not least with the growing importance of the Grand Tour in the context of which eating well might be seen as one of the principal challenges for young gentleman travellers on the continent. Jeremy Black (2003a, 77)  records British tourists producing certificates to prove that they were not subject to the strict Catholic diet during Lent, and repeated complaints about poor quality meat, ‘garlick’ and ‘oyl’ make it clear that British palates were often not prepared for the food they encountered. Food also often stands in a metonymic relationship to the culture that produces it, and consuming the cuisine of countries visited –​with varying degrees of disgust and delight –​underlines the privileged role of the sensation of taste in forming an intimate relationship in the field of travel. As Pettinger (2008, 137) suggests, the links between food and place are close ones: descriptions of eating and travel, he notes, are ‘as much about gustatory pleasures as the settings in which they take place: the roadside stall, the chaotic market, the expensive restaurant, the family home, the holiday beach, the mountain path, and so on’. There has been increasing interest in the gustatory in the field of the sensory humanities (Korsmeyer 2005), and much of this work has great relevance for studies in travel writing given the privileged status of food and drink as a means of accessing other cultures, and of the table as a site of intercultural encounter (see Frost and Tam 2008). A number of studies focus on particular cross-​cultural encounters in specific geographical niches: Ross Forman (2007), for instance, explores the ways in which British travellers’ representation of Chinese fare is part of a performance of national identity, whereas Michael K.  Walonen and M.  B. Hackler (2012) suggest that the descriptions of food in accounts of antebellum journeys to the South of the United States not only reveal challenges to cultural perceptions on the part of British travellers but also reflect the emerging construction of a tradition of Southern hospitality. Although a constant feature of travel writing, the act of tasting of elsewhere is increasingly becoming the rationale for a subgenre of food-​focused travel narratives. In Le Palais des saveurs accumulées (1989) Patrick Boman foregrounds his approach to China through the country’s cuisine, and John Barlow’s Everything but the Squeal (2009) deploys meat-​eating in Galicia as a way of understanding the region in Northern Spain. The links between food and terroir are central also to the ‘slow food’ movement, and evident in an increasing interest among travel writers in the entangled practice of ‘slow travel’ (Tam 2008; see slowness). In such contexts, tasting the flavours of elsewhere is often associated with questions of cultural authenticity (Heldke 2005), but other narratives (e.g., Majumdar 2010) use food more broadly as a means of cultural comparatism as their round-​the-​world journeys are accompanied by a sampling of cuisine in all countries visited. This is an approach evident also in the three series of The Trip, directed by Michael Winterbottom, in which actors Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon travel to the English Lake District (2010), Italy (2014) and Spain (2017). The protagonists indulge in fine dining, while sparring about each character’s relative insecurity, and reflecting on ageing and intimations of mortality. The Edible Atlas (Holland 2014) takes the blending of food and travel further

246  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies by producing a hybrid volume, a travelogue cum cookbook, in which place-​based observations are mixed with recipes from around the world. These texts form part of a growing corpus of gastro-​travel narratives, a contemporary complement to the interest in tasting elsewhere present in much earlier material. It is clear that the role of taste in journey narratives will continue to be a prominent concern, particularly as studies in travel writing show an increased openness to a range of forms of sensory engagement, and actively move beyond the ocularcentric to explore the role of other senses in the experience of the journey.

Further Reading Boman, P. 1989. Le Palais des saveurs accumulées. Paris: Editions Climat. Frost, N.  and D.  Tam (eds). 2008. ‘Food Journeys: Culinary Journeys in Time and Space’. Special issue of Food, Culture & Society, 11.2. Holland, M.  2014. The Edible Atlas: Around the World in Thirty-​Nine Cuisines. Edinburgh: Canongate. Korsmeyer, C. (ed.). 2005. The Taste Culture Reader: Experiencing Food and Drink. Oxford: Berg.

84 TECHNOLOGY Gary Totten

The term ‘technology’, referring to the ‘branch of knowledge dealing with the mechanical arts and applied sciences’, first appeared in English in 1787, with usage as an ‘application of such knowledge for practical purposes’ appearing in 1829 and its definition as a ‘product of such application’ (machinery or equipment) or a ‘process, method, or technique’ following in 1898 (Oxford English Dictionary). In the field of travel writing, the application of technological knowledge and its resulting products influence the travel experience and, thus, the form and content of travel narratives. New technologies allow us to view and experience differently the landscapes and cultures through which we travel. In 1909, describing his view of streetlamps through a car window, F. T. Marinetti notes the disorienting new visual experiences of automobile travel (40) while, in a more positive light, Mary Suzanne Schriber (1991, xxiv) compares Edith Wharton’s perspective from within the car a few years earlier to a camera lens that allows her to approach a town ‘panoramically, as if with a wide angle lens […] and then to zoom in, by contrast, for a close-​up’. In A Motor-​Flight through France (1908), Wharton also highlights the sometimes problematic relationship between the traveller’s gaze and technology. The car takes her to historical sites she would otherwise be unable to access but it also is a harbinger of increasing traffic. Similarly, in In Morocco (1920), she worries about how new highway infrastructure and an attendant influx of tourism will impact Morocco’s ancient culture, emphasizing that her travel narrative offers a view of the country that is disappearing in the face of this technological change. Considering the relationship between humans and technology, posthumanist theory suggests the role of travel technologies as prostheses. Cary Wolfe (2010, xxv) observes that the human ‘is a prosthetic creature that has coevolved with various forms of technicity and materiality’. Of the automobile, Kris Lackey (1997, 4) notes that it quickly ‘assumed the neutrality of a prosthesis’ and has become ‘so well fitted to the human mind and body that it all but disappears’ (5). This phenomenon can sometimes take an ominous turn, as in the way that car culture co-​opts women’s bodies and subjectivity through advertising (Clarke 2007). The blurring of human and machine affects both the travel experience and narrative. As Lackey (1997, 70) observes, before driving became an automatic reflex, social observation in highway narratives was rare, but in the 1930s, improved roads ‘allow[ed] drivers considerably more time for reflection’. In the 1960s, John Steinbeck (1997 [1962], 85) posits that ‘the driving technique is deeply buried in a machine-​like

248  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies unconscious’, leaving much of the conscious mind ‘free for thinking’. Jean Baudrillard (1998 [1986], 1)  suggests that the road produces a ‘fascination of senseless repetition’, a hypnotic effect that Robert Penn Warren’s (1946, 3)  character Huey Long experiences in All the King’s Men. Tracking these shifts of experience in relation to railway travel, Wolfgang Schivelbusch (1986 [1977], 37) describes how its new technology produced a ‘disorientation’ of the ‘traditional space-​time consciousness’ and a new travel experience that many nineteenth-​century travellers viewed as an ‘enrichment’ (59) rather than a loss. New technologies also facilitate increased mobility. In the early twentieth century, Theodore Dreiser’s (1997 [1916], 22) chauffeur, Speed, notes that they can ‘go anywhere the car’ll go’; consequently, in contrast to the fixed route of the railroad, Dreiser viewed the automobile as ‘the desire for freedom made manifest’ (431). Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (1957) celebrates the automobile’s freedom but, in its depiction of men on the road and women waiting at home for their return, also emphasizes the limits of such mobility. As Deborah Clarke (2007, 32) observes, the car carries gendered ‘baggage’, and Sherrie Inness (1996) describes how early twentieth-​century girls’ serial novels about automobile and plane travel broadened transportation technology’s appeal for women (48), but only as long as they ‘remained unsullied’ from contact with it (51). However, Sidonie Smith (2001, 28) claims that the specific interventions of female travel writers can help to ‘disentangle travel from its masculine logic’, and, indeed, Simone de Beauvoir’s 1947 road narrative America Day by Day presents a more empowering representation of travel technologies for women as both the car and the airplane facilitate Beauvoir’s philosophical observations of American culture. Carl Rowan’s South of Freedom (1952) reminds us that race also affects the degree of mobility made possible by technology. Rowan’s memories of harassment by white highway patrolmen emphasizes how African American mobility is read by the dominant culture as ‘a criminal act […] against white space’ (Packer 2008, 211). As travel scholars have noted, a ‘view of travel writing as a celebration of human freedom’ does not account for ‘the modern realities of class, race, and gender privilege’ (Holland and Huggan 1998, 4), which parallel the development of travel technologies; indeed, the rise of railways, transatlantic steamer travel and other travel technologies coincided with late nineteenth-​century ‘empire building’ (Carr 2002, 70). Some critics contend that the travel experience is diminished as technology makes travel easier. Rockwell Gray (1992, 42) observes that as airline systems and tour itineraries become more efficient, we risk ‘homogeniz[ing]’ the world and making travel boring. Guidebooks are a print technology that, as Michael Kowalewski (1992b, 4)  contends, also contribute to the pre-​packaged nature of our travel experiences. Plane travel in particular ‘cancels out the sensation of space traversed’ (Gray 1992, 37) and compromises our enjoyment of travel. While mass tourism and travel have, as Paul Theroux (1985, 135) notes, caused some to seek a somewhat anti-​technological and ‘clumsy, old-​fashioned travel, with its disgusting food and miseries and long nights’, Gray (1992, 49)  insists that ‘the spirit of awed exploration’ persists in ‘the laboratories, computer centers, and telescope domes of the world’, fueling our interest in travel and discovery. Emerging digital and other technologies will continue to influence our travel experiences and narratives in new ways.

Technology 249

Further Reading Clarke, D.  2007. Driving Women: Fiction and Automobile Culture in Twentieth-​ Century America. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Packer, J. 2008. Mobility without Mayhem: Safety, Cars, and Citizenship. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Schivelbusch, W. 1986 [1977]. The Railway Journey: The Industrialization of Time and Space in the Nineteenth Century. Berkeley: University of California Press. Smith, S.  2001. Moving Lives: Twentieth-​ Century Women’s Travel Writing. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Totten, G. 2013. ‘The Dialectic of History and Technology in Edith Wharton’s A Motor-​Flight through France’. Studies in Travel Writing, 17.2: 133–​44.

85 TIME Jacqueline Dutton

Encompassing one of the richest semiological fields in the English language, ‘time’ is defined in the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) as ‘the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole’ with the first citation of usage being ‘travel through space and time’. This example clearly opposes spatial and temporal planes with regard to travel, in a schema that normally privileges space over time, as in the words of Michel de Certeau (1984, 115) ‘every story is a travel story  –​a spatial practice’. Travel writing implies the narrative of a movement or displacement of a being or thing from one place to another, whether near or far. Usually, the time taken to travel is also evoked, and on occasion given special importance in the journal or diary of explorers, or in a race –​like Amundsen and Scott to the South Pole (Spufford 1996) or Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (1873). If time is interpreted as a duration, or continued progress, it can also be considered as the norm, constant or mundane. Travel, on the other hand, is often referred to as ‘time out’, indicating that physical displacement from the usual residence can disrupt mundane time in a Bakhtinian sense, making it carnivalesque, the opposite from the everyday (Curtis and Pajaczkowska 1994, 197). This loop in time can be programmed in different ways according to the desires of the traveller, ranging from the accelerated experience of the package tour through seven European capitals in seven days, to the decelerated option of a Club Med style getaway to Bali, spent on a sun lounger with a cocktail and a book and no plans at all. The recent popular phenomenon of ‘slow’ travel (see slowness) can be inspired by traditional pilgrimages, such as the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, which has enjoyed a renaissance among secular as well as religious walkers, as described in Cees Nooteboom’s Roads to Santiago (1997) and Tim Moore’s Spanish Steps: Travels with My Donkey (2004). Or they can be a personal and social experiment like Rory Stewart’s The Places in Between (2004), about his 32-​day solo walk across Afghanistan in early 2002 in an attempt to understand the internal relations and politics in a country at war. Travel writing can also accelerate and decelerate the reader’s experience of their ‘time out’, by glossing over episodes or prolonging descriptions, playing with temporal sequence and causality (Ricoeur 1980; Mikkonen 2007). The second OED definition of time as a measurable point  –​whether in hours, days, years or centuries –​or a portion in/​of history is potentially more complex than it may first appear in the context of travel and travel writing. In the first degree, time

Time 251 travel is most often understood as the accelerated movement to a point in the past or future of the current time continuum. Writing about time travel has its origins in ancient texts, with the Hindu Mahabaratha, the Japanese Nihongo and several other traditional collections containing stories of incredible voyages to different worlds and of travellers returning to find that years have passed instead of minutes. The beginnings of speculative fiction in Europe usually involve time travel via a dream, as in Louis-​Sébastien Mercier’s Paris in the Year 2440 (1770), or supernatural powers, as in Samuel Madden’s Memoirs of the Twentieth Century (1733), but The Time Machine (1895) by H. G. Wells was the first widely read novel depicting the deliberate desire to travel through time (Alkon 1987). The success of the genre coincided with the development of science fiction, which often also involves imaginary interplanetary travel. Time travel writing integrates many of the tropes found in narratives of spatial displacement, such as encounters with otherness, descriptions of different peoples, places, politics, practices, processes and critical comparisons between the ‘other’ time and the ‘normal’ time. At the intersection of these two definitions of time –​as continued progress and measurable point –​is the notion of temporality in travel writing. This concept has caused consternation among scholars, including Patrick Holland and Graham Huggan (1998, 148), who critique ‘the contradictory temporalities of much travel writing, its tendency to bypass history in search of (spurious) universals and “timeless” truths’. For many, the main issues arise from tension between the time of travel and the time of writing, leading to questions of memory and truth (Broome Saunders 2014). For others, it is the relationship between temporal order and spatial representation, since the traveller’s time dictates the narrative of geographic space as s/​he encounters it (Mikkonen 2007, 292). However, the seminal work by Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other (1983), suggests that there are more complex questions to be answered regarding time in travel writing, such as the ‘denial of coevalness’ –​ synchronic or contemporaneous time –​in interactions between the narrator-​traveller and the narrated-​travellee. Three contradictory or competing temporalities are particularly significant in identifying discrepancies between the time of the traveller and the time of the travellee: nostalgia for the past suggesting a longing for imperial discoveries and colonial hierarchies (Porter 1991; Frow 1991; and colonialism); nostalgia for the future or ‘salvage’ writing which is attributed to the increasing cultural homogeneity generated by globalization (Jameson 1991; Clifford 1986; Rosaldo 1989; Boym 2001); and futuristic projections of travel and its consequences as imaginary extrapolations of the present sociopolitical situation (Dutton 2006). Each of these temporal categories encodes an inherent rejection and essential undermining of contemporaneous time as represented in travel writing (Dutton 2012), in a refracted echo of the opening line of L. P. Hartley’s The Go-​Between (1953), ‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.’

Further Reading Curtis, B.  and C.  Pajaczkowska. 1994. ‘ “Getting There”: Travel, Time and Narrative’. In G. Robertson et al. (eds), Travellers’ Tales: Narratives of Home and Displacement. London: Routledge: 197–​214.

252  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Dutton, J.  2012. ‘Taking Time Out to Travel: Competing Temporalities in Contemporary French Travel Writing’. Nottingham French Studies, 51.1: 1–​13. Fabian, J. 1983. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object. New York: Columbia University Press. Holland, P.  and G.  Huggan. 1998. Tourists with Typewriters. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Rosaldo, R. 1989. ‘Imperialist Nostalgia’. Representations, 26: 107–​22.

86 TOURISM Zoë Kinsley

The Oxford English Dictionary dates the emergence of the term ‘tourism’ to the early years of the nineteenth century, and identifies two main strands of meaning. First, it refers to the ‘theory and practice of touring’. Second, it outlines ‘the business of attracting tourists and providing for their accommodation and entertainment; the business of operating tours’. Tourism, then, denotes a particular kind of travel that is associated with leisure and pleasure, usually clearly differentiated as a period away from ‘work’ (travel as holiday, vacation, annual leave), despite its origins in the word ‘tour’ which in its early usage denoted a period of work or duty. Unlike other forms of travel which are undertaken out of necessity or are enforced, tourism implies choice and agency, and positions the traveller as the consumer of a touristic ‘product’. Key Concepts in Tourism, edited by Loykie Lominé and James Edmunds, includes many terms which remind us of the fact that tourism as a term speaks to the business interests of those in the industry of organizing and facilitating the journeys of others (such terms include ‘cross price elasticity of demand’, ‘franchising’ and ‘public relations’ (Lominé and Edmunds 2007)). Usage of the term ‘tourist’ emerged a little earlier than the noun ‘tourism’. Appearing in English in the late eighteenth century, ‘tourist’ was initially employed as a synonym for ‘traveller’, yet rapidly took on pejorative connotations (see Buzard 1993). James Plumptre’s comic opera The Lakers (1798), for example, is both dedicated to, and satirizes, ‘tourists’. It presents a stereotype of touristic behaviour that still feels familiar: ‘Sir Incurious is so passionately fond of travelling, and the Lakes, that he drives post [swiftly] through the country every year, with his carriage windows up, and never gets out but to eat, drink, and sleep’ (Plumptre 1798, 2). Such denigration of this particular kind of travel –​fast, superficial and detached –​marks it out as inauthentic, simultaneously suggesting that there is another, more meaningful way to make a tour. Understood through this formulation, the tourist is an anti-​traveller; as Jennifer Craik (2005) demonstrates in the entry on ‘Tourism’ for New Keywords, the traveller/​tourist dichotomy suggests that there are kinds of travel that are laudable, and others that are not (see also Kinsley 2016). Colin Thubron (2012, 58) argues that this binary model for understanding travelling practices is appealing because it enables a positive construction of the self as ‘traveller’ in juxtaposition to others: ‘tourists are never ourselves, always other people’. For example, when Charles Dickens (1998 [1846], 129) claims of his fellow English traveller in Pictures from Italy that ‘I don’t think she ever saw anything, or ever looked at anything’, he denigrates her while

254  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies implying that he himself is a fundamentally better kind of traveller. Some critics have written about travellers and tourists as if they are two real and identifiable groups –​ the former pursuing adventure and supposedly authentic experiences of place and culture away from the touristic hordes, the latter treading the ‘beaten track’ of ready-​ made sight-​seeing itineraries (Boorstin 1992; Fussell 1980). Others, however, have complicated the oppositional rhetoric of the traveller/​tourist juxtaposition by arguing that it exposes cultural assumptions about social, moral and intellectual value (see Culler 1981; Buzard 1993; and MacCannell 1999). In his seminal study The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class (first published in 1976), Dean MacCannell (1999, 43)  associates tourism with modernity, but he also acknowledges that it replicates (and, he would argue, comes to replace) the communal travel practices of early religious pilgrimage. In doing so he reminds us that organized travel in pursuit of particular itineraries has a long history that predates the emergence of what is generally described as ‘mass tourism’ in the mid-​nineteenth century. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries both the Grand Tour to Europe and the British home tour popularized particular tour circuits, and those circuits quickly developed infrastructures  –​accommodation, eating places, transport, guides  –​to support (and make money from) visitors (see Ousby 1990). Travel accounts of the period often narrate those popular routes, and anthologized collections of tours serve to further the notion that such tourism is taking place in significant numbers. Works such as William Fordyce Mavor’s The British Tourists; or Traveller’s Pocket Companion (6 vols, 1798–​1800) both present and speak to tourists as a collective, and promote a particular way of seeing place, a particular kind of ‘tourist gaze’ (Urry 2011). As Carl Thompson (2011) has noted, ‘[F]‌or many years […] to be a tourist was a mark of conspicuous privilege.’ Yet, ‘if it began as an elite practice’, tourism was ‘increasingly taken up by the emergent middle classes’ (47–​48). By the 1840s, Thomas Cook was exploiting the new British railway system in order to organize travel for groups, and that coordination of local trips soon led to the organization of package holidays abroad (Brendon 1991). The subject of tourism has been examined from a wide range of multi-​and interdisciplinary perspectives. MacCannell’s work has been extremely influential. His examination of ‘work displays’ focused attention on the postindustrial intersections between class and aesthetic relations (1999, 63); and his discussion of tourism’s ‘institutionalization of primitive-​performances-​for-​others’, which he reads via the ‘metaphoric cannibalism’ of capitalism, has raised questions about the ethics of travel and tourism (1992, 19–​20). However, there have been important revisions of his ideas in recent years, and his ‘grand narrative of tourism’ has been increasingly seen as ‘problematic’ (Jack and Phipps 2005, 1–​2). For example, Dimitrios Theodossopoulos (2010, 127)  has argued that the ‘personal and spontaneous involvement in staged performances’ by tourists in Parara Puru, Panama, calls into question MacCannell’s ‘rigid distinction between the front-​and back-​stages of tourist exchanges’. He also proposes that for the Embera people, performance of their culture to tourists has become part of its ‘authenticity’. Gavin Jack and Alison Phipps (2005, 4), who have examined tourism through the lens of ‘intercultural communication’, celebrate the way in which recent postmodern criticism has ‘pick[ed] apart’ the ‘knotting together of tourism, commodified exchange relations and the search for authenticity’,

Tourism 255 revealing the ‘playfulness of the tourist subject’ in the process. Complementary work has introduced the concept of the ‘post-​tourist’ (see Feifer 1985, 271) –​the traveller who is all too aware of their own limitations, and in their writing frequently employs self-​parody in order to remind the reader of that fact. In Coasting, Jonathan Raban’s (1987 [1986], 22)  self-​deprecations include describing himself as ‘soft’, ‘wet’ and a ‘coward’  –​rather than criticizing what is ‘touristy’ in others, the postmodern ‘post-​ tourist’ apologizes for the supposed touristic inadequacies of the self.

Further Reading Buzard, J.  1993. The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature, and the Ways to Culture, 1800–​1918. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Feifer, M. 1985. Going Places: The Ways of the Tourist from Imperial Rome to the Present Day. London: MacMillan. Jack, G.  and A.  Phipps. 2005. Tourism and Intercultural Exchange: Why Tourism Matters. Clevedon: Channel View. MacCannell, D.  1999 [1976]. The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class. Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press. Ousby, I. 1990. The Englishman’s England: Taste, Travel and the Rise of Tourism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

87 TRADE Guido van Meersbergen

Trade, in its most commonly used sense of commercial activity, or ‘the buying and selling of goods and commodities’ (Oxford English Dictionary (OED)), has been one of the principal drivers of human mobility in world history. While the same may be less obvious today, trade before the arrival of virtual market places was inextricably linked with travel. It is appropriate, therefore, that when the word passed from Middle Dutch into English, the meaning of ‘trade’ was closely related to that of ‘path’, ‘course’ and ‘track’, notions invoking movement which indicated a way of living as well as a physical trail (OED). Although the term developed via denoting occupation towards its current commercial uses, ‘trade’ long retained connotations of travel and mobility, such as when Daniel Defoe (1725, II, 205) referred to an imaginary circumnavigation as ‘this New Scheme of a Trade round the World’. While the interconnectedness of the world we inhabit, tied together by myriad trade relations, owes much to the commercial expeditions undertaken by travelling Europeans in the early modern period (1400–​1800), few would still agree with Adam Smith (1776, II, 235) that ‘[t]‌he discovery of America, and that of a passage to the East Indies by the Cape of Good Hope, are the two greatest and most important events recorded in the history of mankind’. Recent studies of maritime and continental commerce have documented the very substantial degree of inter-​regional linkages and exchanges forged through trade and travel since ancient times. Indeed, the peregrinations of seafaring merchants and overland traders connected and shaped societies as distant and different from each other as those of ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia and the Indus valley, or Han China and imperial Rome (Curtin 1984; Bernstein 2008; McLaughlin 2010; Paine 2013). The principal medieval addition to this Afro-​Eurasian trading zone consisted of the trans-​Saharan routes which for the first time connected North Africa firmly to Sub-​ Saharan African markets. At the southern terminus of these desert passages, cities such as Timbuktu grew into prominence as trading centres connecting the trans-​ Saharan trade with trans-​Sudanic routes (Smith 2009, 138). Such commercial circuits provided the logistical backdrop for the journeys of many renowned late medieval travellers, if not their main purpose for setting out. In 1351, embarking on the last of his lengthy travels which comprised a total of 30  years, the Moroccan scholar Ibn Battuta (1304–​c.1369) made his way southward by caravan from Fez across the Sahara to Mali (Dunn 1986). Much the same distance was covered a century-​and-​a-​ half later by another Muslim traveller from Fez, al-​Hasan al-​Wazzan (c.1494–​c.1554),

Trade 257 later baptized Leo Africanus. Interspersed with his account of diplomatic missions one finds numerous references to trade, once more underlining the importance of commerce as a key facilitator of premodern travel (Davis 2006). Given this logic, it is only natural that Asia formed the main theatre of Ibn Battuta’s travels, as it did for his near-​contemporary, the Venetian Marco Polo (1254–​1324). Travelling overland through Central Asia to Kublai Khan’s court at Beijing; and returning home by sea via Southeast Asia and the western Indian Ocean, Polo and his merchant-​companions moved along Eurasia’s two principal commercial highways: the Silk Road and the Indian Ocean sea lanes. While debating the character and chronology of the premodern world economy, most economic historians agree that it was centred upon Asia (Abu-​Lughod 1989; Frank 1998; Pomeranz and Topik 1999). The pivotal role of commerce in tying together the different parts of the Indian Ocean world has been amply documented by scholars such as K. N. Chaudhuri (1985, 12), who stressed the peripatetic nature of trading communities: ‘[m]‌erchants are, by definition, generally obliged to travel’. Well known is the part played by Arab merchants in the spread of Islam to India and Southeast Asia, and that of Gujarati merchants in transporting textiles as far east as the Moluccas and carrying back the spices coveted as far west as Europe. Such examples could easily be multiplied, focusing on the contributions of travelling Chinese, Malay, Tamil, Armenian, Parsi, Jewish or other traders. The late fifteenth-​century establishment of a sea route between Europe and Asia around the southern tip of Africa did not only initiate a significant expansion of trade between Eurasia’s western-​and easternmost corners, the new maritime connection also sparked an unprecedented increase in eastward (and, to a lesser degree, westward) travel. In the two centuries of its existence (1602–​1799), the Dutch East India Company (Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie or VOC) alone carried almost a million people to Asia (Bruijn et al. 1987, 143). Among those sailing on East India Company vessels were numerous individuals for whom trade was not their principal concern, yet who owe their renown as travel writers in large part to their employment by these commercial organizations, such as the surgeon Nicolaas de Graaff (1619–​c.1688) or the chaplain Edward Terry (1590–​1660). Even a figure like the Italian Jesuit Martino Martini (1614–​61), author of the Atlas Sinensis (1655), travelled home on a VOC ship (Lach 1993, 382). If a person’s sojourn in Company service was not always voluntary, for the millions of enslaved people who were shipped from one side of the Indian, Pacific or Atlantic Ocean to the other, travel was utterly forced. Just as devastating in terms of human cost was the fact that –​along with people, goods, livestock and crops –​germs also travelled along the world’s major trade routes (Crosby 1972; Diamond 1997). The trans-​Atlantic slave trade, the Black Death and the depopulation of the Americas are three salient examples that remind us of the shadow sides of the increase in human mobility as a consequence of long-​distance trade. In the current age of mass tourism and online trading, the nexus between trade and travel has for the first time become less than self-​evident. Yet trade remains crucial in relation to travel and travel writing, and not only because historically it has given a major impetus to both. Today the global book trade continues to enable writing to travel with ever more speed to the most distant markets.

258  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies

Further Reading Braudel, F. 1972 [1949]. The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II. Trans. by Siân Reynolds. 2 Vols. London: Collins. Curtin, P.  D. 1984. Cross-​ Cultural Trade in World History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lach, D. F. 1965–​93. Asia in the Making of Europe. 3 Vols. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Paine, L.  2013. The Sea and Civilization: A Maritime History of the World. London: Atlantic Books. Smith, R. L. 2009. Premodern Trade in World History. New York: Routledge.

88 TRANSLATION Aedín Ní Loingsigh

The relevance of translation to practices of travel and travel writing cannot be overstated. Travel takes place in what Michael Cronin (2000, 156) terms ‘a world of language(s)’ where ‘linguistic exposure to others’ is difficult to avoid and invariably requires the traveller to reword cultural systems encountered. Judith Johnston (2016 [2013], 2) also insists on a causal relationship between travel and translation, but for her translation triggers the journey rather than the other way around: ‘translation is another form of journey, literally the removal from one place or condition to another’. Anthony Pym’s (2010, 152) conclusion is perhaps most emphatic and posits as elemental to human activity a mutually dependent relationship between movement and translation: ‘if nothing moved, there would be no need for translations’. The centrality of translation to notions of movement, travel and transfer is also attested etymologically. The term derives from the Latin substantive translatio and the verb transferre. The former refers to the solemn transportation of religious relics from one location to another during the Middle Ages whereas the latter means to ‘move or to carry across’, a meaning that evokes the etymology of the Greek term for metaphor (Shannan Peckham 1998, 164). The notion of removal and transfer from one context to another is retained in the old French translater but this verb also understands translation as a specific interlingual process involving the transferral of meaning from a source to a target language. Critical work on travel writing has not ignored the fundamental importance of translation. James Clifford (1997b), for example, identifies ‘translation’ as a key travel-​ related term, as does Mary-​Louise Pratt (2002) who sees its hermeneutical dimension repeated in travel’s cross-​cultural activities. However, although these influential critics explore how difference is deciphered and explained in familiar terms through writing practices that include travel accounts, translation as used by them and others is often divorced from language (Cronin 2000, 102). Instead, its metaphorical value is emphasized to account for external cultural and ideological processes that influence the (mis)representations of a source culture to a target culture. Travel writing’s collusion with the European imperial project exposes an enduringly contradictory role played by linguistic translation that may explain a reluctance to engage in any systematic way with language encounter in the context of travel writing and its scholarship. On the one hand, as Johannes Fabian (2000) notes, linguistic preparation was promoted to colonial travellers for practical reasons that included protection against ‘untrustworthy’ native translators and interpreters.

260  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Sprinkling travel accounts with foreign words and their translations could bestow an exotic quality on the writing as well as authenticating the journey (Shannan Peckham 1998). Linguistic mastery (whether real or feigned) also denoted the European colonial traveller and explorer as exceptional in both character and intellect and contributed to the renown of such figures as Richard Burton. Such knowledge also allowed colonial travellers to pronounce on the ‘poverty’ and grammatical simplicity of languages encountered and thereby assert their own linguistic supremacy. This was reinforced by the descriptive tendencies of travel writing to speak for, or ‘domesticate’, the Other without acknowledging the latter’s role as a translating mediator (see colonialism). On the other hand, exposing travel as a language-​centred practice was a risky business. The real role of translation was often erased or downplayed in order to ensure colonial European languages remained the most authoritative means of interpreting unfamiliar worlds. To highlight the inevitable dependency of European travellers on ‘untrustworthy’ translators would have exposed the former as vulnerable and their knowledge as partial. Moreover, ‘practical language learning demands humility, a willingness to risk shame and ridicule’ (Fabian 2000, 130), qualities that did not fit with sanctioned views of the colonial traveller. Silvia Antosa’s (2013) study of Richard Burton suggests this nomadic-​translator’s identity became separated in order to obscure the way his erotic translations ‘queer’ the very travel culture that upheld the myth of this great explorer. Rather than identify the colonial traveller as a subversive translator or as linguistically inadequate, colonial travel writing and culture opted more often to present the world as a silent ‘visual experience […] that obscures the act of translation’ (Topping 2016, 79–​80). Practical and formal issues also explain why translation as linguistic transferral rarely forms a sustained subject of inquiry in travel narratives even as metaphorical meanings are exploited in meaningful ways. In the Western Isles, for example, Madeleine Bunting (2016, 226)  acknowledges the ‘ “hidden landscape” [of Gaelic] lying beneath the physical’. However, a limited ability to translate means she is unable to extend exploration of this terrain beyond a small number of pages and must focus instead on intralingual encounter (another underexplored form of translation in the context of travel writing). This reminds us that time is required not just to locate the examples of linguistic translation scattered across travel narratives but also to acquire the type of linguistic competence a traveller requires to become a translator. The temporal dimension of genre also means that translators who necessarily travel to discover that ‘ chat is not a cat at all, but a new creature in new surroundings’ (Kaplan 1994, 59) are moved into an entirely new form. Unlike the travel narrative, that overwhelmingly presents temporally circumscribed episodes of a traveller’s life in a world always already translated, it seems the form of the ‘language memoir’ is better suited to the lifetime of travel needed to acquire a new language. The future suggests the connection between travel and translation will remain vital and complex. Whether used to police or support the migrant traveller, sustain travel’s commercial activities through digital technology, or expose us to the travel cultures of others, the translation underpinning all journeys and the journeys underpinning all translations will continue to help us understand where we have come from and where we are going.

Translation 261

Further Reading Bassnett, S. 2004. ‘Travelling and Translating’. World Literature Written in English, 40.2:  66–​76. Cronin, M. 2003. Translation and Globalization. London and New York: Routledge. Italiano, F. 2016. Translation and Geography. London and New York: Routledge. Koshravi, S.  2010. ‘Illegal’ Traveller: An Auto-​Ethnography of Borders. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Polezzi, L.  (ed.). 2001. Translating Travel: Contemporary Italian Travel Writing in English. Aldershot: Ashgate.

89 TRANSPORT Gary Totten

Usages of the term ‘transport’ that align with travel appeared in English in 1483 as a verb meaning to ‘carry, convey, or remove from one place or person to another’, and in 1694 as a ‘means of transportation or conveyance’ (Oxford English Dictionary). Michael Kowalewski (1992b, 3) notes that various forms of transport such as ‘railroads, automobiles, and airplanes have all placed new demands on travellers’ eyes, nerves, and viscera’, emphasizing, as Wolfgang Schivelbusch (1986) argues in his study of railroad travel, how new modes of transportation influence us mentally, emotionally and socially. Travellers’ experience of different forms of transport changed as they became more familiar, meaning, as Kowalewski (1992b, 3) points out, that they can also become routine. In the early days of the automobile, while first-​time drivers were too consumed with navigating the road to notice anything else, Kris Lackey (1997, 70) notes that those drivers who have the luxury of being chauffeured noticed more of the passing scene. Theodore Dreiser (1997, 25)  provides a compelling example of the mental effects of such a chauffeured experience when he asserts in 1916 that automobiling ‘supplies just that mixture of change in fixity which satisfies me –​leaves me mentally poised in inquiry’. The rise of travel by rail and ship in the nineteenth century greatly facilitated travel and tourism, and the experience of travelling with others on a train or ocean liner eventually gave way to the more individualistic experience of travel in a car or motorcycle. The slow, reflective experience of a transatlantic voyage also contrasts with the experience of shooting the car through ravines and across hills, as in Dreiser’s (1997, 475–​76) effusive description of travel in Indiana’s picturesque mountain regions. These developments in forms of transport were not just linked to the rise of tourism, however, for, as Helen Carr (2002, 70)  reminds us, ‘[i]‌mprovements in transport were fanned by, and helped to fan, the empire building, trade expansion and mass migrations of the late nineteenth century’. Women travellers also document the effects of different forms of transport. Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s aviation narrative North to the Orient (1935) reveals her understanding, as Halia Koo (2003, 32)  observes, that airplane travel represents ‘a new way of seeing the world’ and that female pilots, in particular, are unique representatives of this new mode of transport. Certainly Lindbergh’s and other women travellers’ compelling narratives challenge what Sidonie Smith (2001, 175) has identified as gendered notions about ‘women’s incompetent or “timid” ’ approaches to travel. Although Lindbergh anticipates the gendered expectations of her audience by

Transport 263 referring to her feminine clothes (used for publicity photographs at her destination) (1938, 212) and representing the cockpit as an intimate and domestic space made for her and her husband –​just the ‘two of us’ (1935, 40) –​she also characterizes herself as a competent surveyor, licensed radio operator and co-​pilot as she travels with her husband Charles. Different forms of travel also remind us of the stark differences between the uses of the same mode –​ships, for instance –​for ‘diversion or as the source for artistic and literary creation’ (Gray 1992, 47) as well as for enforced travel, as in the transporting of slaves across the Middle Passage in ships’ holds. The car, too, can become a confining mode of transport. For black drivers, the car can function as a ‘coon cage’ (Ellison 1973, 259), as Ralph Ellison terms it in his short story ‘Cadillac Flambé’, or a ‘sideshow for japing bigots’ in Lackey’s (1997, 126) words. These notions of containment and visibility suggest that for African American travellers, the car functions as a space of surveillance and even potential incarceration rather than of self-​discovery and escape. Emphasizing the variety of ways that travel modes can intersect with racial ideologies, Ida B. Wells records in her autobiography (1970) different levels of oppression in the late nineteenth century on the train (from which she is ejected in Jim Crow Tennessee) and a transatlantic ocean liner (on which she is treated with a sort of patronizing respect as an exotic spectacle). Different modes of travel also carry emotional associations. Edith Wharton (1991, 1) begins her 1908 French travel narrative with the observation that ‘[t]‌he motor-​car has restored the romance of travel’, and she describes how the automobile changes one’s relationship to the landscape and even to a sense of history. ‘What other form of travel could have brought us into such communion with the spirit of the Loire?’ (35) she asks, and notes that a train schedule would have meant more stops (36) and missing ‘what is, in one way, the truest initiation of travel, the sense of continuity, of relation between different districts, of familiarity with the unnamed, unhistoried region stretching between successive centres of human history’ (37). Paul Fussell (1980, 37) similarly implies the romance of the golden age of ocean travel when he notes that in the mid-​twentieth century, one could enter ‘Manhattan by the Lincoln Tunnel’ and see ‘the majestic row of transatlantic liners nuzzling the island […] These were the last attendants of the age of travel, soon to fall victim to the jet plane and the cost of oil and the cost of skilled labor’. Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara (2004) emphasizes the romantic aspects of motorcycle travel by way of its absence halfway through his Latin American road trip, began in December 1951 with his friend Alberto Granado, when they leave the damaged motorcycle, dubbed ‘La Poderosa II’, behind at a Santiago garage. He writes: ‘We had come to a new phase in our adventure. We were used to calling idle attention to ourselves with our strange dress and the prosaic figures of La Poderosa II […] [W]e had been knights of the road […] Now we were just two hitchhikers with backpacks’ (68). The unpredictability, inconvenience and danger of the road, also part of travel’s attraction, is appealing to early twentieth-​ century travellers such as Emily Post (1916, 44), who argues that ‘in motoring, as in life, since trouble gives character, obstacles and misadventures are really necessary to give the trip character!’ (emphasis in the original). Daniel Boorstin (1992, 97) notes that taking the risk out of travel depletes the experience of pleasure, and, certainly, being transported to new and interesting places  –​mentally, emotionally

264  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies and physically –​via the various modes of transport available to us is an important part of the travel experience that many travellers continue to seek.

Further Reading Fussell, P.  1980. Abroad: British Literary Traveling between the Wars. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kowalewski, M. (ed.). 1992. Temperamental Journeys: Essays on the Modern Literature of Travel. Athens: University of Georgia Press. Lackey, K.  1997. RoadFrames: The American Highway Narrative. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Schivelbusch, W. 1986 [1977]. The Railway Journey: The Industrialization of Time and Space in the Nineteenth Century. Berkeley: University of California Press. Totten, G. 2015. African American Travel Narratives from Abroad: Mobility and Cultural Work in the Age of Jim Crow. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press.

90 TRAVEL Charles Forsdick

Keywords (Williams 2014 [1976]) and its sequel New Keywords (Bennett et al. 2005) both fail to include ‘travel’ among their contents. The generic label ‘travel writing’ nevertheless yokes together this term, designating various forms of mobility, with another keyword relating to human communication and creativity. The meanings of each have evolved considerably, and belong to complex semantic fields, either closely policed or alternatively prised open to permit various meanings. Jacques Meunier (1992, 148) claims that splitting in two the word ‘écrivain-​voyageur’ (travel writer) leaves not ‘travel’ and ‘writer’ as separate entities, but instead a dissected travel writer in which the two elements cannot be split. He suggests that travelling and writing are intertwined, interdependent and often indistinguishable activities (see also Butor 1972). To understand travel writing as a genre, however, there is a need to analyse each component keyword before exploring the implications of their intersections. ‘Travel’ first appeared in English in the fifteenth century, a derivation from ‘travail’, borrowed directly from the French to betoken bodily or intellectual labour as well as other forms of hardship and suffering (including childbirth). Although –​in a title such as Gulliver’s Travels –​the word was also used elliptically to designate accounts of such journeying, its meaning has stabilized to describe acts of travelling, with elements of inherent exertion often foregrounded according to the term’s etymological roots: ‘travel’ is linked –​like ‘travail’ itself –​to the ‘tripalium’, an instrument of torture made up of three stakes to which the victim would be tied and burnt with fire (Fussell 1980, 39). This focus on physical ordeal distinguishes ‘travel’ from its equivalent in other languages: the roots of ‘voyage’ in French, for instance, focus on the physical path of the journey itself rather than the physical effort required to follow it. Recognizing a text as ‘travel writing’ depends on a confident understanding of what constitutes ‘travel’, and also of what distinguishes this activity from numerous other forms of displacement, notably ‘tourism’ (Buzard 1993; Urbain 1993). ‘Travel’ is also associated with various modifiers –​‘slow’ (see slowness), ‘extreme’, ‘dark’, ‘necessary’, ‘vertical’ –​that reveal the practices with which it is linked and contexts in which it occurs. In the social sciences in particular, ‘mobility’ has increasingly replaced ‘travel’ as a federating term and concept –​‘an evocative keyword for the twenty-​first century and a powerful discourse that creates its own effects and contexts’ (Hannam et  al. 2006, 1). ‘Movement’, ‘mobility’ and ‘displacement’ are indeed keywords that form elements of a wider constellation of terms associated with ‘travel’, but they are certainly not synonymous with it. ‘Travel’  –​real and virtual  –​seems increasingly

266  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies constitutive of contemporary life, both as leisure and liberation, but also as a source of restlessness, rootlessness and anxiety. For James Clifford (1997b, 11), ‘travel’ understood as a keyword serves also as a ‘translation term’, that is, as a tool of analysis that ‘goes a certain distance and falls apart’. Foregrounding the need for cross-​cultural and transhistorical comparison, he suggests the need to ‘hang onto “travel” as a term of cultural comparison, precisely because of its historical taintedness, its associations with gendered, racial bodies, class privilege, specific means of conveyance, beaten paths, agents, frontiers, documents, and the like’ (39). As Clifford suggests, understandings of ‘travel’ have inevitably evolved, often rapidly and radically, reflecting the historical circumstances in which it occurs. ‘Travel’ encapsulates these shifts, and invites close scrutiny of them. When first deployed, mechanization was minimal, and travel largely depended on individual human mobility, the harnessing of the elements or power provided by animals. Conditions were accordingly often hazardous, and geographical range  –​despite numerous exceptions  –​ restricted. The introduction of steam and the invention of internal combustion (and then jet) engines revolutionized travel, not least in terms of speed (see velocity), distance and its wider availability. The emergence of popular tourism constituted a threat to the exclusivity of travel, and increasing acceleration (Schivelbusch 1986 [1977]) –​ accompanied by the resulting compression of time and space described by thinkers such as Paul Virilio (James 2007) –​placed further pressure on the term’s conventional understandings. With the rise of digital technologies, physical travel is now enhanced (or, in some narratives, replaced) by virtual journeying. The historical contexts of travel underline the need to explore these variables with which the term is associated, not least class, gender and relative velocity, but also issues of ethnicity, cultural origin and sexual orientation (see sex/​sexuality). Stephen Greenblatt’s Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto (2009) pithily crystallizes a number of ideas concerning travel and mobility as phenomena constitutive of cultures and societies. While underlining the extent to which ‘travel’ must be understood primarily in a literal sense before it is abstracted in the light of figurative, theoretical or metaphorical interpretations (see also Kaplan 1996; Wolff 1993), Greenblatt stresses that mobility studies (to which studies in travel writing are key) should pay serious attention to analysis of the opposite of travel, that is, immobility, rootedness and even cultural stagnation. The increasing importance of nature writing and the privileging of walking as a decelerated means of transport reflects how ‘travel’ is associated with home as much as with abroad, with the domestic as much as with the exotic, with the apparently static as much as with the overtly mobile. James Clifford (1992, 2) highlights such interdependency of mobility and immobility, encapsulated in the twin notions of ‘dwelling-​in-​travelling’ and ‘travelling-​in-​dwelling’, suggesting that the domestic is often constructed in the midst of travel, and that travel –​in the form of vertical journeys (Cronin 2000) –​can be integral to engagement with the everyday. A key aspect of contemporary travelogues is a focus on the meanings of ‘travel’ now. With the rapid mechanization of transport and the democratization of mobility, does the term, for instance, simply indicate a nostalgia for earlier forms of journeying? Treating ‘travel’ as a ‘keyword’ challenges us always to historicize and contextualize. Technological innovation, digital transformation, the existence of virtual worlds, the

Travel 267 continued unfolding of afterlives of empire, the emergence of phenomena such as ‘thanatourism’ all continue to shape the meanings of ‘travel’, guaranteeing its place in our own shared ‘vocabulary of culture and society’.

Further Reading Adey, P. et al. (eds). 2013. The Routledge Handbook of Mobilities. London: Routledge. Elsner, J. and J.-​P. Rubiés (eds). 1999. Voyages and Visions: Toward a Cultural History of Travel. London: Reaktion. Kaplan, C.  1996. Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Roberson, S.  L. (ed.). 2002. Defining Travel: Diverse Visions. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press. Williams, C. T. (ed.). 1998. Travel Culture: Essays on What Makes Us Go. New York: Praeger.

91 TRAVELLER/​TRAVELLEE Paul Smethurst

The word ‘traveller’ has been in continuous use in English since the fifteenth century to refer to a person who goes from place to place, undertakes a journey or is a passenger. The French derivation from ‘travail’ suggests hardship and suffering, a fitting denotation for saints and pilgrims who travelled in the Middle Ages (see pilgrimage). From the late fifteenth century onwards, the term refers more widely to voyagers, scientific travellers and collectors, those travelling for leisure, forced to travel for various reasons or travelling habitually as a way of life or in search of employment like commercial travellers and journeymen. In Britain, it has specific application to so-​called New Age travellers and to Gypsies, who have for centuries lived on the margins of society and can claim ‘traveller ethnicity’ (Belton 2005). ‘Travellers’ have often been regarded with suspicion. Gypsies and others who choose an itinerant lifestyle have been met with widespread prejudice, even when travelling under the aegis of religious orders. Indeed, the development of the English novel owes much to travellers’ stories and the figure of the ‘travel liar’ (Adams 1962). Yet in the eighteenth century, when young English aristocrats were sent to Europe for their ‘education’, it was these ‘blockheads’ who were subjected to gulling and cheating by unscrupulous innkeepers and antiquarians (Smollett 1979 [1765]). Taking a more elevated view of himself as a traveller, Laurence Sterne (2003 [1768]) reduced the ‘whole circle of travellers’ to: Idle Travellers Inquisitive Travellers Lying Travellers Proud Travellers Vain Travellers Splenetic Travellers To these are appended the ‘Travellers of Necessity’, a heading which includes the ‘delinquent’, the ‘felonious’ and the ‘unfortunate’. Distancing himself from these, he labelled himself ‘Sentimental Traveller’ (10–​11). Sterne’s Yorick epitomized and parodied the traveller for whom travel was more of a performance than an education. Yet the idea that the traveller should focus on contact with people, rather than gather information and document sights, marked a significant shift in the traveller’s mode and sensibility. The ability to record feelings and

Traveller/Travellee 269 impressions as well as facts is crucial here as Sterne self-​consciously turns the labour implied in ‘travail’ to that of writing. An ‘intense bond’ between travel and writing would find further intensity in the Romantic era (Butor 2001 [1972], 69). It is a common misconception that the traveller is male. From Arthurian legends to modern tales of exploration, women have commonly been depicted as objects of desire if they strayed from domestic confines. Yet on home tours, in Romantic travel writing and when accompanying their colonialist husbands abroad, women travellers were prolific, if infrequently published. Not until the 1980s did anthologies and biographies of women travellers begin to appear (Hamalian 1981; Russell 1988; Robinson 1990, 1994), followed by critical attention in works such as Sara Mills’s Discourses of Difference (1991; see also Bassnett 2002). In modern times, traveller and travel writer (male and female) are often as one, judged by the quality of their writing, or lack of it, and by what they reveal about themselves in transit (Holland and Huggan 1998). Established writers turned to travel writing in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and after World War II professional travellers/​ travel writers appeared (Hulme 2002c). While these might have defined themselves in contradistinction to tourists, the modern tourist industry has made escaping the hordes a challenge. As Paul Fussell (1980, 37) puts it, ‘[T]‌ravel is hardly possible anymore’ and the common epithet ‘we are all tourists now’ is increasingly hard to shake off. Whether we call them travellers or tourists, the positional authority of the Western metropolitan subjects as the prime witnesses of other places and peoples is a vexed question. In Orientalism, Edward Said finds the Western traveller scrutinizing the rest of the world (especially the East) as a legitimate site for the exploration and exploitation of ‘others’, in the ontological sense of being ‘not Western’, and ‘not us’. It is a bind from which Western travellers might never extricate themselves if Said’s premise is accepted uncritically (as it often is). In postcolonial studies, there is always this assumption that the Western traveller is a ‘watcher, never involved, always detached’ (Said 1978, 103). Said is absolutely right, however, in claiming that the traveller was for several centuries at the centre of knowledge and power, as is evident in the eighteenth-​century scientific travel writer’s emphasis on observed facts and taxonomies (Behdad 2009, 88; Smethurst 2013). The term ‘travellee’ is derived in contradistinction to the traveller, and is a by-​ product of the postcolonial thinking of the 1980s. Since then it has been used widely in travel writing studies and rarely elsewhere (it is not yet in the Oxford English Dictionary). It refers to a person who is travelled to or indeed over, a passive rather than active entity, observed rather than observing. For Mary Louise Pratt (1992, 242 n42), who coined the term, ‘travellee’ is analogous with ‘addressee’ or ‘narratee’, and refers to ‘receptors of travel’. As with other binaries found in critical theory, that of traveller/​travellee illuminates systemic forms of authority and agency. Pratt and others use this to scrutinize the active role of colonial travellers in shaping and articulating indigenous peoples in first encounters (see colonialism); the traveller transforms the alien and unvoiced travellee through the primal act of witnessing, the assumption of narrative authority and ideologically fashioned processes of (mis)representation (Greenblatt 1991; Hulme 1986). In more recent travel writing studies, traveller/​travellee is deconstructed more often than affirmed. For example, David Scott (2004) shows that the reversal of

270  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies traveller to travellee leads to a crisis in the identity of Western travellers such as Paul Gauguin. In her study of the reception of European travel writing, Wendy Bracewell shows that travellees are also readers of travel writing who, finding themselves the object of the travel writer’s gaze, are able to write back. Then the travellee does not remain passive and silent, but responds robustly (Bracewell 2015). Such reversals have greater poignancy when an ex-​slave narrator like Olaudah Equiano, typically a travellee or silenced traveller, reclaims both travel and the power to write. In such rare situations where the ‘other’ progresses to become the traveller, he or she is instrumental in constructing African American subjectivity (Lucasi 2007; Murphy 1994). A more common reversal occurs when the modern traveller, transformed already into a tourist, merges into the crowd to become a consumer of touristic sites (Urry 1990). Now subject to the postmodern traveller’s gaze, he or she is drawn to the familiar, the clichéd and the superficial. The tourist-​travellee’s selfie might then signal the total abdication of the traveller’s hitherto primary role of recording otherness (Thurlow and Jaworski 2015; Parr 2000b). Finally, we might consider the influence of mythical, legendary travellees, such as Prester John and the Kublai Khan, on medieval travel writing (Campbell 1988). And as the anthropocene advances, non-​human travellees might take on more significance, as in Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard (1978), where the travellee’s absence (the leopard is never seen) articulates the loss of the wild.

Further Reading Adams, P. 1962. Travellers and Travel Liars 1660–​1800. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Bracewell, W. 2015. ‘The Travellee’s Eye: Reading European Travel Writing’. In J. Kuehn and P. Smethurst (eds), New Directions in Travel Writing Studies. Basingstoke: Palgrave: 215–​27. Holland, P. and G. Huggan. 1998. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflections on Contemporary Travel Writing. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Pratt, M. L. 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London: Routledge. Scott, D.  2004. Semiologies of Travel: From Gautier to Baudrillard. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

92 UTOPIA Jacqueline Dutton

‘Utopia’ is one of the rare literary neologisms of the Renaissance that can be traced to a clear and confirmed source. It was the English humanist Thomas More who created the term 500 years ago to describe an ideal imaginary society in his Latin text De optimo reipublicae deque nova insula Utopia, first published in Leuven in 1516. At a time when European expeditions to the ‘New World’ were bringing back news of peoples, places and politics so different from those of Europe, the discovery of Utopia –​ an island community whose inhabitants enjoyed a peaceful, plentiful, egalitarian and ordered existence –​seemed within the realms of possibility. Juxtaposing a tale of Raphaël Hythloday’s fictional travels to Utopia against a historically accurate framing narrative of Amerigo Vespucci’s voyages around the world, More managed to perform a realistic critique of contemporary England while projecting his dream of a better way of being in the world. The inherent ambiguity of utopia as both unreal and ideal is encoded in More’s pun on the Greek roots of his neologism, not differentiating between ou-​topos (no place) and eu-​topos (good place). Definitions of utopia are almost as varied as the societies that are imagined. Eminent scholar in the field Lyman Tower Sargent (1994, 9) explains the term as ‘a non-​existent society described in considerable detail and normally located in time and space’. The connections between utopia and travel writing have inspired considerable scholarly study, especially focused on the early modern period (Campbell 1988; Houston 2010; Greenblatt 1991; Pohl 2010). As each genre has evolved, so too have the links between them. Bill Ashcroft (2015, 255) offers a contemporary theorization of this relationship: The link between travel writing and utopian fiction has generally been effected in two ways: the idea of travel to exotic places which might offer a glimpse of Paradise, or at least an alternative to one’s present life; and travelling to far-​flung places to create utopias. But there is a third and gradually more frequent reality in which the phenomenon Bloch calls the ‘anticipatory consciousness’ identifies travel writing as itself a form of utopianism. In this way, Ashcroft enumerates the critical, colonial (see colonialism) and transformational functions of both utopian and travel writing, as observed in More’s defining text, which permeate both genres to different degrees, depending upon the political and social contexts in which they are situated.

272  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Utopian texts depicting a journey to an ideal society created and inhabited by humans on earth did, of course, preexist More’s creation, and are as ancient and culturally specific as travel writing itself (Dutton 2010). The nexus of complementarity between utopia and travel is most evident in European writing from the sixteenth to twentieth centuries, until postcolonial utopias and travel writing came to the fore later in the twentieth century. Imperialist voyages of the Renaissance period generated a new wave of travel writing, including Richard Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations, Voyages and Discoveries of the English Nation (1589) and Sir Walter Raleigh’s The Discovery of Guiana (1595), which revealed the wonders of the New World’s ‘El Dorado’, and projected an idealistic portrait of potential colonies. In turn, such works fed the utopian imagination of European writers such as Sir Francis Bacon (The New Atlantis, 1627), Margaret Cavendish (The Blazing World, 1666) and Gabriel de Foigny (The Southern Land, Known, 1676). The dynamic interplay between early modern travel writing and utopias mirrored the blurring of lines between fact and fiction, characteristic of both genres (Adams 1962; Sell 2006). Their shared quest for ‘marvellous possessions’ (Greenblatt 1991) encouraged critical self-​reflexivity through cross-​ cultural comparisons (Houston 2010, 5), which contributed to the evolution of the novel during the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries (Adams 1983, 155). In the nineteenth century, both utopias and travel writing were transformed by the Industrial Revolution, which changed the material conditions of travel, as well as the political and economic underpinnings of society in Europe. As ‘utopian’ became a negative epithet for describing unrealistic or impossible projects, such as finding the Northwest passage, and travel to new, ‘undiscovered’ destinations seemed equally unlikely after identifying the mythical Great South Land as Australia, the dreams of founding an ideal colony dissipated and the critical and transformational functions of utopian and travel narratives rose to prominence. Feminist ideals emerged through women’s travel writing by Flora Tristan and George Sand, and were followed up by the work of Isabella Bird, Isabelle Eberhardt and Mary Kingsley later in the nineteenth century. The intertwining of influence between the two genres became more complex when viewed through the prism of Marxism, communism, fascism and modernism in the twentieth century. When current realities of war, depression and genocide oppressed the utopian imagination, the difficulties of achieving collective ideals were parodied in the totalitarian dystopian futures of Yevgeny Zamyatin (We, 1924)  and George Orwell (Animal Farm, 1945; Nineteen Eighty-​Four, 1949). In contrast, travel writing enjoyed a new wave of popularity, rejecting the present traumas and often finding its idylls by embracing nostalgic primitivism and basking in the last rays of colonial privilege, as demonstrated in the work of Lawrence Durrell, E. M. Forster, Paul Claudel and Graham Greene. The tables were turned in the 1960s and 1970s when utopian literatures projected a society liberated from constraints of class, gender, race and sexuality, and from political, economic and environmental exploitation, as in Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time (1976) and Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia (1974), whereas European travel writing was somewhat stifled, and considered ideologically suspect due to its idealization of exotic otherness (Saïd 1978; Pratt 1992). Exceptions such as Roland

Utopia 273 Barthes’s The Empire of Signs (1970) heralded new ways in which the utopian idyll and travel writing could be reconfigured through semiology (Knight 1997). Increased awareness and distribution of postcolonial literatures provided access to new perspectives and practices of both utopian and travel narratives, which have contributed to a veritable renaissance of both genres since the 1980s. Offering innovations such as idealization of safe harbour in refugees’ stories, and of the migrant’s homeland in narratives of return, postcolonial utopias and travel writing also perform a critique of the status quo and invite reflection on the transformational nature of travel (Pordzik 2001; Forsdick 2005a; Ní Loingsigh 2009). Some examples even propose a new future ‘colony’ like Archie Weller’s Land of the Golden Clouds (1998) and Abdourahman A. Waberi’s In the United States of Africa (2009).

Further Reading Ashcroft, B. 2015. ‘Travel and Utopia’. In J. Kuehn and P. Smethurst (eds), New Directions in Travel Writing Studies. London: Palgrave Macmillan: 249–​62. Houston, C. (ed.). 2010. New Worlds Reflected: Travel and Utopia in the Early Modern Period. Farnham, Burlington: Ashgate. Knight, D. 1997. Barthes and Utopia: Space, Travel, Writing. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pordzik, R. 2001. The Quest for Postcolonial Utopia: A Comparative Introduction to the Utopian Novel in the New English Language Literatures. New York: Peter Lang. Sargent, L. T. 1994. ‘The Three Faces of Utopianism Revisited’. Utopian Studies, 5.1: 1–​37.

93 VELOCITY Gary Totten

‘Velocity’, as a reference to ‘swiftness’ or ‘speed’, entered English in the mid-​sixteenth century, but it was not until 1847 that the term appeared in scientific use to refer to ‘speed together with the direction of travel, as a vector quantity’ (Oxford English Dictionary). As faster travel technologies developed, travel writers described how these new modes of transport influenced the travel experience. In turn, the interest in velocity influenced the form and content of travel narratives. The speed of transatlantic travel increased dramatically during the nineteenth century. Crossing the Atlantic in the packer ship New York, Ralph Waldo Emerson notes in a journal entry on 9 September 1833, ‘The road from Liverpool to New York, as they who have travelled it well know, is very long, crooked, rough, and eminently disagreeable.’ This voyage took thirty-​four days, but on his second transatlantic trip, he sailed from Boston to Liverpool in only seventeen (Mott 2014, 24–​25). In the twentieth century, Charles Lindbergh’s first solo transatlantic flight from New York to Paris in 1927 took thirty-​three and a half hours, and Amelia Earhart’s 1932 solo flight from Newfoundland to Ireland (a distance just over half that of Lindbergh’s journey) took fifteen. The introduction of jet-​powered aircraft in the 1950s reduced the time of a transatlantic crossing to six to seven hours, similar to what we are familiar with today. In the early days of the automobile, its speed was celebrated in events such as coast to coast US journeys sponsored by automotive manufacturers to promote the speed and durability of their new products (Shaffer 2001). The joy of speed is also paired with the threat of violence, which Filippo Tommaso Marinetti expresses through what Enda Duffy (2009, 247) terms the ‘crash wish’ at the beginning of Marinetti’s (1909) Futurist Manifesto. Edith Wharton records her initial surprise at the automobile’s speed in her autobiography, A Backward Glance (1934), where she describes her first car ride in 1903 from Rome to Caprarola to see the villa of her friend, George Meyer, American ambassador to Rome. Sitting in the upper seat of the open car, she describes how they ‘tore across the Campagna, over humps and bumps, through ditches and across gutters, wind-​swept, [and] dust-​enveloped’ (1998, 137), and she is surprised that the 50-​mile trip takes only an hour and they are back in Rome in time for dinner. Wharton’s enthusiastic description of the car’s speed predates Marinetti’s Futurist Manifesto and his later statement that experiencing the automobile’s speed is ‘nothing but the joy of feeling oneself fused with the only divinity’ (Marinetti, 1916, 96; emphasis in the original). Unlike Marinetti, Wharton did not associate the automobile with the defining modern force of speed and dynamism, but the automobile’s

Velocity 275 speed did influence the content and form of her travel writing, and critical analyses of Wharton’s narrative recognize these effects. An anonymous reviewer in Literary Digest in 1908 emphasizes the idea of speed as the impression left by her French travel narrative, noting how Wharton ‘whirls her reader’ through France, as the sights ‘flash by her car’ and she presents ‘brilliant sketches of towns, castles, churches, men, and women, seen in passing’ (912; emphases added). Recent critics note how ‘flying’ and the ‘quick run’ characterize Wharton’s travels, and refer to her in her automobile ‘lick[ing] up the miles’ and ‘rac[ing]’ through France (Schriber 1991, xix; Lee 2007, 228–​29). Of course, Wharton was usually chauffeured, but the element of speed of her travels challenges stereotypes about women and speed, such as Herbert Towel’s (1915, 218) assertion in Scribner’s Magazine that ‘[i]‌n reality there is less feminine speeding than might be supposed’ and only ‘the exceptional woman […] ventures much beyond the safe-​and-​sane limit of twenty-​five miles an hour’. In his US road narrative, A Hoosier Holiday (1916), Theodore Dreiser (1997) also noted the effects of speed on his travel experience. Near French Lick, Indiana, a picturesque resort area, he writes that as we sped along there were sudden drops down which we ground at breakneck speed, which quite took my breath away […] Now and again we were at the very bottom of a ravine, with lovely misty hills rising sheer above us. Again, we were on some seeming mountain side, the valleys falling sharply away from the road […] More than once we shot the machine through a tumbling, sparkling, moonlit stream. (475–​76) The passage invokes a sense of movement and visual experience that seems to parallel the breathlessness and spectacle of the actual ride. The relentless force of the automobile propels the narrative forward, and the swift changes in the road and scenery imitate the view one might have from within the vehicle. As they drive onto a smooth road, Dreiser notes that [i]‌t was the first opportunity that Speed [the chauffeur] had had to show what the machine could do, and instantly, though various signs read, ‘Speed limit: 25 miles an hour’, I saw the speedometer climb to thirty five and then forty and they forty five. It was a smooth-​running machine which, at its best (or worst), gave vent to a tr-​r-​r-​r-​r-​r-​r-​r-​r-​r which became after a while somewhat like a croon. (25–​26) The automobile’s speed also allows Dreiser to avoid unpleasant scenes. When they pass summer boarders at hotels, a sight which afflicts Dreiser with a ‘dread’ of American convention, he is ‘glad we were making forty miles an hour’ (36). But for Dreiser and other travellers, there is also pleasure to be gained by slowing down and enjoying the journey (see slowness). Dreiser notes that in contrast to the fixed routes and schedules of train travel, he appreciates that the automobile allows ‘the pleasure of stopping anywhere and proceeding at our leisure’ (93). In South of Freedom (1952), Carl Rowan (1997) emphasizes more ominous implications of velocity. Traveling through Columbia, Tennessee, he sees bullet holes

276  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies in a barbershop, a grim reminder of a 1946 race riot (43). He is uneasy and cautious in this dangerous environment and ‘gaze[s]‌almost continually into the rear-​view mirror’ expecting to find police following him. He is glad that the rental car company installed a speed control device on his car’s engine as it keeps him from speeding and, thus, helps him avoid an encounter with police (38). Rowan’s experience reminds us that although ‘[t]he speed and perceptual disorientation attendant upon new modes of modern travel gradually become familiar and unthreatening’ (Kowalewski 1992, 3), such experiences are often reserved for what Susan George (1999, 179)  terms the ‘fast castes’, those people who are ‘the owners of capital [and] can go where they please and are always on the move’. Thus, while the increasing velocity and convenience of travel minimize the difficulty of the travel experience, such effects are often dependent on racial and cultural privilege.

Further Reading Duffy, E.  2009. The Speed Handbook: Velocity, Pleasure, Modernism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Fox, S.  R. 2003. Transatlantic: Samuel Cunard, Isambard Brunel, and the Great Atlantic Steamships. New York: Harper Perennial. Jackson, J. 2012. Atlantic Fever: Lindbergh, His Competitors, and the Race to Cross the Atlantic. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Lackey, K.  1997. RoadFrames: The American Highway Narrative. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Marinetti, F. T. 1972. Marinetti: Selected Writings. Ed. by R. W. Flint. Trans. by R. W. Flint and A. A. Coppotelli. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux.

94 VERTICAL  TRAVEL Alasdair Pettinger

Although the term was used earlier by Kris Lackey (1997, 53) and Jean-​Didier Urbain (1998, 226), for whom it is synonymous with endotic (as opposed to exotic) travel, the most commonly cited definition was provided by Michael Cronin (2000, 19): Horizontal travel is the more conventional understanding of travel as a linear progression from place to place. Vertical travel is temporary dwelling in a location for a period of time where the traveller begins to travel down into the particulars of place either in space (botany, studies of micro-​climate, exhaustive exploration of local landscape) or in time (local history, archaeology, folklore). To describe ‘dwelling’ as ‘travel’ is to transform it into something worth writing about, and vertical travel emerged in the wake of more than two decades of rapidly proliferating accounts of highly circumscribed journeys in which the author hardly travels at all, but brings to familiar surroundings a degree of curiosity normally associated with unfamiliar places encountered for the first time. It includes books that describe a week at an airport (de Botton 2009) or repeated visits to the same motorway service station (Green 2004); in-​depth explorations of a single thoroughfare (Attlee 2009; Abel 1995); the Contromano series on Italian cities (Lee 2012) or Thomas Spear’s (2007) collection of snapshots of ‘a Haitian day’. Historically, they may be considered descendants of the monographs based on the intensive fieldwork of modern anthropology, whose classic texts are mostly studies of small communities a long way from the metropolitan centres where their authors were trained, practising what Clifford Geertz (1975) called ‘thick description’. But their procedures have also been deployed outside the profession, much closer to home –​perhaps most intensively in a wide range of documentary initiatives in the interwar years, associated with, for example, the Federal Writers Project in the United States, the Frankfurt School in Germany, the Documents journal in France and Mass Observation in the United Kingdom (see Marcus and Fischer 1986, 117–​28, 186–​87 for an overview). Two approaches have attracted particular critical attention, and have generated their own distinctive terminology, reflecting their different genealogies. One may be called, to use a term popularized by Urbain (1998), ethnologie de proximité (proximate

278  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies ethnography), practised by a number of French writers since the 1980s, drawing on a theoretical interest in le quotidien (the everyday) (surveyed by Sheringham 2006; Forsdick 2005a, 183–​96). An influential text was Roissy-​Express (1990), in which François Maspero takes a month to travel a suburban rail line one stop at a time, an experiment in deceleration and deviation that replaces ‘the panoramic or panoptic [see monarch-​of-​all-​I-​survey] with the microscopic or partial’ (Forsdick 2005a, 189). This forces him to rediscover a Paris he thought he knew well and reassess his relationship to it. But perhaps its locus classicus is the earlier Tentative d’épuisement d’un lieu parisien (1975), George Perec’s attempt to log exhaustively the comings and goings in the Place Saint Sulpice over three consecutive days that compellingly highlights (and problematizes) the distribution of attention involved in composing –​ and reading –​such a text (Sheringham 2006, 261–​71). The other approach has been called ‘deep mapping’, adapting the subtitle of the influential 600-​page study of thinly populated Chase County, Kansas –​PrairyErth by William Least Heat-​Moon (1991a), a self-​described ‘inspector of the ordinary’ (49), who records his ‘vertical journey’ (1991b) in a place ‘outsiders have considered […] barren, desolate, monotonous, a land of more nothing than almost any other place you might name’ (1991a, 10). The term ‘deep map’ has proved useful to a number of critics and applied to similar projects, including other North American literary cartographies (Roorda 2001; Maher 2014), and Tim Robinson’s minutely detailed surveys of Connemara and the Aran Islands, starting with Stones of Aran: Pilgrimage (1986) (see Wall 2011). While ‘proximate ethnography’ tends to produce phenomenological descriptions of the city, ‘deep mapping’ often brings historical and environmental research to bear on rural places (and shades into the broader field of nature-​ or landscape-​writing). The imaginative local investigations of psychogeography –​which can combine elements of both, but geared to objectives of their own  –​might be considered a third approach. The term ‘vertical travel’ has the merit of relative neutrality, free of associations with particular kinds of place or theoretical orientation. We might also note that it can cover an equally wide range of narrative strategies: Perec’s annotated lists and Heat-​Moon’s multi-​generic narratives, despite their obvious differences, both evoke experiences of specific places and times, but lie on a continuum that stretches from the inchoate mass of sense impressions of the almost unrecognizable, pixelated London provided by Sean Borodale (2003) to the impersonal social-​scientific idiom that dominates Marc Augé’s (2002 [1986]) study of the Paris Metro. As Cronin (2000, 19)  points out, ‘literary travel involves […] constant shifts’ between the horizontal and the vertical within a single text, although one or the other usually predominates. Furthermore, as Forsdick et  al. (2006, 181)  have suggested, sometimes the vertical ‘intersects’ with the horizontal, creating a ‘rich, three-​ dimensional alternative’ to them both: examples may include long-​distance walks (see pedestrianism), the repeated commutes by train annotated by François Bon (2000) or the room-​centred narratives of Patrick Boman (1992) and Nicole-​Lise Bernheim (1986).

Vertical Travel 279

Further Reading Heat-​Moon, W. L. 1991a. PrairyErth (a deep map). London: Andre Deutsch. Maher, S. 2014. Deep Map Country: Literary Cartography of the Great Plains. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Perec, G. 1975. Tentative d’épuisement d’un lieu parisien. Paris: Christian Bourgois. Roorda, R. 2001. ‘Deep Maps in Eco-​Literature’. Michigan Quarterly Review, 40.1: 259–​72. Sheringham, M.  2006. Everyday Life: Theories and Practices from Surrealism to the Present. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

95 VIRTUAL  TRAVEL Margaret Topping

Since the first decade of this century, programmes such as ‘Second Life’ have associated the term ‘virtual’ with a ‘computerised or digitized simulation’ (www.etymonline. com). Yet, while the wish-​fulfilment these technologies represent is already implicit in much earlier (fifteenth-​century) uses of the term to denote ‘something in essence or effect, though not actually or in fact’, a step further back reveals fourteenth-​century origins in the capacity to ‘influence by physical virtues or capabilities’ (from Latin virtus, literally ‘manliness, manhood’). This apparent tension between bodily experience/​reality and its simulation is suggestive for a reflection on virtual travel, particularly in light of Rosi Braidotti’s (2013, 3) diagnostic of the posthuman condition as one where ‘the boundaries between the categories of the natural and the cultural have been displaced and blurred by the effects of scientific and technological advances’. What does this mean for travel? Do these technologies offer the potential to experience everywhere, or nowhere? Does virtual travel herald democratic access to a diverse sense of place, or a beguiling placelessness whose very accessibility demands some ethical challenge? Leisure travel is making increasing use of virtual technologies: tourist attractions offer 4D cinematic experiences which create an impression of time and place, while the promise of borderlessness is humorously explored in Gemma Bowes’s (2007) article on the world’s first virtual tour operator, ‘Synthtravels’: I’m ambling along the beach. […] I follow a sign for a treehouse campsite and find a stylish open-​air lodge, with verandas built up into the trees and bean bags and designer chairs round open fires. I recline for a while before Mario, my tour operator, says he wants to buy me some designer clothes before taking me skiing. Then he’ll take me to see some historical sites and meet some celebrities. At once enticing and troubling, such experiences ‘trick’ the audience into an impression of full sensory participation, an impression of embodied experience which is precisely the product of a disembodied, that is, virtual, world. The sociopolitical implications of this conundrum may not be far-​reaching in a leisure context, and the ease of global, virtual travel at the click of a mouse is cause for celebration, but technology has advanced faster than human understanding of the ethical implications

Virtual Travel 281 of using it. Emily Apter has explored the ‘bourgeois fiction’ that globalization has transformed everyone into ‘ultra-​mobile cosmopolitans’ (see Ross 2014), pointing instead to the phenomenon of intensified checkpointization –​that is, increased physical and metaphorical border controls. The virtual world, with its ability to conjure up a three-​or four-​dimensional reality, may seem to promise the end of checkpointization, but such a promise can be valid only for touristic experiences. Once one moves into the realm of involuntary mobility, the virtual world risks placing us at a sanitized distance from geopolitical and ideological borders, and from consciousness of their very real presence as a means to prevent the embodied movement of our cultural ‘Others’. Thus, while technology is now able to offer augmented and virtual reality products that ‘symbiotically merge different types of media in a seamless approach’ (Grasset et al. 2007), one might counter that neither seamlessness nor symbiosis is the goal in the quest for an ethics of cross-​cultural mobility and representation. What is important, arguably, is the preservation of uncertainty and physical and psychological discomfort, the shock of the unfamiliar in the midst of the familiar or indeed the shock of the familiar in the midst of the unfamiliar. As Swiss traveller-​writer Nicolas Bouvier (2014, loc. 367) notes: ‘One doesn’t travel in order to decorate oneself with exoticism and anecdotes like a Christmas tree, but so that the journey plucks you up, rinses and wrings you out.’ Notwithstanding the seductive impression of easy translatability offered by technological advances such as the internet, the imposition of harmony in a constructed multisensory experience risks erasing the realities of disrupted mobility. The virtual may facilitate an understanding of the world in a unified way, but there must also be a gap between direct experience and mediated experience; otherwise, the risk is that the seamless multisensory immersion such technologies facilitate conceals their own constructedness and thus reinforces the discourses of democratic global citizenship and cosmopolitan ease challenged by Apter. In her 1996 work of speculative fiction, Péplum (Peplum), Amélie Nothomb presents her female protagonist, AN, transported into a dystopian future of virtual experience, in which technology has created a carefully engineered environment prizing energy efficiency above all else. The thorny question of nationhood has disappeared: ‘there are no countries any more’ is the response to ‘that archaeological question of nationality’, but this seemingly utopian vision of a unified global community is gradually revealed to have been at the cost of eradicating the disadvantaged for reasons of energy efficiency (‘There’s no South any more. Simple’ (111)). When challenged on the ethics of this decision by the protagonist, her future interlocutor, Celsius, counters that AN’s present was no less keen to turn a blind eye to misery and inequality: ‘Your era hated the poor just as much’ (114). To insist on cultural contact –​or travel –​as an embodied experience with all of the challenges, discomfort and rethinking of boundaries that it implies and demands is to recognize that in an increasingly migrant world, checkpoints are real not virtual. In one sense, peoples and cultures are not easily translatable (diversity survives despite global movement and communications); and in another sense peoples and cultures are frequently not permitted to be easily translated (borders also survive). In essence, an ethical questioning of the possibilities of virtual travel reminds us of the

282  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies gaps and the cracks in the discourses of celebratory globalism, gaps and cracks which travel writing and the experience of reading –​in which mediation, active challenge and interpretation, and horizontal movement through the text rather than vertical immersion in the virtual experience –​are perhaps best placed to replicate.

Further Reading Chan, M. 2005. Virtual Reality: Representations in Contemporary Media. London: Bloomsbury. Heim, M. 1994. The Metaphysics of Virtual Reality. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Horst, H. A. and D. Miller (eds). 2012. Digital Anthropology. London: Berg.

96 VISION Margaret Topping

Definitions of the term ‘vision’ range from the physical to the perceptual, from the ‘action of seeing with the bodily eye’ to ‘a mental concept of a distinct or vivid kind; an object of mental contemplation, especially of an attractive or fantastic character’ (Oxford English Dictionary). A very modern travel phenomenon encompasses both definitions: the selfie offers a physical and a psychological image of the photographer/​ photographee, for the selfie is both material evidence of ‘having been there’ (Barthes 1977, 44) and the proof of cultural capital that marks out the cosmopolitan traveller. It is the ultimate multidirectional commodification of travel, not only framing a partial and often stereotyped vision of the travellee (or, more likely, iconic emblems of his/​ her culture), but also confirming the value of the traveller, both in the composition of the selfie and its synecdochic associations: thus, for example, if France = Paris = capital of culture = Louvre = Mona Lisa, then a selfie in front of the painting represents proof of cultural and economic capital. It is also increasingly a marker of social capital, given the instantaneous sharing of images allowed by social media and subsequent validation through likes and retweets. The privileging of vision as the most reliable (and now, as the selfie example illustrates, most ‘valuable’) sense by which to mediate the encounter between the traveller and the world is a familiar trope of travel writing, while the relationship of sight to discourses of power and appropriation has also been well-​established since the publication of Mary Louise Pratt’s Imperial Eyes (1992). This cultural privileging of sight –​or ocularcentrism (Jay 1994) –​has implications for both visual and textual modes of recounting the experience of travel. The visual representation of travel in photography is, as suggested by the brief discussion of the selfie, implicated in discourses of power, capture and commodification, which themselves have their origins in the early use of photography as a literal tool of colonial expansion (Hight and Sampson 2004; and colonialism). But writers too grapple with the challenges, possibilities and limitations of a textual visualization of the experience of travel. At one end of the spectrum, a writer such as French naval officer Pierre Loti (1850–​1923) struggles to transcend the ‘déjà-​vu’ or ‘déjà-​lu’ associated with the exotic picturesque or with conventional visual stereotypes. In the opening to his 1887 text Madame Chrysanthème (Madame Chrysanthemum), he describes the bay of Nagasaki as being framed by mountains ‘like the supports for a theatrical backdrop […] but not naturalistic enough’ (1990, 48), while the trees he sees are ‘arranged with the same

284  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies precious grace as one sees on lacquered trays’ (49). The landscape thus offers the privileged spectatorship of a preordained spectacle to the Western traveller. At the other end of the spectrum are travel writers seeking to textualize travel as a multisensorial experience based on physical discomfort as much as pleasure, and on evoking or replicating touch, hearing, smell and taste both through their focal points and through the stylistic textures of their narratives, rather than presenting a carefully contrived ‘vision’: ‘We lend a distracted, deceitful, jaded, and above all monophonic ear to the polyphony of the world, and this way of reading the world on a single stave separates us from all that is succulent, desirable, liberating’ (Bouvier and Guyader 2008). Notwithstanding the quest of writers such as Bouvier for a renewal of the senses in travel writing, the dominance of vision in the account of travel also survives in the dominance of sighted travel writers. Charles Forsdick (2015d) has described the ‘discursive normativity’ which associates moving with seeing within travel writing as a genre. A focus, therefore, on the works of blind or visually impaired travellers thus provides a new approach to undercutting that discursive normativity. Textual images associated with sight may still persist in the work of blind or partially sighted travellers. The travel journalism of Ryan Knighton (2012), for example, makes marked use of visual metaphor: in an article on his journey to Egypt in the immediate aftermath of the Arab Spring, he describes being ‘one of only four gawkers’ at the Pyramids; the experience of being ferried around to touristic sites in a taxi is ‘like [being at] a drive-​in movie’; he describes how, on arriving at the site of the Sphinx, he ‘stared at nothing’, while the ‘absence of tourists’ at these locations was, he noted, his ‘only glimpse of the revolution’. The dominance of images of seeing in Knighton’s journalism highlights the dominance of sight as the conventional guarantor of ‘truth’ in the travel experience, an idea underlined by the unsettling effect his status as a blind traveller has on the representatives of Egypt’s tourist infrastructure. Yet it also marks the blind traveller’s ironic consciousness of the multisensory deprivation on which travel writing is based, at the same time as it foregrounds the richness of his experience of Egypt via a reliance on other senses, notably taste and smell. Moreover, Knighton’s ultimate conclusion that his is ‘a privileged Western blindness’ in comparison to that of the blind Egyptian women to whom, even in their own culture, mobility is denied, creates a new matrix linking disability studies, postcolonialism and mobility studies, and travel writing which further disrupts the discourses of power and appropriation created by the privileged overlaying of mobility and sight. Beyond the field of travel journalism, Jean-​Christophe Perrot and Diego Audemard’s Tandems africains (Africa on Tandems, 2007) recounts their 13,500-​kilometre journey across sub-​Saharan Africa throughout which the two sighted Western travellers rely on a total of 27 blind or partially sighted local guides riding as tandem passengers on their bikes. The seeing writers’ ‘outsider’ experience of the cultures visited is thus mediated by the non-​seeing insider knowledge of the guide. In addition to the disruption to the supremacy of vision as the primary means of acquiring knowledge of a culture which this implies, it also highlights a relationship of democratic co-​dependence between sighted and unsighted which challenges ocularcentrism more generally. A  series of comments by their guides celebrate in different ways the phenomenology of experience (‘My body is discovering, or rather rediscovering, movements, sensations’ (215); ‘I have the impression that I’m living

Vision 285 the landscape around me’ (216)), but one in particular offers a challenge that goes to the heart of the problematic of vision in travel narratives: ‘in this third millennium, the blind man is not the one who cannot see, but the one who does not know that he can see without seeing’ (216).

Further Reading Berger, J. 2008 [1972]. Ways of Seeing. London: Penguin. Howells, R. 2003. Visual Culture: An Introduction. London: Polity. Schwartz, J.  and J.  Ryan (eds). 2003. Picturing Place: Photography and the Geographical Imagination. London: I. B. Tauris. Sontag, S. 1977. On Photography. London: Penguin. Topping, M. 2010. ‘Travelling Images, Images of Travel in Nicolas Bouvier’s L’Usage du monde’. French Studies, 64.3: 302–​16.

97 WAR Corinne Fowler

Travellers from nations allied to the War on Terror face the unique challenge of an ever-​shrinking number of viable destinations. The global struggle against terrorism has rendered an increasing number of countries inaccessible. This inaccessibility has a direct impact on the nature and purpose of postmillennial travel writing. During the 1960s and 1970s, travellers journeyed through countries like Afghanistan, Algeria, Egypt, Iraq, Pakistan, Somalia, the Sudan and Tunisia. Yet many of today’s travellers are deterred by war, terrorist attacks and prohibitive insurance costs. The clear exception is the war reporter. War reporters are uniquely equipped, and professionally obliged to enter conflict zones. Moreover, they have a professional investment in providing authoritative news coverage in line with mainstream news values (Youngs and Hulme 2002, 10), and which does not alienate their official sources (Pedelty 1995). Journalists’ turn to travel writing raises clear questions about travel and ethics. Postcolonial critics have focused on travel writing’s colonial origins (Said 1978; Syed 1996), leading to the genre’s asymmetrical and unidirectional mode of representation (Clark 1999; Lisle 2006). While much late twentieth-​century travel writing negotiates and comments upon the genre’s imperialist orientation, war reporters tend to adopt less self-​reflexive approaches. The route taken by journalists who produce travel writing has been markedly anthropological. Travel writing in the anthropological mode carries the attendant risk of an unquestioned belief in anthropology’s integrity as a discipline. The anthropological turn in travel writing by war reporters can be largely explained by journalists’ professional frustration at the restrictions placed upon them by the increasingly narrow requirements of transnational, consolidated mainstream news outlets. To remedy this, war reporters have turned to travel writing. As the correspondent Christina Lamb observes, there are ‘details […] you [as a journalist] would like to convey and yet […] you can’t get that in; those pieces are very much news-​driven’ (Fowler 2007, 256). Elsewhere she notes her frustration with male news editors, who she believes require accounts of actual fighting rather than ‘stuff from behind the scenes’ (258). There is a corresponding concern by many journalists that the strictures of war reporting prevent women’s voices being heard due to their association with the domestic sphere. Part of the solution to this dilemma has been to produce longer-​length features for weekend newspapers or to write books which offer behind-​the-​scenes accounts of war zones. Prominent examples from Central Asia and the Middle East include Lamb’s The Sewing Circles of Herat (2002), Asne Seierstad’s

War 287 controversial The Bookseller of Kabul (2002) and Hadani Ditmars’s Dancing in the No-​ Fly Zone: A Woman’s Journey through Iraq (2001). The books by Lamb and Seierstad are shaped by anthropology in very precise ways. Lamb’s text inherits the prejudices of the anthropologist Louis Dupree, while Seierstad embarks on a period of fieldwork ending with near-​disastrous, widely reported results, discussed below. As the contributors to the seminal volume Writing Culture: The Politics and the Poetics of Ethnography (1986) famously observe, anthropology evolved in the context of colonialism and has inherited many of its authoritative practices. They argue that ethnography is predominantly a literary exercise, shaped by a range of narrative conventions and strategies such as metonymy and metaphor (Clifford and Marcus 1986). Many journalists are unaware of such discussions. Lamb states: ‘[O]‌bviously, Louis Dupree [was…] a real authorit[y] on Afghanistan […] I would be flattered to be compared to that kind of work [which is…] very authoritative’ (Fowler 2007, 257). Yet Dupree bequeaths to Lamb his metonymic sense that Afghan games reveal an intrinsic cultural leaning towards warfare, while the Australian reporter Christopher Lamb inherits the anthropologist Whitney Azoy’s belief that the horseback game of buzkashi is an appropriate metaphor for Afghan political chaos (Fowler 2007, 94–​110). Both journalists also authorize their accounts by evoking the cherished anthropological rite of fieldwork, each beginning their books with statements about the number of years they have been in the field (91). Seierstad’s The Bookseller of Kabul is ethnographic in nature. Based on a four-​ month stay in the household of a Kabul bookseller, Seierstad’s (2002, i) award-​ winning account is praised by the Washington Post for its ‘closely observed […] portrait of daily life’. Her book attempts to get behind the conflict-​focused headlines associated with Operation Enduring Freedom. Seierstad writes: ‘Having spent weeks amongst gunpowder and rubble, where conversations centred on the tactics of war and military advance, it was refreshing to leaf through books and talk about literature and history’ (1). Yet her book raises longstanding ethical questions –​also of great concern to her anthropological predecessors –​about the one-​sidedness of her travel account and the issue of travellees’ right of reply. When the real-​life protagonist of Seierstad’s book received and read a copy, he was outraged at what he saw as its blatant distortion of the truth. There followed an eight-​year legal battle over the book’s accuracy in a series of court cases which also considered –​and eventually dismissed –​ the bookseller’s right to a share in profits from sales (Topping 2011). Going against the grain of more reflexive travel writing, Seierstad (2011, 1)  states that ‘you have to stand by your choices and your angle because that is journalism’. In line with the professional imperative to be ‘accurate’, such statements serve to accrue narrative authority rather than to relinquish it. As Carl Thompson (2011, 87) observes, travel writing by journalists often authenticates itself in a ‘semi-​ethnographic’ manner, ‘weav[ing] together […] a personal narrative with […] more general pronouncements about [local] life’. This approach is designed to confirm the travel account’s ‘general validity’ (88). Nonetheless, Thompson (2011) also calls for a broader reconsideration of travel writing’s relationship with anthropology. Travel narratives are sometimes ‘valid source[s]‌of ethnographic information’ (93). Thompson lists Wilfred Thesinger’s The Marsh Arabs (1964), Hugh Brody’s Maps and Dreams: Indians and British Colombia

288  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies Frontier (1981) and Barry Lopez’s Arctic Dreams (1986) as books which reveal expertise and research rigour even if they are not wholly free of contemporary prejudices (94). The presence of ethnographic modes in travel books by war reporters are therefore not intrinsically problematic. The problem lies in the professional requirement to be authoritative, which can militate against self-​reflection. The other risk comes when war reporters are unaware of current debates in the self-​searching discipline of anthropology, leading to a corresponding tendency to embrace anthropologists’ conclusions rather than to question them.

Further Reading Clifford, J. and G. E. Marcus (eds). 1986. Writing Culture: The Politics and Poetics of Ethnography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mair, J. and R. L. Keeble. 2010. Afghanistan, War and the Media: Deadlines and Frontlines. Bury St Edmunds: Abramis. Moynagh, M. 2008. Political Tourism and Its Texts. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Pedelty, M. 1995. War Stories: Culture of Foreign Correspondents. London: Routledge.

98 WATER Carl Thompson

‘Water’ merits an entry as a keyword for three reasons. First, although we tend to think of homo sapiens as principally a terrestrial species, water in its various forms has always been a key medium and focus for human travel. Second, since water is a primary phenomenological and symbolic reference point for all that is not fixed, immobile and rigid, tropes of fluidity, porosity and other terminology derived from water and the earth’s water systems occur frequently in scholarly and popular discourse on travel –​providing a naturalizing imagery which can serve, some critics suggest, to occlude the political and socioeconomic contexts to historically specific patterns of movement (Pratt 2008 [1992], 241–​42). Finally, across a broad range of academic fields, seas and oceans have recently emerged as principal units of enquiry rather than the more traditional nation states and continents. This epistemological reconfiguration  –​sometimes dubbed the ‘New Thalassology’ or ‘blue studies’  –​reflects environmental and geopolitical concerns, and is especially driven by the recognition that a maritime or oceanic focus often highlights the skewed or partial perspectives, and nationalistic investments, inherent in traditionally focused historiography and cultural analysis (see Quilley 2000). Water covers 70 per cent of the planet, is the principal constituent of our bodies and is essential to life. Yet when accumulated even in moderate quantities it creates environments profoundly hostile to a land-​based mammal such as homo sapiens. This duality is echoed in other contraries and paradoxes that commonly pertain to water. For example, large bodies –​such as rivers, lakes and especially seas –​frequently mark the division and border between territories, nations and continents. Aqueous environments are thus often liminal zones, epitomizing flux and instability, and therefore regarded as ‘other’ to the norms of life on dry, solid land. Yet while cultures have often emphasized the profound alterity of aqueous environments, water is also a crucial medium of connection as well as separation. Notwithstanding its dangers, travel by water has often been easier than travel by land, given poor roads and the impenetrability of many interior regions. This was (and remains) especially the case when heavy loads require transportation. For this reason, boats, rafts and other vessels were being constructed even in very early prehistoric times. Hence also the importance of water travel as a mechanism of trade throughout human history –​with seas and rivers thus acquiring for some commentators a contaminating and for others a civilizing influence. Tracing the role and influence of water in Western travel and exploration, we can identify several distinct phases. In prehistory and the ancient and medieval periods,

290  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies we have an era predominantly of inland and coastal navigations, in which sailors generally sought to avoid venturing out into the featureless open sea. Here practical considerations went hand-​in-​hand, in Judaic, Classical and early Christian culture, with abhorrence for the ocean as a remnant of primordial chaos, the home of monsters. Paradoxically, however, this horror also made the sea a key site for the demonstration of heroism and faith, and consequently for divine interventions and providential rescues. The maritime thus became associated –​albeit principally in myth, romance and spiritual autobiography rather than factual voyage accounts, which were limited in number at this date  –​with dramatic personal transformations and reversals in fortune. The search for another kind of ‘fortune’ then underwrote a new phase in Western seafaring from the fifteenth century. Inaugurating an ‘Oceanic turn’ which many commentators have seen as crucial to the emergence of modernity, European navigators lured by the fabled wealth of Asia increasingly risked pelagic, blue-​water voyages. Although we should not underestimate the abundant maritime activity that already existed in regions like the Indian Ocean and the Polynesian islands of the Pacific, the voyages of da Gama, Columbus, Magellan and others interconnected the world as never before, opening up dramatic new possibilities for trade and conquest. The increasing economic and strategic importance of seafaring generated a burgeoning European literature of voyages and circumnavigations, and an equally burgeoning corpus of shipwreck accounts (Blackmore 2002; Thompson 2013). Scientific knowledge and technological mastery of the sea consequently became imperative, impelling the Enlightenment project of mapping the world’s seas and coastlines, as famously conducted by James Cook and Antoine de Bougainville. Sea travel also became a vital medium for the transportation of knowledge and commodities, and so underwrote not only international trading networks but also, in metropolitan European subjects, a new sense of what Mary Louise Pratt dubs ‘planetary consciousness’ (2002; 1992, 11, 15); an increasing recognition of the world’s unity and interconnection, coupled with a heightened sense of imaginative and intellectual ownership over the globe. With the near completion of the Enlightenment’s hydrographical project by the early nineteenth century, European (and by now also United States) exploration shifted to an inland phase where once again river travel, and especially the tracking of rivers back to their source, played an important practical and symbolic role: examples include Burton and Speke’s quest for the source of the Nile, and Stanley’s cross-​continental navigation of the Congo. Yet sea travel, and sea power, remained arguably the major factor underpinning Euro-​imperialism. From the seventeenth to the early twentieth century, the sea was the conduit for an unprecedented wave of diasporic migrations that were sometimes voluntary but often coerced. Across this period, the ship became a key emblem and agent of European modernity, embodying in diverse ways the leading-​edge of contemporary industrial development. This was accompanied, in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, by a growing romanticization of the sea and associated locales such as the coast (see Corbin 1995 [1988]), born partly of an ideological need to justify and encourage maritime endeavour in the face of its many dangers and high casualty rate. Once viewed with horror and distaste, the sea was increasingly seen as a key locus of the sublime, and a site for adventure and self-​discovery, giving rise to the nautical fiction of figures like Fenimore Cooper,

Water 291 Marryat, Melville and Conrad (see Cohen 2010). The period also saw the emergence of what might be regarded as more recreational and literary voyage narratives, which continue into the present, in which authors describe sea ventures undertaken largely for their own sake, as voluntarily chosen personal quests: examples include Richard Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast (1840) and Joshua Slocum’s Sailing Alone around the World (1900). The dominant tradition is still arguably one of highly romanticized accounts, in which the sea functions principally as idyllic backdrop or sublime adversary. Many offerings in this vein are shallow and inconsequential, yet at their best –​ as in Jonathan Raban’s Coasting (1986) –​they can offer penetrating explorations of self, environment and history. And recently, romanticism has given way in some quarters to a more politicized vision of the sea, with scholars, writers and artists exploring in diverse ways the maritime sphere as a medium of globalization, modernization and migration, and addressing its (ongoing) history as a site of both liberation and oppression (see Rediker 1987; Gilroy 1993; Sekula 1995; Linebaugh and Rediker 2002).

Further Reading Clare, H. 2014. Down to the Sea in Ships. London: Chatto and Windus. Gillis, J. R. 2012. The Human Shore: Seacoasts in History. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Hamilton-​Paterson, J. 2007 [1992]. Seven Tenths: The Sea and Its Thresholds. London: Faber. Mack, J. 2010. The Sea: A Cultural History. London: Reaktion. Steinberg, P. E. 2001. The Social Construction of the Ocean. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

99 WONDER Mary Baine Campbell

Wonder is a word for an important ‘cognitive emotion’. It has been much studied and theorized over the past 20 years as academic interest in affect increased, but started, at least in the Euro-​American philosophical tradition, with Aristotle, for whom wonder itself is the starting point of philosophy. In fact, Aristotle can be found at the roots of both the epistemological and what we might call the ‘spectacular’ discourses of wonder. These are fused in the pre-​ professional history of ethnography, which overlaps significantly with the corpus of travel writing. The popularity of this branch of knowledge was for millennia based in the frisson of wonder invoked by descriptions and illustrations of foreign bodies, climates and customs. In the Poetics Aristotle explains the importance of spectacle for drama, which by his account is emotional instruction in the form of a roller-​ coaster of cognitive-​emotional experience, resolved at last by the rational or objective spectacle, however pitiable, of justice. The pleasurable or satisfying stupefactions of wonder (meanings of the useful Arabic móha include ‘delusion,’ ‘stupefaction’) remain a powerful force of social control –​now bent towards market growth rather than subjection to Aristotelian tragedy’s ‘Law of the Fathers’. In the Metaphysics, Aristotle makes a different pedagogical claim for the usefulness of wonder: ‘it is owing to wonder that men both now begin and at first began to philosophize. They wondered originally at the obvious difficulties, then advanced little by little and stated difficulties about the phenomenon of the moon and those of the sun and stars, and about the genesis of the universe’ (Metaphysics 1.2, 982b10-​1). In the right contexts, then, the cognitive emotion of wonder can lead to what we now call curiosity, and investigation of causes. TED talks, science magazines and introductory lecture courses rely as heavily as Aristotle on the chain reaction he outlined in one of the first texts of natural philosophy in the Mediterranean world. The English verb ‘wonder’, a Germanic word with no Indo-​European root (whose spelling is suggestively similar to Old Frisian wondrian, to wander), introduces predications meaning ‘to ask oneself ’, as in the French se demander, or be curious (‘I wonder if she’s from Samarkand?’); it can also refer to being astonished or entranced by something. As a noun it has a more dynamically bifurcated word history, referring both to the cognitive emotion and to the concrete particulars –​objects and events –​ that stimulate the wonder response. According to Neil Kenny’s (1998, 15) word history of early modern ‘curiosity’, the dichotomy in usage of the latter term develops roughly when ‘wonders’ emerges as a term for the object of wonder: ‘This housing

Wonder 293 of both subject and object, desire and knowledge, under the same conceptual roof would seem to have constructed “curiosity” as the blissful place where the two did indeed come together and match each other with perfect symmetry, a place where the cravings of curiosity could be satisfied by […] “curiosities”.’ As Aristotle’s chain reaction and the English verb suggest, ‘wonder’ is related to curiosity, under the rubric of desire. But unlike ‘curiosity’, it is linked to awe under the rubric of altered states. For much of the Middle Ages, mirabilia was not strongly differentiated from miraculum, which now by definition requires supernatural interference with the order of nature, invites religious awe as the appropriate response, and thus carries higher prestige than ‘wonders’. The historical conditions of mirabilia/​ admiratio shifted with the emergence of print, in part as the association with desire made them a resource for sales promotion. But by the time printing technology and its commodification arrived, wonder already had a long history in popular genres, inside Europe and beyond. One of the most popular of those genres was, and in attenuated form remains, the travel book: real (Marco Polo’s Divisament du Monde (c.1295), Rebecca West’s 1942 Black Lamb and Gray Falcon), spurious or fictional (Mandeville’s Travels (c.1354), Vespucci’s 1504 Third Voyage) or in between (Aphra Behn’s 1688 Oroonoko, Bruce Chatwin’s 1987 Song Lines), including the travel book that does not narrate a journey but simply describes wonders available on a certain route or in a certain place or even direction (as in ‘East’). Such places include, among extant European works, Babylon, Egypt, Rhodes, Africa, India, Abyssinia (in Africa and India both!), China, Rome, Jerusalem, the Holy Land, Machu Picchu, Angkor Wat, Thule, Atlantis, paradise, hell, the kingdom of the dead, le pays de merveilles, l’au-​délà. Thanks to the leisure activity of tourism, this chorographic sub-​genre survives as guidebook literature, whose specificity of place has increased. Modern books in the Bibliothèque nationale de France indexed under the search term ‘curiosités et merveilles’ refer to individual provinces, towns, even neighbourhoods, for example: Le Marais secret et insolite (Jacquet 2012). Related genres in the travel book’s history include the Greek paradoxography of Antiquity, which describes incredible natural or preternatural things (ghosts, Siamese twins, prophecies, as in Phlegon of Thralles’ second-​century Book of Marvels), the Christian peregrinatio (see pilgrimage), the encyclopaedia (e.g., Pliny’s Historia naturalia (77–​79)), fantastic voyages (Lucian’s second-​century True Story, Margaret Cavendish’s 1666 Blazing World) and collections of located exotica often labelled mirabilia (Jordanus of Sevérac’s fourteenth-​century account of India, Mirabilia descripta, the tenth-​century Anglo-​Saxon ‘Wonders of the East’, the gorgeous fourteenth-​century Baghdad manuscript Kitab al-​Bulhan, Richard Halliburton’s 1937 Book of Marvels). Travel is an experience of difference bound to stimulate cognitive emotions –​not only wonder, but surprise, horror, awe, disgust, curiosity, fear. We can feel most of those at home, but wonder stands out as dependent on the experience of difference and disorientation that travel characteristically provokes, especially before the age of Google. It is a precarious mental experience, like curiosity or lust: these states of desire stimulate attempts to know, to unwrap a mystery, and in so doing self-​destruct. This is why narrative travel accounts famously fail to narrate a return. We do not feel wonder a second time in the same place, before the same mirabilium. And it is wonder that, for good or ill, keeps a reader’s nose in the book.

294  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies As the feeling of wonder diminishes in globalization’s welter of familiarity, it grows in cousin genres of the travel book: prose fiction and lyric poetry. During three millennia of efforts to record motion across the limits that defined the traveling narrator’s identity and rationality, a language and rhetoric of attention and estrangement developed, leaving a legacy of topoi and writing techniques for latter-​day writers to bring to bear on the familiar. Given the human cost of exoticist projection, efforts have been made to decouple the cognitive emotion from the persons, bodies and lifeways in which an alienated ‘wonder’ once inhered, and return it to its place as a subjective experience, an invitation to relation. For, in the words of Gervase of Tilbury (fl. 1211), ‘we embrace things we consider unheard of, first on account of the variation in the course of nature, at which we marvel; then on account of our ignorance of the cause, which is inscrutable to us; and finally on account of our customary experience, which we know differs from others’ (Otia imperialia 1707, 960; emphasis in the original).

Further Reading Bynum, C. W. 1997. ‘Wonder’. American Historical Review, 102: 1–​26. Campbell, M. B. 1999. Wonder and Science: Imagining Worlds in Early Modern Europe. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Daston, L.  and K.  Park. 1997. Wonders and the Order of Nature, 1150–​1750. New  York: Zone Books. Evans, R.  J. W.  and A.  Marr (eds). 2006. Curiosity and Wonder from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment. Aldershot: Ashgate. Impey, O. and A. MacGregor (eds). 1985. The Origins of Museums: The Cabinets of Curiosities in Sixteenth-​and Seventeenth-​Century Europe. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

100 WORLD Catherine Armstrong

The concept of the ‘world’ has changed dramatically over the centuries. The world is perceived through current boundaries and limits, so the concept in classical times was very different to that of today. When trying to interpret this changing understanding, we use the term ‘known world’ to contextualize the conceptual boundaries of a particular era. More recent conceptions consider the entire world, our globe, as a holistic entity. In the twenty-​first century, a global imagination, suggesting a shared vision of identity, freedom and movement, is often discussed and has emerged. World travel genuinely means that we have the potential to move outside our own national boundaries to any country in the world, and even to the most climactically hostile regions. But we have to consider the start point of the traveller. Some travel literature, especially in the past, has tended to be euro-​centric and therefore its focus on the world was connected to particular cultural and ideological viewpoints, identifying the ‘other’ as elsewhere, as outside Europe. One method of imagining the world has been to render it visually, in maps and atlases (see cartography). Looking back on these historic depictions of the then-​ known-​world we can understand how the limits of that world changed. For example, in medieval mappae mundi, the known world included real places alongside mythical sites such as the Garden of Eden. The distinction between physical and spiritual realms was understood very differently. Maps at this time also included many illustrations depicting the animals (some mythological) that might be found (see nature). A  transition phase during the early modern period saw maps reflect the findings of navigators and explorers and these maps were collected into beautifully illustrated atlases for the first time, such as Abraham Ortelius’s Theatrum Orbis Terrarum (‘the theatre of the world’) printed in Antwerp in 1570. During this period, exploration and navigation flourished, not only by the Europeans in the Atlantic World but also in the Indian Ocean, and by the Chinese globally. Maps incorporated the latest knowledge and often became obsolete quickly. It is during this period, in 1503, that the term ‘New World’ was coined to describe the continents of North and South America and the Caribbean Islands by explorer Amerigo Vespucci. At this time, the new understanding of the world as a globe opened the possibility of circumnavigation, with Ferdinand Magellan and Juan Sebastian Elcano the first to complete this feat in 1519–​22. By the eighteenth century, maps attempted to display the sum of geographical knowledge based on the latest mathematical and surveying techniques. However,

296  Keywords for Travel Writing Studies maps are not objective; they also present the world in an ideological way. For example, many depicted uncharted land as empty space, thus encouraging more European settlement. The cartographer’s choice to depict a particular place at the centre of the map was significant, such as placing Jerusalem at the centre in medieval T-​O maps (these maps depicted the physical known world of the Mediterranean (depicted by the letter ‘T’) surrounded by an ocean (the letter ‘O’)). If we compare the size of the British Isles on standard maps with equal area projections such as the Hobo-​ Dyer, equal area projections show that the dimensions of Britain have been unnaturally inflated. Eighteenth-​century maps with an imperial purpose are linked to travel because they were produced by travellers with eye witness experience, but also used as guides by travellers. World travellers have been influenced by particular ideologies that colour the way they view other peoples and places. Visiting distant places and encountering people different in looks and customs from themselves has been a key part of travel since the classical era of Pliny the Elder and his Naturalis Historia, which described, among others, the Blemmy, who had no heads and faces on their torsos. So pervasive was the idea of these distant people that Christopher Columbus was surprised in 1492 not to find such creatures as the Blemmy when he landed on Hispaniola. The further the distance from home, the more likely travellers felt that they might encounter the exotic ‘other’. This era soon passed and gave way to the discourse of imperialism, of conquering and owning. Empire had dominated the known world in Roman times and from the seventeenth century onwards, European nations raced to acquire empires of their own around the world. The perception of the imperial division of the globe was common until World War II. The ideology of empire impacted a great deal on travellers and their literature. This is depicted in the late nineteenth-​and early twentieth-​century imperial maps such as the British Empire map published to celebrate the Diamond Jubilee in 1897, with the empire depicted in traditional pink. The mindset affected the way that they viewed other peoples; many travellers were moving around the world because of empire, fighting wars and claiming territories, or administering imperial systems of dominance (see colonialism). This began to change in the mid-​twentieth century and a new ideology emerged: postcolonialism. As former colonies claimed their own independence, many travellers began to perceive these parts of the world as emerging from a negative force of imperial dominance. The legacy of empire in terms of language and culture is visible in the landscape that travellers visit. But a more nuanced understanding of how imperialism had impacted on Europe’s understanding of others began to emerge, epitomized by Edward Said’s 1978 work, Orientalism, which showed how the ‘Orient’ was not a real place but rather a European construct (see Orientalism).

Further Reading Bongie, C. 1991. Exotic Memories: Literature, Colonialism, and the Fin De Siècle. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Burbank, J. and F. Cooper. 2010. Empires in World History: Power and the Politics of Difference. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

World 297 Franey, L. E. 2003. Victorian Travel Writing and Imperial Violence: British Writing of Africa, 1855–​1902. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Rubiés, J.  P.  2002. ‘Travel Writing and Ethnography’. In P.  Hulme and T.  Youngs (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Travel Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 242–​60. Spurr, D. 1993. The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing, and Imperial Administration. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

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