Recoding World Literature

Front matter

os r

Libraries

Print Culture, and

Prologue

Introduction: World Literature as a Pact with Books Of Masters and Masterpieces: An Empire of Books, a Mythic European Library

Half Epic, Half Drastic: From a Parliament of Letters to a National Library

‘The Shadow of Empty Shelves: Two World Wars and the Rise and Fall of World Literature

Windows on the Berlin Wall: Unfinished Histories of World Literature in a Divided Germany Libraries without Walls? World Literature

in the Digital Century

Epilogue

Acknowledgments Notes Bibliography Index

215 243

251 257 309 337

RECODING WORLD LITERATURE

Prologue

When a citizen of a future age shall look back upon the present era of German history, he will see more books than men.... The meditative German nation, devoted to the exercise of its intellectual and imaginative faculties, has always time for writing. It invented the printing press for itself, and now keeps indefatigably the great machine at work.

—WOLFGANG MENZEL, “The Mass of Literature” (1828)!

You will certainly fancy, my dear child, that I am very fond of books. ... But you would be quite mistaken. I am a machine, condemned to devour them and then, throw them, in a changed form, on the dunghill of history. A rather dreary task, too.

—KARL MARX, “Letter to Laura Lafargue” (1868)?

This is a book about books. It focuses on literary works that migrate to different parts of the world, often as books, and gain recognition as world literature. How do books travel? How do they become vessels of stories and migrate from one geographical area to another? How do they find shelf space in libraries of new readers? Why do some books travel and others do not? These questions are at the heart of the book you have in your hand, or, depending on the medium, on the screen of your electronic reading device. These questions have somehow informed my childlike curiosity about stories from elsewhere carried by books, even before I found the right words to formulate them. In many ways, this book is a result of my return to questions I asked of literature a long time ago.

Before I acquired formal training in literature and literary criticism, became acquainted with terms such as world literature and history of the book, and knew how to engage with or stage these terms—indeed long before I coined the conduit Bibliomigrancy to understand the movement of books— my first interaction with stories that were written down and printed (rather than told from memory or read to me) was at the point when I had acquired literacy in Hindi, my first language.

My first exposure to visva sahitya (world literature) was through a children’s magazine called Nandan. In the early 1980s, the magazine carried a series called “Visva kī Mahan Kritiyan” (Great creations of the world), which featured abridged versions of ancient epics as well as novels and short stories from modern literatures of the world. The first page had the title of the story and a colored illustration. On the second page, the top right column carried a short biographical blurb about the author or something about the work. As a child I was more interested in the story— the plot—than the biographical blurb, which I would read only after I had finished reading the story. At one point, slowly, I became aware that along with Ramayana, Mahabharata, and Shakuntala, the Epic of Gilgamesh, One Thousand and One Nights, and the Odyssey were great creations of the world. I realized that along with Indian classical authors (such as Valmiki, Vyasa, and Kalidasa) and modern authors (such as Rabindranath Tagore, Munshi Premchand, Mahadevi Varma, and Nirmal Varma), authors from other parts of the world (Jane Austen, Honoré de Balzac, Anton Chekhov, Daniel Defoe, Charles Dickens, Maxim Gorki, Omar Khayyam, Nasrettin Khoja, Guy de Maupassant, Sheikh Sa’adi, William Shakespeare, Leo ‘Tolstoy among others) also belonged to the group of “great writers” of the world, who produced “great literature.”

Of course, it was a very canonical exposure to world literature, but as a child, the canon was the least of my concerns. My criterion for greatness of a work was simply based on two simple factors: the plot and the characters. The fact that the works I read were translated and abridged did not matter; questions concerning why specific texts were selected for the Nandan series were beyond my approach. However, the interest created by the magazine continued over the years through school textbooks. English textbooks carried excerpts of works mostly from British but also from some American and Indian-English authors; Hindi textbooks, along with works of most famous Hindi authors, occasionally included translations of authors from other Indian languages. A sense of the multilingual creation of literature in various parts of India and the world was one of the greatest lessons of this early engagement with literature. This was for me the beginning of my own personal pact with books.

And then one day, in November 1984, the Soviet bookmobile —a traveling bookstore, not a lending library—arrived in Haridwar, my hometown. The off-white minibus (a Bajaj Matador) had the Soviet flag hanging from the railing of the rooftop carrier; a white banner in loud red Hindi font bearing the inscription “Soviyata Pustaka Pradarsani” (Soviet Book Exhibition)—bracketed by hammer and sickle, also in red—hung high above the minivan, the two ends of the banner tied to bamboo poles freshly dug just for them. The table set in front of the minivan had a veritable smorgasbord for the hungry small town readers: along with colorful pop-up books with Soviet folktales, books on science and technology, and biographies of Lenin, Stalin, and Brezhnev (both in Hindi and in English), the bookmobile also carried Russian literature in Hindi and English translation. This was where I bought the first Russian novel I ever read: Aparädha aura Danda, a Hindi translation of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I had no idea who Dostoevsky was, or what this work was about. All I could see was a beautiful book with some black-and-white illustrations and eight hundred pages available for very little money: ten rupees. In a lower-middle-class Indian household, the cost of books mattered. The Soviet bookmobile may have provided the image that led me to think about bibliomigrancy.

In a world without computers, the Internet, or online vendors such as Amazon, in a small town in northern India where the municipal public library only existed on paper, magazines like Nandan and vendors like the Soviet bookmobile and the A. H. Wheeler’s book kiosk at the local train station became sources of glimpses to a larger world of literature, and a larger world per se.

My conscious interest in libraries as spaces developed perhaps during my undergraduate years at the Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) in New Delhi. The JNU library, a ten-story brick building that stands at the center of the campus, was my emotional refugee camp during the transitional period from my late teens to early twenties. The library introduced me to many European literary traditions in English and Hindi translation, alongside German literature in translation, and slowly, as my knowledge of German expanded, in the original. Off-campus, in the city center, the Soviet Cultural Center was no longer active (I started college in 1990). However, the British Council, the American Center, and the Max Müller Bhavan (Goethe Institute) libraries, which were all on the same street, were the prime sources of classical and contemporary literatures from the United Kingdom and Commonwealth Countries, North America, and Germany, much as the great Sahitya Akademi Library was a source of Indian literatures in approximately twenty languages. Access to literature, especially at a subsidized rate, was crucial to my formative years as a student of literature. Even with literacy in three languages and speaking competence in four more, translations into Hindi and English, and later into German, were some of the most important sources of access to literary texts from elsewhere.

Many years later, in the fall of 2008, after my first book on Turkish- German literature was published, I found myself (again) in the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin-Preußischer Kulturbesitz (Berlin State Library—Prussian Cultural Heritage). I was looking into some sources on Indian revolutionaries in Berlin in the early twentieth century. The search term Germany- India led me, among other things, to the Aloys Sprenger Collection at the Staatsbibliothek, which, as I would later find out, was the largest and one of the most expensive acquisitions of Arabic, Farsi, and Hindustani books and manuscripts by a German library in the late nineteenth century. Outside of the Sprenger Collection, long catalogs of manuscripts and printed volumes of Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Persian, and Sanskrit works in the Staatsbibliothek (and other German libraries) made me forget the research that I originally intended to conduct. Why were these books and manuscripts in Germany? How did they get there? What were they doing in German libraries? Was there a large readership for these works? After all, many of them were translated into German and published in German cities such as Leipzig, Berlin, and Munich, among others—long before Germany was unified as a nation in 1871.

As I pursued these questions, it slowly became clear to me that books are hardly innocent bearers of stories. No translation, no transmission of stories happens in a historical-political vacuum. As a reader with questions, I was as much located in a historical moment, as were the books and, more importantly, the libraries that accumulated, classified, and then dispersed them to their readers. Suddenly, the spaces where I found the materials became as interesting as the materials themselves. The role of libraries in acquiring, amassing, and circulating world literary artifacts—whether or not they were classified under that rubric—was hard to overlook.

This early research period coincided with my interest in a different kind of library: the European Digital Library. While Google Books, the Hathi Trust, and other digital collections were slowly becoming everyday research tools, I had never envisioned a transcontinental library that was a conglomeration of many “national” libraries and acted as their digital surrogate. Was the “national” library of any European nation, whose acquisitions reached far beyond the political boundaries of a nation-state, necessarily national? There seemed to be a clash between the materials contained within the four walls of a library and the self-image of the library in a virtual space. Material considerations seemed as important as political factors; the transformation of the book from a physical, palpable entity to a pixilated one and the recirculation of old manuscripts through digitization simply could not be overlooked.

‘These encounters with the material and digital circulation of books formed one important personal strand in the making of this book; the second came through an engagement with the term world literature. In 2007, I was offered the directorship of the Global Studies Center at the University of Wisconsin—Madison. This seemed to be the perfect opportunity to start a dialogue among colleagues and graduate students concerning discussions and debates about historical and contemporary world literature. UW-Madison was a prime center for debates on comparative and world literatures after World War II; one of the first conferences on the topic, “Teaching of World Literature,” was organized here in 1959. To revive this tradition, with support and collaboration from colleagues in the departments of English, Spanish and Portuguese, and French and Italian, I organized a fiftieth anniversary conference on the topic in 2009, which culminated in the publication of “What Counts as World Literature?” a special issue of Modern Language Quarterly (June 2013), which I coedited with my colleague and friend Caroline Levine.

In these discussions and debates, I learned how criticisms of world literature were usually organized around the politics implicit in the formation of conceptual collections of world literary works: canonical European literatures, postcolonial literatures, regional and vernacular literatures, to name just a few. Little attention was paid to the actual materiality of these collections, and when it did happen, for example in criticisms of world literary anthologies in translation, the term world literature was considered to be a manifestation of current economic globalization, a neoliberal venture, as Emily Apter and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak have argued.’ Their ideas about the “power politics” of literatures in translation are illuminating, but they seemed too lodged in presentist concerns of globalization and the purported cultural homogeneity that comes with it. Using power imbalance as a blanket term to define all developments in the history of world literary ideas seemed as reductive as urging for a replacement of Goethe’s Weltliteratur with Rabindranath Tagore’s Bissho Shabitto.

How did world literature emerge as part of a globalizing power politics of the world? How did literary works circulate from one part of the world to another? Why did they circulate and under what circumstances? It seemed to me more important to pursue these questions, rather than offering another argument against reading in translation.

These two lines of inquiry—about the material circulation of books on the one hand, and world literature on the other—came together organically during my tenure as an Alexander von Humboldt Experienced Research Scholar (2011-2012) at the Leipziger Buchwissenschaft, University of Leipzig, where I learned interesting ways of looking at German book history. But it was at the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek (German National Library) and its Buch- und Schriftmuseum (Museum of Script and Writing), as well as the University of Leipzig’s Bibliotheca Albertina that I had a confirmation of what Wolfgang Menzel once wrote about Germany’s passion for books. It was in these libraries where it became clear how many German authors, including Marx, had devoured books like machines; how the German proclivity for books and for translating literary works from other languages created conditions for the inception and proliferation of the term Weltliteratur. To think of this proclivity for books merely as a love for knowledge would be entirely wrong; in the absence of a colonial empire, Germany emerged as an empire of books, at least in that period.

Even today, Germany is the world’s leading publishing nation; according to UNESCO’s Index Translationum, German has a share of 10 percent of the global translation market. This might be considered low compared to English: 55 to 60 percent of translated works in the world are originally written in English. However, only 2 to 4 percent of books published in the United States and United Kingdom are translated from other languages. Comparatively, the share of translated literature into German is rather high at 12 to 18 percent per year.*

But the empire of books and the empire of translation are not the only phrases that define circulation of world literature in Germany. World literature as a function of Germany’s pact with books underwent many changes over the course of two centuries. It faced challenges in times of heightened nationalism, such as in the late nineteenth century and during the National Socialist period. Furthermore, the forty years of two German states witnessed a clear ideological orientation of world literature and book production. The tensions between the image of Germany as a reading nation (Lesenation) and a book market (Büchermarkt) found new manifestations in the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. In each historical moment, world literature was coded and recoded differently, thus unfolding multiple meanings of the term. But to claim that Germany was, or is, the center for world literary production and circulation would be a mistake. Germany remains an important node in the world literary network, in spite of, and at times because of, its complicated pact with books, which in turn is fraught with the burden of its turbulent past.

In short, my initial curiosity about books and libraries became enriched with discoveries of multiple stories of creation of world literature in Germany.

The nineteenth-century British poet and grammarian William Barnes once wrote:

Books in long dead tongues that stirred Loving hearts in other climes;

Telling to my eyes, unheard,

Writing this book has taught me that a book— whether in a tongue living or dead—must go a long way before it manages to stir a loving heart in other climes. To feel that stirring in translation is the beginning of a recoding of world literary works and their worldwide readers.

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Introduction: World Literature as a Pact with Books

The Universe (which others call a Library) is composed of an indefinite, perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries... Like all the men of the Library, in my younger days I traveled; I have journeyed in quest of a book, perhaps the catalog of catalogs.

—JORGE LUIS BORGES, “The Library of Babel” (1949)!

My dazzled eyes could no longer distinguish the world that existed within the book from the book that existed within the world.

— ORHAN PAMUK, The New Life (1998)?

The universe arranged like a library, the world indistinguishable from the book. Two authors from two different parts of the world: Borges, the Argentine modernist, once director of the National Public Library in Buenos Aires; Pamuk, the Turkish Nobel Laureate, founder of the Museum of Innocence in Istanbul. The former wrote in Spanish, the latter writes in ‘Turkish; their literary careers are separated by a few decades of the twentieth century. And yet, through their penchant for material collections, they cross paths in fictionalizing two important institutions of literary circulation: the book and the library. As these authors juxtapose the fictions of the universe and the world with those of the library and the book, they pose fundamental questions about literature’s relationship to the book, the library, and the world.

In “The Library of Babel,” Borges recounts the narrator’s journey in the quest for a “catalog of catalogs.” The narrator travels in the hope that such a catalog is the key to understanding the classification of the contents; that it might somehow help to make some sense of the indefinite and infinite nature of the library. In The New Life, the protagonist Osman ends up in a much smaller, private, “finite” library, and creates an inventory of

Io Introduction its contents. The novel narrates the journeys of the protagonist Osman, who is in search of the author of an anonymously published book, also titled The New Life.* His quests lead him to the private library of a railroad engineer, which contains “translated works of Dante, Ib’n Arabi, and Rilke from the world classics series published by the Ministry of Education . . . translations of Jules Verne, Sherlock Holmes, Mark Twain” and many others.’ If Borges’s narrator travels in search of a single book that contains information on all books in an infinite library, Osman’s journeys lead him to many books from many different parts of the world, whose translations are sponsored by the Turkish state.

I start with Borges and Pamuk not just because books and libraries are so central to their work, but also because they do not just belong to Argentina or Turkey. Through translations into many world languages, their works have traveled beyond their linguistic and cultural origins—as printed books, and more recently as e-books—and have made room for themselves on the physical bookshelves of public and private libraries and their increasingly common electronic versions around the world. Readers like me who are neither from Argentina nor Turkey might not have inherited Spanish or Turkish as our mother tongues. Yet we inhabit the worlds created by Borges and Pamuk through the act of reading, often in translation. We receive their works recoded in languages in which we read them; at a distance from their national locations, we assign new meanings to their works.

“The Library of Babel” and The New Life are much more than stories of their protagonists’ journeys. They embody journeys of books, what I have come to call bibliomigrancy: the physical and virtual migration of literature as books from one part of the world to another. It is this migration of literature as books, this bibliomigrancy, as I want to show in this book, which contributes to the creation of a worldwide readership. Readers of translated works are not just recipients of bibliomigrancy. Along with translators, publishers, librarians, editors, booksellers, and a host of other actors, readers shape and inform bibliomigrancy. It is through bibliomigrancy that literary works that are identified— coded —as part of a national literature acquire new identities and are recoded as world literature. And this is the story of world literature that this book tries to tell: a story of coding and recoding, of transformed identities of literary works, alongside the term world literature.

Libraries play a special role in my story of bibliomigrancy. While scholars of world literature have begun to pay attention to material circulations of literature through booksellers and translators, there has been surpris-

Introduction II ingly little attention to libraries in recent accounts. Libraries, like books themselves, are not mere storehouses of information. They are places where texts from many places around the world can be gathered, catalogued, and known, and as such they present themselves as images of the world. The term /ibrary has multiple significations: a house of books, a catalog of titles, a publication series, a collection of various kinds of artifacts, including but not limited to books, papers, photographs, music, and so on. Libraries are not merely synonyms of the universe, as Borges implies; much as books are not simply replicas of the world, as Pamuk imagines. However, there is a sense of accessibility (or inaccessibility) to the world, no matter how exaggerated, that books and libraries presume to contain. Books and libraries operate on the probability of imagining the world, as a whole or in parts. They offer the possibility of encoding the universe and the world—including divisions, fragmentations, differentiations— making the world and the universe legible, interpretable, decodable, and recodable. As much as literature itself encodes the world with aural and verbal signs and promotes the pursuance of mimesis and representation—aesthetic, epistemic, political—libraries present themselves as prolific, substantial, and expansive (if not entirely all-encompassing) texts that rely on the collective fiction of knowledge about the world.

Libraries are located, but books can be relocated. If for a moment the library is imagined as the physical or virtual home of large and diverse collections of books, world literature begins to appear as the contents of a global bookmobile, a collection of dispersed literary texts, which are either forever homeless in the new languages in which they exist or have found new homes on the shelves of new readers beyond their points of linguistic and cultural origin. World literature becomes a mode of access to the world through books, an imagination of the world through literature, a literary catalog of the world, which might contain some but not all items from canonical catalogs of national literatures. World literature, however, cannot be the definitive literary catalog of the world. Akin to the multiple definitions of literature itself, the catalog too is dynamic and transformative and is defined differently in different literary traditions and historical moments.

Atonce dynamicand ever changing, alibrary of world literature comprises texts that migrate in the original or translation, and that are both cause and effect of bibliomigrancy. Access to world literature gives access to the literary catalog of the world and, in turn, to an imaginary global bookmobile.

The primary task of this book is to explore ways in which libraries in their multiple meanings fortify, enrich, and challenge our understanding of world literature. I am interested in exploring the affinities, proclivities, liaisons, and mutually enriching synergy of books, libraries, and world literature. I want to emphasize the dual role of books and libraries as material (Gut) and intellectual (Geist) artifacts in the circulation of literature as world literature, in the construction of a world literary space, and in the creation of a world literary readership. Books and libraries, I argue in this book, are crucial to bibliomigrancy and the coding and recoding of literature as world literature.

Since the moment of its documented inception in the European literary space as Weltliteratur—a term that gained traction after its use by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1827) and its immortalization by Goethe’s secretary Johann Peter Eckermann (1836)°— world literature has promised access to literature as Gemeingut (shared property), implying something larger, something greater; that which is more than the sum of its parts. The term carves a space that operates in relation to—and simultaneously at a distance from—national, regional, and local arrangements of literature. World literature insinuates a mode of construction and organization of literary knowledge founded on comparison on a global scale. Like many libraries —and often assisted by literal libraries—the concept of world literature imagines the gathering, collecting, and arranging of texts that cross linguistic, national, chronological, and regional origins.

This book makes the claim that an engagement with the materiality of literary circulation sheds new light on the conceptual and ideological creation and proliferation of world literature. Three central arguments support this claim. First, the term world literature is a construct, and the construction of the category “world literature,” especially since the early nineteenth century, has relied on an indelible connection between the book and the socio-political world. Second, libraries have served as important way stations in the collection and dissemination of world literary texts as books or manuscripts in the original and in translation; along with publishers and booksellers, libraries have contributed to the conceptualization of world literature as a literary catalog of the world. Third, and most importantly, world literature as a literary catalog of the world is far from a neutral, alphabetically organized bibliography of masterpieces translated into world languages. Translations of literary works into other languages and their circulation and reception beyond cultural or national origins do not happen in a historical, socio-cultural, or political vacuum. The proliferation of world literature in a society depends on its relationship with print culture: its pact with books.

The title of the book invokes two meanings of coding. One comes directly from the vocabulary of library professionals, where coding refers to identification and classification of an item, the act of assigning a call number. The other derives from translation studies: recoding as an act of rendering a literary work legible, accessible, and comprehensible in another language, thereby assuring a new life of the work in the new language. Coding can now also refer to the digitization of books, and certainly electronic collections are changing the nature of both libraries and access to world literature.

By discussing dual processes of coding and recoding, the identification of works of literature in the original as national literature and their reidentification in translation as world literature, I underscore the dynamic nature of world literature. What is identified as world literature undergoes transformation in different historical times and in different geographical locations and linguistic traditions. World literature is historically conditioned, culturally determined, and politically charged. A print cultural investigation of world literature in tandem with historical-political conditions assists in understanding the multiple formations, identifications, and codifications of world literature.

Scholarly works published in the last ten years ask new questions of the very institution and institutionalization of world literature. However, the walls of the classroom, the borders of the university campus, and the precincts of the conference venue have largely defined the physical and conceptual parameters of institutionality. Current debates often conflate the historic burden of the international division of literary labor with that of scholarly expertise, reducing world literature to a largely academic discipline with its foremost concerns being those of teachers and students. Scholars either focus on individual works and authors that have already gained a world literary status or critique institutions such as universities and academic publishing houses that have contributed to the proliferation of world literature as a consumable product. The intellect (Geist) trumps the matter (Gut/Ware); the imagination (Vorstellung) of the world somehow stays detached from the processes that defined the position (Stellung) of the world and world literature, now or in the past. The political, cultural, and social conditions that initiated, facilitated, even suppressed the circulation of world literature as Gemeingut—with all the problems that come with shared and property—are overshadowed in contemporary scholarship by an excessive attention to the conceptual. And when scholars do turn attention to institutions and material artifacts, they have most often focused on their own world—the world of academic textbooks and curricula. The larger public interaction with world literature through the circulation and collection of material books and literal collections—libraries—has remained largely invisible.

In order to make world literary studies relevant for us in the early twenty-first century, we need to relocate world literature in the public sphere where it is institutionalized in ways that are not always the same as its modes of institutionalization in the university. To this end, I discuss books and libraries in their multifaceted entities: imaginary and material, conceptual and physical, intimate and public; singular, yet connected to the multiple. Bringing these together, I propose, opens up multiple meanings of world literature: as a philosophical ideal, a mode of reading, a pedagogical strategy, a unit of aesthetic evaluation, a strategy of affiliation, and a system of classification.

Literary studies have witnessed a revitalization of interest in the term world literature in the first decade of the twenty-first century. It would be a fallacy to claim that such revitalization has been entirely unproblematic, or that the interest has succeeded in replacing the historically firm institutional habits of organizing literature within national political boundaries. Nonetheless, supporters and critics of world literary studies have together contributed to its reestablishment as an academic field. While this book draws on the scholarly work of world literature, it also departs from it, arguing that recent scholars of world literature have been too deeply invested in presentist concerns of economic globalization, dominance of English as a world language, and a market-driven construction of world literature. This book seeks to historicize these concerns.