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Barnes being "beast familiar": representation on the margins of modernism.

Djuna Barnes wrote to her writer/agent/friend Emily Holmes Coleman that, before settling upon Nightwood as a title for her best-known novel, she had considered Night Beast, and regretted the "debased meaning now put on that nice word beast."(1) This hints at variable construction of "beast" in language and reminds us that Barnes works with words, not essences. It unsettles categories and their hierarchical array - whether items included be exalted or debased. Beasts, woods, and fertile fields persist in Barnes's writing, but we have a lot to find out about the cultural territories and categories they invade.

In exploring Barnes's being beast familiar, I will circle around Nightwood, attending most to bestial positions in earlier and later works. I do see Nightwood as a book premised on constructions of the bestial. Robin Vote inhabits at first a jungle that is the combined construction of herself and her voyeuristic narrator; she concludes by demanding familiarity of a dog in the wood. Her entry into the text occurs in a series of narrative representations - the "night beast" of the tentative book title, "La Somnambule" of the second chapter's title, she has "fainted" according to the chasseur," one of many Barnes characters who suggest the hunt. An unnamed narrator notices that she is surrounded in her hotel room by "a confusion of potted plants, exotic palms, and cut flowers, faintly over-sung by the notes of unseen birds," which are not silenced by the "good housewife's" cover. The narrator compares her exhalations to fungi and her flesh to plant life.(2) An allusion to the paintings of Rousseau and a reference to a promoter's stage set remind us that nature is constructed and performative when it reaches us through language. Robin's resurrection by men is neither desired by her, nor unselfish on their part. During his ministrations, Dr. O'Connor steals her perfume and her cash. Felix Volkbein co-opts her for marriage, intending that she perpetuate both his male line, and the urban, aristocratic culture that obsesses him.

Nora would seem to respond more to Robin's unspoken predicament. She acts on Robin's rare declaration that she wants to get out of a frightening encounter with a lioness in the circus. This beast seems to select Robin for the target of her fiery gaze, described as "a river . . . falling behind impassable heat," eyes flowing "in tears that never reached the surface" (54). But even an apartment furnished to attest "to their mutual love" (55), including their meeting at the circus, cannot hold Robin in a domestic relationship. Jenny is just as unsuccessful in claiming Robin. Repeatedly, an instinct to wander takes Robin to churches that hold prospect of self-defining ritual. In the end, Robin returns to the American woods, a ruined chapel, and a ritual, coerced upon Nora's bewildered dog, as Nora watches.1

Barnes's beasts and her woods and fields serve the ongoing feminist discussion of essentialism. We currently struggle about the ways that woman has been essentialized as nature, or in procreative, maternal, and heterosexual functions, even in supposed feminist texts.(4) The binary division of nature (construed as feminine) vs. culture (construed as masculine) has been challenged in poststructuralist theory since the 1970s.(5) But this has only slowly crept into Barnes studies. Louis Kannenstine patterned his 1977 study of Barnes upon the concept of duality, offering a list of binaries that includes animal vs. saint and nature vs. civilization.(6) According to this traditional handling of binaries, to occupy a middle state is to be tormented and damned. But this intermediate ground has become the site of discovery. Donna Gerstenberger suggests that "Nightwood demands, in a way that The Waste Land does not, a reading against the dominant text of binary oppositions."(7) Barnes's beasts can also enter and revise what Margot Norris has identified as a "biocentric" tradition of modern literature, prepared by Darwin and Nietzsche, and practiced by Kafka, Lawrence, and Hemingway.(8) Eventually, Barnes's work should be placed in some relation to the careful imaging of nature by her friends H. D. and Marianne Moore.

It seems to me that Barnes breaks with binary tradition by calling attention to impositions of culture, including its rules of gender, upon nature. Barnes' alerts us to the process of fabrication by dispersing throughout her works tapestries and other crafts that take natural images or the hunt as their subject matter. She brings beasts and plants indoors, and she goes to the circus, as journalist, novelist, and aged poet. She has animals participate in rituals. By these means, Barnes suggests that we have always and only had nature as fabricated and deployed by culture, and recorded in the word. She insists further that nature does not stay conveniently separate or "other" from culture, and that evolution has not safely or permanently delivered human beings to civilization.(9) She constructs a blurred middle ground between the bestial and the human, disrupting these categories, and the very practice of categorization. This blurring of distinctions between the animal and human is part of her general tendency to focus on intermediate grounds that lie between accepted, overdetermined categories, and interfere with neat progressions. Similarly, she develops a vast intermediate ground of gender, diversified by racial, homosexual, lesbian, and bisexual identifications, and-as pursued in this paper - by species and mythic, composite animals.

Though male modernists should not be lumped together for their treatment of women in relation to nature and culture, they have left a heritage of women characters now famous for their primitive, unconscious manifestations of nature: Freud's "dark continent," Conrad's "savage and superb" woman of Heart of Darkness, Joyce's bird girl of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, his "huge earth ball," Molly Bloom from Ulysses,(10) Lawrence's Lady Chatterley, brought to phallic satisfaction by a man in control of nature. As Susan Griffin has suggested, women, like exotic birds, and often clad fetishistically in their plumage, or in fur, were to be looked upon as "other" to the male hunter/gazer, master, and cultural creator.(11) Laura Mulvey has given us the term "fetishistic scopophilia" for this staple of Western male art." In a repeated Barnes plot, most evident in Ryder, we find girls hunted in the field and brought down to earth, to childbed, and even death. As the animal exchanges gazes with the human, or even becomes woman in her texts, we escape both otherness and essentialism. Barnes places into question the whole system of male mastery of the physical world, opening up new visions and enactments of desire.

As a Greenwich Village journalist, Barnes visited the Hippodrome Circus for a story that showed particular empathy for the elephants, bears, camels, and great cats: "Djuna Barnes Probes the Souls of the Jungle Folk at the Hippodrome Circus."(13) The visit has both public and private aspects. It is her duty through interviews and observation of the show to record how animals have been made over into performers or constructed as dangerous, in phrases such as the bear hug or the maneating tiger. Barnes is after something else when she goes "down afterward into the depths where the animals are kept," avoiding keepers as well as the public, "and finding myself quite alone with nothing but my iniquitous past, I slowly and softly raised my hand - in salute!" Her silent, solitary, basement ritual of familiarity and respect is pitched oddly upon the moral category of "iniquity." I think that, in its incongruity, this term serves to deconstruct her Puritanical cultural base. The ritual is less bizarre than the final one of Robin with Nora's dog in Nightwood, but related.

Four of the five drawings in Barnes's 1915 pamphlet The Book of Repulsive Women present peculiar human forms in relation to nature - a mound of fruit, stars over a hillside, plunging roots, and chickens in the same pose as a stylized walking figure. In the most complicated drawing, I at first mistook disembodied, elongated arms and hands that enter the picture from the right for animal forms (see figure 1). I now see them as another aspect of phallic limbs detected in Barnes's work by Jane Marcus.(14) The animal and the human merge most memorably for me in a female nude, kneeling on one leg with the back leg extended on a fragmentary brick wall, clutching two four-petalled flowers on straggling stems (see figure 2). The woman/creature's back leg dwindles without achieving a foot, an erect tail rises in a dotted line above her buttocks, and two feathers or ears top her head. Her facial features are masked or made up so that a larger than human grimace and a small horn appear. Bizarre makeup of this sort was carried to the extreme by Barnes's Dadaist friend the Baroness Elsa Von Freytag-Loringhoven." Barnes's female figure is ritualistically oriented toward the side of the picture where the dark background is cut away below by white vertical marks resembling sprouts, and above by a crescent shape. This figure anticipates Robin of Nightwood, perceived by a spectator narrator as the "beast turning human" (37), with "temples like those of young beasts cutting horns" (134), as the doctor detects in Robin, or the lost lover giving a "hyena" smile that he mentions in a dialogue with Nora (87). This creature is entranced, like Robin when she is engaged in rituals in a chapel. The drawing is intricately posed.

"From Fifth Avenue Up," the first poem in The Book of Repulsive Women, is typically cited for a bold suggestion of lesbian love-making, as it presents its central figure "sagging down with bulging / Hair to sip, / The dappled damp from some vague / Under lip."(16) But it is also a bestial text. Despite the urban address of its title, the poem imagines a setting beneath the stars and in a field. The woman who is to be known "for what you are" emerges from a past worthy of a drawing by Max Ernst. Culture has dealt her the surrealistic flight of madness, with legs "half strangled in your lace." Barnes predicts a bestial reaction, part fear, part defiance.

We'd see your body in the grass


And hear your short sharp modern

Babylonic cries.

.. We'd feel you

Coil in fear

Leaning across the fertile

Fields to leer

Ejected from one garden, she commands the vision of another.

Barnes had numerous animal stocks to draw upon for the literary and pictorial beasts in her books. Beardsley, frequently cited as an early influence, probably had least to contribute to her bestiary. Animals regularly appear in her acknowledged source for the images of Ryder, L'imagerie populaire, a 1926 collection dating back to the fifteenth century. I consider "The Far Side" cartoons of today as their popular, though less savage survival. Both depict animals taking over human roles, to satirical ends. Barnes's favorite set of images from her French popular source reversed power relations between animals and humans, such that mice chase cats, and animals flog or even butcher humans (see figure 3).(17) The book abounds in equestrian poses, like the one of Wendell Ryder that leads off that novel, and the horsey pose survives for the patriarch of The Antiphon. The horse is a dominant animal in illustrations for Ladies Almanack, where it is the steed of the amazon. The referential amazon, Natalie Barney, received affectionate letters from Barnes that bore the salutation, "Dear Dark Horse."

Thelma Wood - Barnes's lover of the Paris years, to whom Ryder is dedicated, and on whom Robin is patterned - took images from nature as the subjects for many of her silverpoint etchings. She created with a needle's point deeply cupped flowers, leaves, and a frog encroaching on a lady's high-button boot, sea creatures relating to one another in various, sometimes threatening ways beneath an antique sailing ship, skeletal apes in trees, a tiger in a jungle setting, and oxen comparable to ones in Barnes's own drawings for Ryder."

It is possible to trace animal drawings and stories deeply into Barnes's background. She may well have known her grandmother's "The Children's Night," a Christmas verse fantasy published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine in 1875, and later included in her major collection, Meg: A Pastoral. As a mother sits sewing by the fire, she sees a succession of female figures from children's stories and Victorian romance, often in the company of animals: Bo-peep with her sheep, Beauty and her "old Bruin" beast, the sea maid Undine singing among the reeds, Bonny Kilmeny escorting Alice Learmont, a child saved from changeling status by a mother who embraced her in a series of animal forms, and Thackeray's Betsina, who arrives astride a "hungry lion, lean and wild." This beast is calmed by his gaze on Kilmeny. The original Harper's version was lavishly illustrated by a leading artist, Edwin Austin Abbey, and his lion is not unlike one that appeared in Barnes's illustrations for Ladies Almanack (see figure 4).(19)

In Ryder, the field is a place of danger to the village girl in England, who is culled like a crop of wheat or a deer in the hunt. Despite the stylistic veneer of an Elizabethan lyric to the emergence of spring, the season is violated by Barnes's insertion of the harsh-sounding, horrific word rape. The textuality thickens with a series of Puritanical, legal, and civic assaults on the girl of lost innocence. Ironically, most of them are voiced by women, who are metamorphosed into dogs hunting down a defenseless deer. "Run, Girls, Run," a textual descendant of this "Rape and Repining" chapter, was one of the many sections edited out of Nightwood, perhaps by Barnes's own decision. I have not been able to pinpoint a specific request from Eliot or his agents that this, or the rape scene of an early draft for The Antiphon, should be taken out. The persistence of Barnes's scenario of rape on the farm is undeniable, however. Wendell Ryder tended to confuse women and children with his livestock, a pattern continued by Titus in The Antiphon. Titus's edited-out violation of his daughter Miranda, by dangling her from a hay-hook in the barn, is compared by one of his sons to his dangling of heifers "while he charged the rape-blade in."(20)

In Ryder, Wendell penetrates a lesbian, feminine, fantasy field that features "undulating ground, bursting with pea-pod, bean-pod and chicory, melon plant and gourd plant and rutabaga; here the eyes of the potatoes looking forth, and there the deep-banked fires of many a mound of manure, a perfect prostrate tapestry of fecundity." Wendell takes on aspects of Milton's Satan or the beasts of the apocalypse: "setting forth from the earth with stupendous great wings, outstripping the cornfields and the mountains, and rising into the clouds, like an enormous and beloved insect, with strong hands upward and arched feet downward, and thundering male parts hung like a terrible anvil, whereon one beats out the resurrection and the death."(21) The similes undo themselves in wellwrought absurdity: an "enormous and beloved insect," surmounting nature like an angel, only to have his genitals exposed. The "terrible anvil" evokes Blake's alternate creation story in "The Tyger." The offering of "the resurrection and the death" is ominous to Wendell's female audience. But the hammering on male genitals has absurd and painful implications. Barnes could well be jesting about the masculine hardness, seen as an ideal creation in Poundian modernism. Old fertility rites have been replaced by the deadly effects of masculine penetration. Notably, Wendell is far less able to face the event of death than the women of this text.

Amelia Ryder is familiar with the cycles of nature, particularly in the wood, which she has retreated to since childhood. The young Amelia has "a marked partiality for the canker in the family tree. Tramping about in the woods she turned up the leaves for moss and bugs with a high pleasure" (31). This she prefers immensely to domestic labor. Amelia notes that as she "never had much education . . . the jungle was never scratched off my heart." She has a vision of a jungle made fertile by dung, returning to the earth. Wendell interferes with this natural cycle with his "faulty fancy" constructions, including a dovecot. He leaves his wives to face thousands of dead hatchlings and to clean up the dung. In a typically ambiguous statement, Amelia notes that, unlike Wendell, dunging needs no recourse to words. In a brief escape from the conditions of her bigamous household, Amelia is "well pleased" to ride away on Wendell's horse "into a bog, unseeing, where skunk cabbages flourished fitly. She hummed to herself (a bar of the Spring Song' as it had been sung in the Conservatory), trampling down the jack-in-the-pulpits, jogging over the green moss, and the grey moss, all under the boughs" (146). The wood, flourishing on decay, is experienced in a dreamlike, meandering, careless state, in which she recuperates her musical past.

The mythic beasts of Ryder deserve their own study, beyond the scope of this essay. I must salute three of them: Amelia's Ox of a Black Beauty, who visits during one of her labors in his quest for religion." Also Wendell's persona, Beast Thingumbob, whose primal, faceless, many-breasted, and softly hoofed mate dies in serving up ten sons. Finally, the creation story of Molly Dance, a breeder of dogs, and distorter of patriarchal lore, who traces the origin of the world back to a whale, who put Jonah out of his mouth.

The Antiphon could take as its title "The Beast Box" or "Hobbs's Ark." Like characters in Nightwood, all of the members of Titus Hobbs's family mimic one beast or another. The mother, Augusta, suggests mild animals. Her flank resembles a bird of paradise when she walks proudly. She recalls lost beauty like a dove "when I was thrown up for the gun," as doves typically were for target shooting.(23) This is Augusta's version of the advent of sexual experience. Her daughter Miranda offers a story of her mother's scythed innocence that takes up where the rape fields of Ryder left off.

Striking back at springtime, like a kid

Hopping and skipping to the summer's day;

Bawling and baaing out her natural glee


Hopping and singing went she, when in one

Scant scything instant was gaffed down. (86-87)

The mature Miranda is represented as a more wily and dangerous animal, a "deadly beloved vixen" (99), or in the vision of her brother Jeremy, which suggests Yeats's "The Second Coming" or Eliot's The Waste Land, she is a leopard in a land made desolate" (104). Miranda's three brothers recall their powerful grandmother in uncharitable insect terms. Victoria is a "skin-trussed boxer-hornet" who "hummed and shook beneath the midnight lamps" in her salon in London's Grosvenor Square (153). Miranda considers her grandmother a savior of the family, and recalls her taking the children to the circus - as Zadel Barnes had taken the young Djuna. The sons' resentment of Titus is expressed in epithets of virile farm animals and cruel sports with animals: he is an "old Ram," a "Cock-pit Bully Boy" (151), and a "stallion" (154). Instead of raising stock on his farm, Titus cultivated prostitutes, "his beasts, / The girls" (128). The three brothers all play the cock, whose crowing marked Christ's betrayal.

Although they claim to be righting the wrongs of Titus for arranging the childhood rape of Miranda, and the wrongs of Augusta for letting it happen, the brothers are abusive to both women. Miranda and Augusta are scapegoats for the father, now inaccessible in death. Jeremy's recovery of the dollhouse, "Hobbs's ark," exposes young Miranda's ritual rape, when she cried out like a ewe, "Offering up her silly throat for slashing" (186). But this is not where Miranda ends.

I should like to draw more attention to mature Miranda, who remarks calmly, "The wind that knocked our generation down / Was not an harvest" (212). These words pertain both to the patriarch and to World War II, raging in 1939 when the work is set. Barnes's Miranda has survived the tempest on the continent. She has no need to hunt the enemy, or seek revenge, as her brothers do in renewed cycles of abuse.(24) Instead, she uses a mythic beast, the gryphon, the traditional guardian of treasures, to explore the origins of destruction and suggest a way out. Like some of Nora's furnishings in Nightwood, this gryphon was "once a car on a roundabout." In act 3, it becomes a stage for maternal recovery - a magic carpet to positive memories and visions for Augusta, a place of primal memory of her mother for Miranda: "When I first loved thee, thou wert grazing: / Carrion Eve, in the green stool, wading, / In the coarse lilies and the sombre wood; / Before the tree was in the cross, the cradle, and the coffin" (193-94). The gryphon has been split, most suggestively, by Titus. Miranda orders its reassembly. Mother and daughter are still struggling over the ways that they, like the gryphon, are split or united in one another, Miranda recalls painful splitting off. Augusta always preferred her sons. She sent Miranda birdlike from the portal, door, or gate. Miranda has borne the guilt of mortals cast from the biblical Garden of Eden: "Scotched by the sword her people snatched / From the gate of Eden, for a whip / To beat her, reeling like an headless cock." Or vixenlike, she is "Bushelled in the mind's confessional, / Foxed down its gullet to the rump, / Quaking with unhouselled mouth agape, / Lashing at the lattice with her paws" (215). She is the character who claims to be "beast familiar."

Miranda and Augusta die, bedded on the gryphon, crushed by the bell Augusta uses to summon back her son. The women have one witness - Jeremy, who is left on stage, and not completely separate from events. Jeremy figures himself as one last beast: ". . . the slayer snuffling 'round the kill, / Breathing his contagion out before him, / Draws up the victim with his steaming nose." He has "breathed up disaster and myself' and dug a hole and "pushed my terror in" (224).

Like the gryphon on its roundabout tour, Barnes comes back to familiar territory in her final major work. As in Ryder, a son, like his father before him, is a hunter and a beastly affliction, terrifying because terrified, expiring and inspiring a breath of disaster that unites him with his female victim. Like Nora's dog and the merry-go-round figures that furnished the shared abode of Nora and Robin in Nightwood, the gryphon of The Antiphon unites disparate female figures. The female relationship fails here, as it did in Nightwood. Yet it remains on hold. The gryphon presides over buried treasure. By becoming beast familiar, by sensing the bestial as craft, ritual, and code, as Barnes represents it in each of her works, we may learn to read woman in a new set of personal, historical, and ecological relations, and eventually to use those relations well.


(1) Letter from Barnes to Emily Holmes Coleman, 5 May 1935, University of Delaware Library, Newark, DE. (2) Djuna Barnes, Nightwood (New York: New Directions, 1961), 34. Subsequent references are to this edition and will be cited parenthetically in the text. (3) To the Dogs (in A Book) casts Helena Hucksteppe in the company of a dog; eventually their respect for her dogs is the only subject on which she and her young male intruder can communicate. (4) Nancy Fraser and Linda Nicholson resist the totalizing tendency of early feminist theories, starting with the biologism of Shulamith Firestone, but including also social-role differentiation that assigns woman to a domestic sphere, or to the activity of mothering, and the acquisition of gender identity, as in the work of Nancy Chodorow. See "Social Criticism without Philosophy: An Encounter between Feminism and Postmodernism," in Feminism/Postmodernism, ed. Linda J. Nicholson (New York: Routledge, 1990), 26-30. In "A Manifesto for Cyborgs," Donna Haraway discusses Susan Griffin, Audre Lorde, and Adrienne Rich as theorists who "insist on the organic, opposing it to the technological." Haraway prefers to explore "the breakdown of clear distinctions between organism and machine"; see "A Manifesto for Cyborgs: Science, Technology, and Socialist Feminism in the 1980s," in Feminism/Postmodernism, 216. Griffin's readings of lions, cows, and other animals are very resonant with the bestiary of Nightwood. Diana Fuss gets around the deterministic aspects of essentialism by studying its strategic deployment: see Essentially Speaking: Feminism, Nature and Difference (New York: Routledge, 1989). (3) For a summary of binaries implicating gender, derived from Helene Cixous, among others, see Alice Jardine, Gynesis: Configurations of Woman and Modernity (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985), 72. (6) Louis Kannenstine, The Art of Djuna Barnes: Duality and Damnation (New York: New York University Press, 1977), xv, 6. While Eden is an important unified state of innocence for Kannenstine, Alan Williamson suggests a hermetic rather than an orthodox Christian state of innocence. The bisexual Adam of the hermetic scheme offers a sexual middle ground, escaping binary extremes of gender. See "The Divided Image: The Quest for Identity in the Works of Djuna Barnes," Critique: Studies in Modern Fiction 7 (Spring 1964): 58-74. Cheryl Plumb discusses social/natural images in Barnes's story "A Night among the Horses," finding both sets destructive. See Fancy's Craft: Art and Identity in the Early Works of Djuna Barnes (Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna University Press, 1986), 57. Plumb considers the early Barnes a social satirist of middle-class values, who works with a binary of art/physical world, in the symbolist tradition of Baudelaire and Gourmont. The binary has not been evaluated sufficiently in terms of gender for Barnes. (7) Gerstenberger, "The Radical Narratives of Djuna Barnes' Nightwood," in Breaking the Sequence: Women's Experimental Fiction, ed. Ellen G. Friedman and Miriam Fuchs (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 130. (8) Margot Norris, Beasts of the Modern Imagination (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985). (9) I tend to view Barnes in the class of constructionists," as opposed to essentialists," as defined by Diana Fuss in Essentially Speaking (1-6). She delays rather than denies essentialism through her discursive practices. (10) James Joyce, The Letters of James Joyce, ed. Stuart Gilbert (New York: Viking Press, 1965-66), 1:170. (11) Susan Griffin, Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her (New York: Harper & Row, 1978), 104. (12) Laura Mulvey, "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," in Feminisms, ed. Robyn Warhol and Diane Price Herndl (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1991), 432-42. (13) The Hippodrome circus is mentioned in a 1909 letter in which Zadel Barnes uses the institution as a favorable comparison to family-imposed suitor, Percy Faulkner. It seems likely from the description of the grandmother taking the children to the circus in The Antiphon, that Barnes may have first attended with Zadel. (Letter Zadel Barnes to Djuna Barnes, n.d. [12 April 1909], University of Maryland.) Barnes's article is reprinted in New York, ed. Alyce Barry (Los Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, 1989), 190-97. (14) "Barnes between Fetishism and Feminism," unpublished paper presented at the Barnes Centennial Conference, University of Maryland, October 1992. Annette Leavitt commented separately to me on this interpretation of the illustration. (15) The Baroness brought the art of Dada to Greenwich Village, and was cared for in many ways by Barnes, who became her executor after her suicide. See Andrew Field, Djuna: The Formidable Miss Barnes (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1985), 78-83. (16) Djuna Barnes, The Book of Repulsive Women (Los Angeles: Sun & Moon, 1989), unpaginated. (17) I derive my description from Frances M. Doughty, who notes that Barnes had mounted this set of illustrations on cardboard. See "Gilt on Cardboard: Djuna Barnes as Illustrator of Her Life and Work," in Silence and Power: A Reevaluation of Djuna Barnes, ed. Mary Lynn Broe (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1991), 143. (18) Reproduced in Field, 114-15, and Broe, 124. (19) Zadel Barnes (Budington), "The Children's Night," Harper's New Monthly Magazine 296 (January 1875): 153-64. (20) Quoted by Linda Curry, "Tom, Take Mercy: Djuna Barnes' Drafts of The Antiphon," in Silence and Power, 291. (21) Djuna Barnes, Ryder (Elmwood Park, IL: Dalkey Archive Press, 1990), 41-42; subsequent citations are to this edition and will be cited parenthetically in the text. (22) I discuss this at some length in my essay, "|The Look on the Throat of a Stricken Animal': Joyce as Met by Djuna Barnes," Joyce Studies Annual 2 (1991): 153-76. (23) In a letter to Emily Holmes Coleman, Barnes used this same metaphor of the beautiful game bird as victim in recalling the tragic Marilyn Monroe. The quotation from The Antiphon is from The Selected Works of Djuna Barnes (New York: Farrar, Straus and Cudahy, 1962), 142; subsequent references to The Antiphon are to this edition and will be referred to parenthetically in the text. (24) On this point, I disagree with Shari Benstock, who reads a scenario of mother-daughter hate in The Antiphon; see her Women of the Left Bank: Paris 1900-1940 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 236.
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Title Annotation:Djuna Barnes
Author:Scott, Bonnie Kime
Publication:The Review of Contemporary Fiction
Date:Sep 22, 1993
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