See discussions, stats, and author profiles for this publication at: https://www.researchgate.

net/publication/291573139

The Time of Trauma: Rereading Unclaimed Experience and Testimony

Article · January 2014

DOI: 10.1353/jlt.2014.0027

CITATIONS READS
3 556

1 author:

Petar Ramadanovic
University of New Hampshire
22 PUBLICATIONS   40 CITATIONS   

SEE PROFILE

Some of the authors of this publication are also working on these related projects:

Forgetting as a Supplement: Toward a Converging Theory of Memory View project

A “We,” Slow Reading, and Epistemology for a Hermeneutic Discipline (Manifesto of Sorts) View project

All content following this page was uploaded by Petar Ramadanovic on 25 August 2016.

The user has requested enhancement of the downloaded file.

 7KH7LPHRI7UDXPD5HUHDGLQJ8QFODLPHG([SHULHQFHDQG7HVWLPRQ\
3HWDU5DPDGDQRYLF

-RXUQDORI/LWHUDWXUHDQG7UDXPD6WXGLHV9ROXPH1XPEHU)DOO
SS$UWLFOH

3XEOLVKHGE\8QLYHUVLW\RI1HEUDVND3UHVV
'2,MOW

)RUDGGLWLRQDOLQIRUPDWLRQDERXWWKLVDUWLFOH
KWWSVPXVHMKXHGXDUWLFOH

Access provided by University of New Hampshire (25 Aug 2016 14:45 GMT)
 The Time of Trauma
Rereading Unclaimed Experience and Testimony

petar ramadanovic

For the wound remains open by our terror before the future and not only the
past. . . . It is the future that determines the unappropriability of the event,
not the present or the past. . . . We are talking about a trauma, and thus an
event, whose temporality proceeds neither from the now that is present nor
from the present that is past but from an im-presentable to come (à venir).
—Jacques Derrida, “Autoimmunity: Real and Symbolic Suicides”

It is a curiosity deserving a place at a beginning of an article: the

key works of literary trauma studies—Cathy Caruth’s Unclaimed Experi-
ence and Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub’s Testimony—do not discuss
tragedy.1 Although it is obvious that literary trauma theory is essentially
connected to the Western tragic tradition—that tradition put together be-
tween the eighteenth and twentieth centuries by thinkers like Hegel and
Freud and embodied in Sophocles’s heroes Antigone and Oedipus—in
Unclaimed Experience the word “tragedy” is used twice: once in the col-
loquial sense (111) and once in a footnote as a part of a quotation (127).
In Testimony, similarly, “tragedy” is mentioned all of three times.2 Neither
lists the term in its index.
Despite this limitation, the two books have been crucial, following Elie
Wiesel, in establishing a new category for understanding testimonial as-
pects of literature, witnessing to an otherwise unrepresentable traumatic
event. This notion has become so popular that the mla database lists over
twelve hundred works published after 1999 with the term “trauma” in the
title, most of which are applying the simplest of formulas—“trauma in X,”
where X can be anything from a Shakespeare tragedy to Native American
hip-hop.3 The newfound ubiquity of trauma does not, however, imply that
the very basic concepts of this theory are well understood, including issues
like how trauma is present in a work of art or who is traumatized exactly. Is
it the character? The audience? The author? To complicate matters, with the
work of Jacques Lacan (whose concept of the “missed encounter” is behind
Caruth’s and Felman’s understanding of trauma) psychoanalysis stopped
psychoanalyzing literary characters and authors and moved beyond reading
narratives as representations. After his seminar on Edgar Allan Poe’s short
story “The Purloined Letter,” Lacan defined a whole new task for analysis
that concerned the nature of interpretation and consisted of investigating
the structure of meaning, the role of the signifier, and so on. Such reading
is very hard to align with the critique of literary trauma theory in influen-
tial works such as, for instance, Ruth Leys’s Trauma: A Genealogy.4 Among
other things, Leys suggests that for Caruth trauma is a literal repetition of
some prior wound, implying that for contemporary literary theory litera-
ture is a representation of an actual past moment.5
In her critique Leys does, however, put her finger on a crucial issue
that neither Caruth nor Felman explain precisely enough, an issue that
has been behind the widespread misunderstanding of what trauma theo-
ry implies. So we are compelled to ask once again: how is trauma present
in a piece of writing at all if not as the past making a second appearance?
Starting with an answer to this question, the chief goal of this article is to
offer a new and different way to understand the proposition that a literary
theory of trauma is firstly an aesthetic theory (and not a historical or med-
ical theory). I will start with an unusual assumption: that trauma theory
is about the future and not, as scholars commonly argue, about the past,
which will be the starting point of my aesthetic argument.6
I mean that trauma theory is about the future in several ways. First, in
the very simple sense that trauma connotes a disruption of the continuity
between the present and the past. Without such continuity, trauma’s tem-
poral dimension is indeterminable. Since the survivor has survived, we
are, however, bound to see the dimension of time “after” a trauma as a fu-
ture. Second, I mean it in the sense that trauma theory is a theory of inter-

2 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

pretation the first task of which is to set terms for understanding, which,
by force, is a project that determines what is not yet, how we are going
to, at some future point, understand the bygone. Third, I also take this to
be the orientation of Caruth’s and Felman’s works. They too are Derride-
ans in this sense that, like Derrida in the epigraph to this article, they un-
derstand that it “is the future that determines the unappropriability of the
[traumatic] event, not the present or the past.” Hence, from this perspec-
tive, the crucial goal of literary trauma theory appears to be to tell us about
this new and unusual condition in which the past disturbance seems to
have only one temporal dimension, namely, the not yet, and scholarship
depends on the future to be able to claim what happened.
The choice of perspective—whether theory of trauma is looking
backward and negotiating the past or forward and defining terms for
understanding—seems to me to present a key philosophical difference
between, on the one hand, authors like Caruth and Felman who follow
the Derridean orientation and, on the other hand, scholars of history like
Ruth Leys, Dominick LaCapra, and numerous others who are critical of
their work, who believe that trauma theory is engaged in interpreting rep-
resentations of the past.

Justification
Among recent works, the collection of essays titled The Future of
Trauma Theory shows very plainly both the achievements of the current-
ly dominant trend in trauma studies and its limitations. On the one hand,
the collection makes a strong case that trauma theory is still relevant in-
terpretative theory and that it should survive into the future by amend-
ing Caruth’s and Felman’s models. On the other hand, this collection as-
sumes that this theory would always be about a past. For it, as for most of
the work in trauma studies, trauma theory is a historical discourse whose
stakes are related to what role theory and trauma can play in the under-
standing of the past, with historicization and contextualization being
trauma scholars’ chief goals. As Michael Rothberg explains in his intro-
duction, after he first asks, “What do we talk about when we talk about
trauma?,” “Any assessment of the future of trauma studies must start with
that question. The answer—even, or especially, in a book that asks us to
reflect on the future—will necessarily be historical: we need to start from

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 3

the assumption that answers will vary across time and across cultural con-
text.” If the future is ever mentioned in this discourse, it is defined as new
and different from the old—according to Rothberg, “Trauma today is
probably not the trauma of twenty years ago and certainly not the trau-
ma of the early twentieth century.” 7 This view does not seem to notice the
strange time of trauma and hence leaves no place for the kind of inquiry
about trauma’s futural properties that I am suggesting here.
Much in the same vein we can say that, though nominally Derridean,
influential analysis of mourning and melancholia does not, as a rule, rec-
ognize the temporality of melancholia. For instance, for Anselm Haver-
kamp, in the highly praised Leaves of Mourning, how melancholia depends
on what is not yet remains unnoticed despite its rather obvious presence
in at least one source he is inspired by—Maria Torok’s “The Illness of
Mourning and the Fantasy of the Exquisite Corpse,” from which Haver-
kamp, early on in his book, takes the following quotation: “The incorpo-
rated object, in place and instead of the lost object, will always restore (by
its existence and by allusion to its contents) something other than what
is lost: the striking desire of repression.”8 Acting on a specific ideology
Haverkamp helped define, Leaves of Mourning focuses on the return not-
ed by Torok, neglecting almost entirely to explain how repetition com-
pulsion is constituted not in the past but in the future. In the process de-
scribed by Torok, the past will take place in the form of future restoration
because it provides only a substitute, which sets the mechanism that keeps
the repetition compulsion going on and on. In a sense, the future and the
past trade their usual places.

Science on Memory
An additional reason to reorient literary trauma studies and ask
about trauma’s temporal dimensions—this time of trauma—comes from
the current scientific research in memory that, too, can be interpreted as
undergoing radical revision in its understanding of the relation between
present and past, remembering and forgetting. If Aristotle could claim
only that remembering is a form of retrieval of a past record, contempo-
rary science understands that the brain’s present and past can be success-
fully manipulated and that a selective forgetting can be induced through
retrievals of (the same) memory.9 We see such use of memory at work,

4 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

for instance, in the new kinds of exposure therapies designed by the psy-
chologist Skip Rizzo at the University of Southern California, tailored to
Iraq war veterans. Using virtual reality re-creations of the Iraq scape, Rizzo
manipulates iterations of the traumatic experience. The goal of treatment
is not to desensitize the patient and make an experience less harrowing.
Rather, the goal is to actively change—you could even say falsify—what
the patient is going to remember. In a rather obvious sense, this new ver-
sion of exposure therapy is about rewriting the memory trace—how the
traumatic event will be experienced—and not about the way trauma “had
happened” and was originally experienced, as is usually the case in a psy-
chology interested in tracing the contemporary disturbance back to some
infantile instance. The new theory of trauma is suggesting that the past re-
cord is not as indelible as it seems and that the key dimension of trauma is
not the original one but what is not yet, where the compulsion to substi-
tute and the malleability of memory can be used to change the “original.”

Trauma and the Sublime

I want to offer yet one more set of introductory notes. This one
addressing aesthetic terms in order to clarify the difference between the
sublime and trauma, since the two are often conflated.10 The point that
scholars usually make is a formal one, that both have to do with deforma-
tions, excess, the crossing of boundaries, ruptures, and that both seem to
have, as Christine Battersby put it, “the capacity to annihilate” the “I.”11 I
want to offer a rather different explanation based on the assumption that
there is a categorical distinction between the sublime and trauma. I am
here following the logic of the distinction between the sublime and the
beautiful that Kant makes in the Third Critique, where he laid the founda-
tion for modern aesthetics.12
The reader should bear in mind that the etymological meaning of
the term “aesthetics” is sensation and that it is meant to be a way to talk
about feelings and experience, not only forms and shapes. “Aesthetic” de-
rives from αἰσθητικός (aisthetikos, meaning “esthetic, sensitive, sentient”),
which in turn derives from αἰσθάνομαι (aisthanomai, meaning “I perceive,
feel, sense”). In this context, Kant’s sublime is a name for the feeling that
results from the encounter with the limits of the imagination, and beau-
ty corresponds to the experience of pleasure felt when the imagination

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 5

is affirmed in its present configuration. And both are subjective states in
the sense that they define the subject as an individual. In contrast, trauma
impacts the status of the subjectivity that is experiencing and feeling. Put
simply, in trauma there is no “I” that can be threatened with annihilation.
If there is trauma, it was annihilated already. What was left, the surviving
entity, is a left-over trust into the future.
Because of this feature, we cannot, strictly speaking, say that trauma is
either a feeling or an experience but instead have to apply the term “event”
to it and imagine it as a futural event, since what it is is characterized by
the break with the past. The sublime might be painful and confusing and,
in some sense, shapeless, but, unlike trauma, it does not impact what
makes the subject. Experiencing it, the subject is continually a subject (of
the feeling, of the experience), even if a profoundly changed one. The sub-
lime might be abyssal (as in having a suggestion of great depths), but the
sublime, as Kant insists, does not include an injury like an actual fall, and
trauma does.
This means that, after trauma theory, we can distinguish between two
different kinds of the ineffable. The traditional form is too much for what
we might call historical powers like the imagination or the understanding.
As painful and threatening as these sublime feelings might be, they are a
part of the process that helps a subject grow by transcending her previous
limitations. And so the pain the sublime provokes is a growing pain, just
as Nietzsche said in his oft-repeated aphorism from Twilight of the Idols,
where he mused that “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.13 Trauma,
in contrast, not only defies the imagination, the understanding, as well as
reason (all in Kant’s sense), it destroys subjectivity as such, making it rath-
er impossible to measure whether one has become “stronger.” We can’t re-
ally know at any point into the survival, even decades later, if there is an
“I” and if what is there is or is not yet to be annihilated in, for instance, the
form of a suicide (think of Primo Levi and Paul Celan).
As opposed to sublime experience, I cannot be certain that I have sur-
vived a trauma. I cannot even know with certainty if there is continuity
between the injured “me” and the “me” that is speaking “after” the event. (I
can, however, as many survivors do, hold onto a belief that my suffering was
not in vain, that it ennobled me, as Aeschylus’s characters think, that it gave
me a great gift of storytelling, and that, in general, it made me stronger.)14

6 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

 Defining trauma in this fashion is not without conceptual problems,
though. If trauma breaks the subject (and subjectivity) down, how can it
be identified as anything, including by the term “event”?15

Unclaimed Experience
To begin to unravel this question, we go to the opening example in
Caruth’s Unclaimed Experience and so to the first encounter with the voice
from the wound. In the latter part of the long introductory paragraph,
which starts with Freud’s shell-shocked soldiers (Beyond the Pleasure Prin-
ciple), Caruth uses Tasso’s Jerusalem Liberated, also mentioned by Freud.
She comments,
The actions of Tancred, wounding his beloved in a battle and then, un-
knowingly, seemingly by chance, wounding her again, evocatively rep-
resent in Freud’s text the way that the experience of trauma repeats
itself, exactly and unremittingly, through the unknown acts of the sur-
vivor and against his very will. As Tasso’s story dramatizes it, the repe-
tition at the heart of catastrophe—the experience that Freud will call
“traumatic neurosis”—emerges as the unwitting reenactment of an
event that one cannot simply leave behind.
I would like to suggest here, however, that the literary resonance of
Freud’s example goes beyond this dramatic illustration of repetition
compulsion and exceeds, perhaps, the limits of Freud’s conceptual or
conscious theory of trauma. (Unclaimed Experience, 2)
In this passage, Caruth does two things. First she defines the source of her
notion of trauma, and then she explains that she departs from it because
the experience we are witnessing here exceeds the bounds of Freud’s under-
standing of trauma. She continues, “For what seems to me particularly strik-
ing in the example of Tasso is not just the unconscious act of the infliction
of the injury and its inadvertent and unwished-for repetition, but the mov-
ing and sorrowful voice that cries out, a voice that is paradoxically released
through the wound” (Unclaimed Experience, 2). Usually new theory such as
Caruth proposes is understood as offering “sophisticated psychoanalytic
concepts to bear on collective processes, developing accounts of historical
violence that are both socially specific and psychologically astute.” That is,
Caruth is taken to be constructing a theory of how a reader might hear the

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 7

past articulated again in the present and to be doing so by paying attention
to the voice of the victim in “recursive attempts to master what [the mind]
has in some sense failed to experience in the first instance.”16
Greg Forter reaches such conclusions through close attention to
Caruth’s text, but perhaps more importantly, he also reaches them be-
cause he, like most of Caruth’s readers, is acting on certain assumptions:
that trauma happened in the past and that it concerns a historical occur-
rence—a unintentional murder of a wife, “Auschwitz,” and so on—that
we encounter in the text. We expect this temporality (this postmemory,
to use Marianne Hirsh’s term)17 to be in place even before we hear the cry,
as we also assume that the cry is a repetition of a trauma that has already
taken place, repetition compulsion being, according to Freud, the chief
symptom of trauma that makes the hero of Jerusalem Liberated feel like he
had no other choice. Following such preconceptions, the most a reader
can do is follow a compulsion of his own and affirm, in recursive attempts,
the accepted understanding of Unclaimed Experience—that Tancred and
Clorinda’s trauma had already occurred and Caruth registers their cry in
and through Freud’s piece of writing because she is more emphatic or
more Levinasian than Freud was. However, there is another, more pre-
cise, more literal understanding of what Caruth is proposing here. If the
accepted view identifies the cause of trauma as being in the past and in the
act of wounding, the reading I am proposing finds the cause of the trau-
ma through Caruth’s definition of a new theory that will do what Freud’s
theory did not, namely, listen for a victim’s voice. As Caruth departs from
Freud, she sets up new expectations and begins to listen to the poem in a
way different from his. Only then, after she posits new demands for inter-
pretation, can she notice the cry that Freud did not register. The result of
the new reading is that our identification of the voice depends not on a
trauma that has happened or on the repetition compulsion but on how we
attend to the text. It rests entirely on Caruth’s defining a new way of listen-
ing—a way that will start a literary fashion of sorts, with a new generation
of scholars finding trauma, it seems, everywhere.
The difference between the two theories—one identifying the cause of
the trauma in the past and the other identifying the theory of interpretation
and future as its place and cause—might seem minor and merely seman-
tic. It is not. For literary studies, philosophically speaking, this difference

8 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

should be regarded as crucial and its consequences should be regarded as
radical in both the ontological and the epistemic sense. One of these the-
ories is about the past and an understanding of art as a representation that
can even be a literal repetition of what, in the nineteenth century, histori-
ans used to identify as reality. The other is a hermeneutic theory about the
terms of interpretation and, therefore, about knowledge itself, the kinds of
understanding that are yet to be formulated. For the latter, art is an inde-
pendent medium that follows the rules it sets (and keeps setting) for itself
as we read it and give it new meanings. For the former, art is a form of mi-
mesis.18 The differences between these two conceptions of trauma studies
multiply further in the context of their arguments. The claim of a repeated
trauma, essentially, is a historical claim that has to meet the standards of
historiography to have merit. Were Caruth interested in pursuing it, she
would have provided evidence of the kind that Ruth Leys is looking for in
her close reading of the Tancred-Clorinda example.19 The evidence—in
the form of a chronological narrative, which Leys wants—would explain
how and when Clorinda witnessed a trauma, whose trauma it was (Tan-
cred’s or Clorinda’s), and how exactly they came to witness each other’s
wounds. This, of course, is a legitimate line of questioning, just not the one
that would help us understand trauma theory better. Caruth does not make
such an argument, since she assumes that the very temporality has been dis-
rupted and that ordering of the events would not answer the question she
wants asked, which concerns the possibility of understanding a disruption.
For that reason, Caruth’s book is dedicated to formulating terms for how
an out-of-order event can be claimed (at some future point), which is what
the five chapters of Unclaimed Experience are focused on.
Caruth’s chief example is a highly aestheticized love story, Marguerite
Duras and Alain Resnais’s Hiroshima mon amour, in which one of the lov-
ers is called, perhaps mockingly, Hiroshima. In this film, the experience
of the past, which was traumatic, tends to be presented indirectly, some-
times even in a funny, self-conscious sort of way, as in this description of
the museum:
SHE: The reconstructions have been made as authentically as
possible.
The films have been made as authentically as possible.

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 9

 The illusion, it’s quite simple, the illusion is so perfect that the tourists
cry.
One can always scoff, but what else can a tourist do, really, but cry?
I’ve always wept over the fate of Hiroshima. Always.
(A panorama of a photograph taken of Hiroshima after the bomb, a “new
desert” without reference to the other deserts of the world.)20
I take this to be the most emblematic example of the movie as it is un-
derstood by Caruth. If it shows anything, it is the deliberate distancing of
the present discourse about trauma from the historical trauma—the in-
sistence on fake authenticity. The keys to understanding Caruth’s trauma
theory are, then, (1) the context within which it appears, namely, the anal-
ysis of a text (a film, theoretical or personal writings, an epic, a dream, and
so on) and (2) the conventions of the aesthetic theory she follows. For
both, any past other than the history of this discipline should not be seen
as directly relevant. Furthermore, Caruth is cautious not to play the psy-
choanalyst or the historian and always to comment on representation and
not on a reality that might be represented in the work. In keeping with
that practice, early on in Unclaimed Experience she warns that her use of
the term “history” is very specific. For her, history is a relation between
one’s life and death, which denote survival and trauma respectively, as it/
they appears in some narrative form (Unclaimed Experience, 7–8). And so,
when we think we hear Tancred-Clorinda’s cry repeated, what we hear is
not a repetition of trauma but, strictly speaking, a trauma theory articu-
lating a new way of listening that, from Caruth’s position, has determined
that there was a disruptive event and has yet to process the phenomenon
(the cry from the wound) it seeks to claim.21
On this interpretation, Caruth’s assertion about an “unwitting reenact-
ment of an event that one cannot simply leave behind” (Unclaimed Ex-
perience, 2) informs us about the ongoing nature of a specific process of
interpretation that is unwitting because we seek to find a way to orient
ourselves. Strictly speaking, if Caruth’s theory were about the past, it
would mean that the past (the cry from the wound) was available to her,
and there would be no need to ask how we can interpret Tasso’s tale, only
a need to document the crime that provoked the cry. That this “experi-

10 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

ence” of claiming is ongoing means that we who are trying to understand
it participate in the creation of its meaning as we speak about it, which, in
turn, tells us in what sense the event is unfinished, unclaimed, and so on,
because our relation to it is unfolding and we are encountering it in nu-
merous different forms.

Missed Encounter
In order to explain Caruth’s concept of trauma further, we go to La-
can and his notion of the missed encounter, the concept that serves Caruth
as a model for her idea of the “unclaimed experience,” which names the
same disjunctive or paradoxical temporality. Here is Lacan defining trauma
as a missed encounter, having in mind, not by chance, Greek tragic plays:
“The function of the tuché, of the real as encounter—the encounter insofar
as it may be missed, insofar as it is essentially the missed encounter—first
presented itself in the history of psycho-analysis in a form that was in itself
already enough to rouse our attention, that of trauma.”22 The first mean-
ing of this sentence is that psychoanalysis understands chance events (like
those Lacan mentioned in a previous passage, which include his patient
missing a session) in terms of trauma. An analysand may miss his appoint-
ment because of a traffic accident, just as a Greek hero, to whom Lacan
turns subsequently, may kill his father by accident. In either case, the event
has two aspects. On the one hand, it is a result of mere chance, just as Oe-
dipus and the analysand claim. But on the other hand, its taking place ful-
fills a predictable scenario. One can foretell that, just as surely as Oedipus
will kill his father, the analysand will miss a session and will come up with
a perfectly valid explanation for doing so. Which is to say that for Lacan,
trauma is registered in an act or an event that happens without conscious
premeditation, as an accident (a mere future, we could say), but then is also
revealed to be inevitable or fated, a repetition of the past that is bound to
take place in the future. This means, then, that Oedipus cannot not want
to kill his father but that impulse is incidental in respect to the event at the
crossroads.23 And further, only in hindsight can we say that destiny was at
work in the example and the past was compulsively repeated. The missed
encounter has a second, perhaps more important meaning. The traumatic
kernel that both Lacan’s patient and Oedipus have to face is so overwhelm-
ing for them that it, as such, remains unknown for an extended period of

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 11

time. This means that neither the analysand nor Oedipus has a frame of
reference to understand it (the missed encounter) in the way a mere spec-
tator of the Greek tragedy does. Only after a period of latency do they begin
to reassemble the truth and gradually make the event a part of their future
experiences and future selves.
Such an explanation of trauma sharply contrasts with Caruth’s un-
claimed experience in one respect—in how they understand the position
of the analyst, which itself rests on different aesthetic principles. Lacan
holds to the party line, understanding the tragedy and the audience in the
same, Aristotelian, way that Freud does in Beyond the Pleasure Principle.
There—after openly declaring his allegiance to Aristotle’s views on trag-
edy and virtually quoting Aristotle when he notes that art can make un-
pleasurable sights pleasurable—Freud goes on to add,
The consideration of these cases and situations, which have a yield of
pleasure as their final outcome, should be undertaken by some system
of aesthetics with an economic approach to its subject-matter. They are
of no use for our purposes, since they presuppose the existence of the
operation of tendencies beyond the pleasure principle, that is, of ten-
dencies more primitive than it and independent of it.
Freud thus explains why watching a tragedy is not traumatizing, be-
cause the final outcome is not traumatic, but pleasurable. What was un-
pleasurable can be, he says, “recollected and worked over in the mind.”24
The same explanation applies to the analyst and to psychoanalytic theo-
ry about traumatic events defined from a detached perspective. So in this
model neither audience nor analyst is traumatized because they can dis-
tance themselves from the traumatic events. Freud, however, does allow
that the director and author of a play—that is, those who create a specific
frame of reference—are engaged in actions that have a direct relation to
trauma. His chief example is his grandson, who, shattered by his mother’s
absence, gets to symbolically represent her comings and goings. The sym-
bolizations start as compulsive repetitions or stagings of a missed encoun-
ter. But then, going into the future, the repetitions progress toward a ver-
itable play of “o-o-o-os” and “das,” entertaining Freud’s family, to become
also a favorite poststructuralist example of death drive.
For Freud, then, there is trauma in a work of art—as, for instance, its

12 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

cause. This, let there be no confusion, is not Caruth’s new proposition but
a now-classical theory of trauma (supported by most of its contemporary
readers), which holds that trauma can be the unconscious cause of a work
of art and understands that a work of art can be a means of having plea-
sure while working through trauma. Caruth’s claim moves away from di-
agnosing experience (Freud) and even from the structure of signification
(Lacan), both of which depend on the separation between the positions
of analyst and analysand as well as on a concomitant, Aristotelian under-
standing of a work of art. For Caruth trauma is related to the act of putting
things together for the first time; that is to say, her trauma is part and par-
cel of the act of creation of the frame of reference that will help us define a
way to listen for a cry from the wound. Something of this sort of explana-
tion would have been on the mind of Freud’s grandson were he equipped
for it.25 So we can say that indeed, from Freud’s and Lacan’s positions, the
audience for a tragic play is not a good example of compulsive repetition,
death drive, or trauma. But when we change the aesthetic point of view,
and in place of an Aristotelian model that separates subject and object,
the world of the play and that of the audience, present and past, we adopt
a modernist aesthetic model, then the example emerges in an entirely dif-
ferent light. I don’t mean to say that our new, modernist audience has to
be necessarily traumatized, only that its role is not the same as the role
of an Aristotelian spectator who is there to temporarily identify with the
hero of the play, and not to define a new frame of reference (a new theory
of listening), which is expected of the modernist audience.
In the case of Sophocles’s tragedies, Aristotle’s spectator undergoes
a catharsis, legitimizing and defining a world in which the function of
the truth and the power of analysis have been left intact. Their belief in
that continuity—including Freud’s and Lacan’s belief in (the not whole)
truth—makes the detachment through catharsis possible. And so the role
of Aristotle’s audience is to confirm that tragedy, however catastrophic,
was only a temporary disruption of the continuity between past and pres-
ent and that the reigning order—a postmemory, if you will—is only fur-
ther strengthened by the process of confronting the “plague,” identifying
its cause, and finding a remedy for what seemed a catastrophic disruption.
These elements—because the audience relies on them as it constitutes it-
self as an audience—make it possible to “work the pain over” and trans-

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 13

form the unpleasurable feeling we have because we sympathize with Oedi-
pus into a pleasurable theatrical experience.26
Watching a typical modernist drama such as Samuel Beckett’s Waiting
for Godot, we see an entirely different aesthetic concept at work. There we
find a world in which the coordinates that we used to know on an a priori
basis (Kant’s “here and now”) do not hold any longer. Because this is the
case, neither the spectators nor the characters on stage can tell if today
(stage time) is today or yesterday, whether they are where they were be-
fore or at some other place, whether those whom they meet they have met
already or not, whether their action is a repetition or something else. Fur-
ther, it is not clear what it is they are doing there. When we have enough
information to identify what is taking place in minimal terms as being
there or waiting, we don’t know who it is that the characters are expect-
ing. There is only something that resembles what we, the audience, speak-
ing from within an Aristotelian framework—that is to say, from habit—
identify as a repetition of the past. The difference between an Aristotelian
aesthetic and a modernist aesthetic is not, as it seems at the first glance,
that in one we cannot imagine a total event (such as the catastrophe of the
Second World War) and in the other one we can. The difference is that in
one, common assumptions are set in advance and the task of viewing and
analyzing is to identify them (and their frame of reference) properly. In
the modernist framework, in turn, the convention is to assume that there
are no preset common assumptions and that it is the task of interpreta-
tion to define them (and the entire frame of reference, present, past, fu-
ture, here, there) as a part of an aesthetic experience. As an audience, we
are thus expected to testify to our own disorientation and the subsequent
emergence of powers of interpretation that we are compelled to develop
since we need to acquire some bearing.
Take another typical modernist work, Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain. On
the usual interpretation, Fountain reveals that a context, namely, an art
show, participates in the construction of the meaning of the object. And
so a urinal can be considered a work of art if exhibited within an “artistic
space,” following specific conventions. This, however, is a kind of silly un-
derstanding of modernism, which holds onto Aristotelian principles in its
belief that the “art show” or the “gallery space” or “art” all have fixed mean-
ings that a work of art, for some reason, has lost. For a true modernist, by

14 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

contrast, Fountain is a total event. After it, nothing is the same. No frame
of reference holds. Alternatively, from an Aristotelian point of view, that
work is just a side-down, misplaced urinal. We are, hence, not left only
with disrupted conventions but also with a choice of the point of view
from which we want to evaluate the scope of the disruption.
From an Aristotelian perspective, accepted by Freud, trauma in a work
of art results in repetition, Tancred suffering again the event of unwittingly
killing his wife. Because he is invested in identifying the “cause” of trau-
ma, Freud relies on Aristotle’s concept of time and a certain form of log-
ic in which the past informs the present, the present the future, the rule
of noncontradiction holds, and so on.27 In a modernist framework these
expectations need not be followed, and the now moment might become
entirely disconnected from any other temporal modality—provided a
new way of viewing and reading. In short, the difference between Freud’s
and Lacan’s view on trauma, on the one hand, and Caruth’s, on the oth-
er, is that Caruth is a literary scholar and a modernist, while Freud and
Lacan after him are scientists who still hold onto Aristotelian principles
when defining the detached position from which their theory is articulat-
ed. The different aesthetic assumptions account for disorientation that we
call modernism and the different temporality of experience. Like Freud’s
repetition compulsion, Lacan’s missed encounter names an encounter
that is always already missed (even when it returns at a later, future point
in time). Caruth’s unclaimed experience, in turn, stands for a not yet, an
unfinished event (of claiming, of interpretation, of experience, of produc-
tion, of performance, and so on). The event is unfinished not only in the
simple sense that it is ongoing, still in process, but also in the sense that it
is a result of a disruption. Because it does not form a continuity with any
other event, there is no frame of reference we can use to determine its be-
ginning and end as well as its duration, which is why we have to identify it
as unfinished and the experience as unclaimed.

Testimony
Shoshana Felman wrote Testimony from exactly the same position
and for exactly the same purpose as Caruth, to apply a modernist aesthet-
ic to capture a new worldview characterized by the disruption of all frames
of reference.28 She starts with the assumption that the current interpreta-

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 15

tion of the past is limited because it is only prepared to deal with finished
and containable events. For Felman, “our cultural frames of reference and
our preexisting categories which delimit and determine our perception of
reality have failed, essentially, both to contain, and to account for, the scale
of what has happened in contemporary history” (Testimony, xv). The pur-
pose of her project is then to offer a way to perceive a reality of ongoing
and uncontainable events. Claims such as the one that the Second World
War is “essentially not over” with its “traumatic consequences . . . still evolv-
ing” (Testimony, xiv) are not meant as statements of fact, announcing that
a war is raging in Europe. They are meant to recognize that we do not yet
have a theory that can explain a discontinuous and ongoing experience of
a reality that is perceived (by that very theory) as broken. Testimony, un-
fortunately, was not read this way by either its critics or its proponents,
who, as a rule, agree that the book is firstly about certain aspects of actual
past events that transpired in Europe during the Second World War. The
reason for this reading lay, no doubt, in the scholarly expectations based
on which we operate and, surely, on the system of values we uphold in
literary and cultural studies, with the actual preferred over the imagined,
the moral lesson over philosophy. On such a reading, Testimony teaches
us how to understand our historical experience and align it with that of
Auschwitz survivors or, in an American context, former slaves. To testify
means to recognize that the firsthand witnesses had an overwhelming ex-
perience in which we, their descendants, are unwitting participants. If that
were correct, then Felman would be proposing that we are not responsible
for our trauma and trauma is not a result of our claim, but somewhat like
a tornado or an epidemic, an occurrence we have the bad luck to inherit
and live through.29
In the understanding I want to forward here, Testimony rests on Fel-
man’s modernist view that a work of art is open and yet also entirely au-
tonomous in terms of representation. This way of reading is, of course, a
variant of New Criticism, which is most obvious in Felman’s chapter on
Claude Lanzmann’s film Shoah, titled “The Return of the Voice,” when
Felman uses the notion of an absolutely self-sufficient “text” (a film, in
this case) that she equates with a source of truth and historical experi-
ence. Throughout the first chapter on Camus, she similarly speaks of the
Plague as if it and the Holocaust were interchangeable terms, even writing

16 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

them as one term, “the Plague (the Holocaust).” In her second chapter on
Camus, which is about his novel The Fall, she presents that work of art as a
medium of “historical recording” and “historical documenting” (Testimo-
ny, 168). We can understand the two terms as meaning that history, actual
past, is reflected in a work of art, as Felman’s readers commonly do, imag-
ining that in Lanzmann’s movie the Holocaust suddenly interferes with
what is obviously a staged experience. Felman, however, means something
quite different. For her, historical recording means that a history emerges
in this work of art she is watching or reading, where this “history” is not
a past that happened in Europe during the Second World War but some-
thing alien and different than the “reality” created by the work of art. It is a
strange force that interferes in the event that Shoah stages for us.
An experience of watching a movie or reading a book can “transmit the
inside of the Holocaust” (Testimony, 234) only if that work of art obvious-
ly simulates a reality of its own, since otherwise, in a referential system—
being like or as—the artwork would never measure up to the past. The
experience of watching Shoah is then considered true and historical, but
only in respect to its own rules and within the self-contained universe de-
fined by a work of art, a movie in Lanzmann’s case, two novels in Camus’s
case. When art is understood as a representation, it is judged in respect to
what lies outside it and hence can never be true, only adequate or faith-
ful. Such representational and referential relation no longer holds once
we have moved beyond an Aristotelian universe—once we admit that we
cannot possibly know what the Holocaust was, once art is viewed as au-
tonomous, and so on. On this understanding, Lanzmann’s Shoah restag-
es history, making it present—meaning “present”—in its own terms. The
Plague transmits the Holocaust, not in terms of the historical event histo-
rians call the Holocaust, but in terms developed by Camus’s novel, name-
ly, as a “plague.” Similarly, Karski’s narrative in Shoah about his historical
mission is defined as “autobiographical” (Testimony, 234), and it is meant
to set up a new frame of reference that will itself make it possible to pres-
ent a past as a disruption. And further, Camus’s The Fall is a missed en-
counter because the novel is a specific kind of historical document, one
meant to stage a history (as the fall), not represent it.
Bearing this in mind, when Felman says that witnessing in Shoah is crit-
ical, asking, “what does it mean to be a witness?” (Testimony, 206), she im-

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 17

plies that these questions are asked within an aesthetic framework that, as
such, is not brought into question in her work. The framework is defined
best for our purposes in the last question in the same passage: “What does
testimony mean, if it is the uniqueness of the performance of a story which
is constituted by the fact that, like the oath, it cannot be carried out by any-
body else?” (Testimony, 206). Felman is here not asking what it means for
a survivor of the Holocaust to witness the Holocaust and for us to witness
this witnessing. Those questions are already answered by, for instance, Pri-
mo Levi (The Drowned and the Saved); namely, the firsthand witnessing has
to confront the issue that the Holocaust is unbelievable, which itself creates
the position of the second witness allowing authors like Levi to testify to
this form of shock.30 Felman’s key question is the one that logically follows
Levi’s: what would happen if the shattered frameworks and discontinuities
are a permanent feature of the interpretative process, and so the future is the
only dimension of time we can, in a manner of speaking, count on? Indeed,
what is history that follows such assumptions?
Now, we can easily understand why it is that Felman wants us to exam-
ine witnessing as an aesthetic event. It is because aesthetics is the only dis-
course in which the experience can be both ongoing and finished, discon-
tinuous and continuous, past and yet to come. It is the field for the new
and open meaning in the sense that there isn’t one frame of reference that
the presented events correspond to. Felman’s claim that referential sys-
tems are in need of change, then, should be understood as a proposition
for, first, defining a new aesthetic that itself would offer a way to create a
different kind of reality, a new kind of culture that can exist despite the
disruption of the frame of reference, and a new kind of theory of history.

Historical Figures
Admittedly, in writing about a historical figure like Paul de Man, both
Caruth and Felman walk a fine line between theory and historiography. We
can explain the example as an inconsistency due to the fact that both au-
thors are in search of a new theory and not all implications of it are entirely
clear to them. I suppose that my own article has such issues as well. There is,
however, also a way to align at least this example of de Man with my insis-
tence that Felman and Caruth are setting up a theory of the future. In both
Unclaimed Experience and Testimony, writing about de Man is not about

18 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

the “historical” de Man but about a notion of an absolute break with the
past that he as a scholar—and now, as we know from certain discoveries,
also as a private individual—has become known for. The past in question
concerns, of course, de Man’s anti-Semitic writing for Le Soir in Belgium,
but that content is secondary to the concept of a “radical departure” that de
Man stands for and Felman is trying to develop. (For Caruth, it is a similar
notion, de Man’s “fall,” that she wants to borrow from him and further.) In
this context Felman argues that the new theory requires an “annihilation of
the self ” (Testimony, 135)—annihilation being a variant of a suspension of
the self that was, since Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a prerequisite for anthropo-
logical scholarship generally defined. A similar transcendental experience,
not by chance, is the kind of transformation artists undergo when creating
their works. And so, even in those instances whose reference is undoubt-
edly to specific historical events and individual biography, both Caruth’s
and Felman’s arguments are about interpretation and how we might define
theory and its epochal role of breaking with the past.

Deepest Experience
This interpretation of trauma theory will be disappointing to many
current proponents, as well as to those among Felman’s and Caruth’s crit-
ics who believe trauma theory gives recognition and voice to what Dom-
inick LaCapra identifies as our “deepest experiences.”31 Trauma theory,
when understood the way I am proposing here, is not about affect for the
simple reason that in order for it to interpret what has happened, to take
stock of what we are feeling, there has to be a subject doing the interpre-
tation. Trauma theory therefore has to be about the modes of reading that
set up the subject and make it possible for her to, in the future, look for
and identify the cry from the wound in the form of either an unclaimed
experience or a testimony.

Notes
The epigraph is from Giovanna Borradori, Philosophy in a Time of Terror: Dia-
logues with Jurgen Habermas and Jacques Derrida (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2003), 96–97.
1. Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub, Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature,
Psychoanalysis and History (New York: Routledge, 1992); Cathy Caruth, Unclaimed

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 19

Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1996). Both works will hereafter be cited parenthetically in the text, as Testi-
mony and Unclaimed Experience, respectively.
2. In the crucial example Felman quotes Elie Wiesel’s distinction between trage-
dy and testimony: “If the Greeks invented tragedy, the Romans the epistle and the
Renaissance the sonnet, our generation invented a new literature, that of testimony”
Elie Wiesel, “The Holocaust as a Literary Inspiration,” in Dimensions of the Holocaust
(Evanston, il: Northwestern University Press, 1977), 9; quoted in Felman and Laub,
Testimony, 113. Felman’s point, however, is different from Wiesel’s. Wiesel claims that
testimony is a new genre invented after the Second World War. For Felman, on the
other hand, testimonial becomes a way to read literature.
3. Between 1959 and 2012 a total of 1,405 works with the term “trauma” in the title
were published, 1,232 of which were published after the year 1999 and therefore un-
der the influence of Caruth’s Unclaimed Experience.
4. Ruth Leys, Trauma: A Genealogy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
2000).
5. Much of the early criticism of literary trauma theory has come from histori-
ans who considered the disciplinary differences between literary studies and history
from a limited point of view, without much appreciation for modernist aesthetics of
Marcel Duchamp’s kind. Trauma theory was hence understood as being about a mi-
metic activity, about “the incarnation, actual reliving, or compulsive acting out the
past,” to borrow Dominick LaCapra’s words. Dominick LaCapra, History and Memo-
ry after Auschwitz (Ithaca, ny: Cornell University Press, 1998), 100.
6. There have been a few attempts, most notably by Slavoj Žižek, to point to the
futurity of trauma in terms of Nachträglichkeit, as well as to speak of trauma as that
which returns from the future. My point here will be different only insofar as I will
present the concept of trauma as depending on certain modernist aesthetic views.
For Žižek’s analysis of trauma, see, for instance, Slavoj Žižek, The Plague of Fanta-
sies (New York: Verso, 1997). See especially his argument about Claude Lanzmann’s
film Shoah (215ff ).
7. Michael Rothberg, introduction to The Future of Trauma Theory: Contemporary
Literary and Cultural Criticism, ed. Gert Buelens, Sam Durrant, and Robert Eagle-
stone (London: Routledge, 2014), xi. See also Roger Luckhurst’s The Trauma Ques-
tion (New York: Routledge, 2008), which makes the case that trauma is a historical
entity that can be a cultural motif or even a trope, a “knot,” as Luckhurst calls it.
8. Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok, The Shell and the Kernel, ed. and trans.
Nicholas T. Rand (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); Anselm Haver-
kamp, Leaves of Mourning: Hölderlin’s Late Work, with an Essay on Keats and Melan-
choly, trans. Vernon Chadwick (Albany, ny: suny Press, 1996), 15; emphasis added.

20 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

 9. See, for instance, B. C. Storm, G. Angello, D. R. Buchli, R. H. Koppel, J. L. Lit-
tle, and J. F. Nestojko, “A Review of Retrieval-Induced Forgetting in the Contexts of
Learning, Eye-Witness Memory, Social Cognition, Autobiographical Memory, and
Creative Cognition,” in The Psychology of Learning and Motivation, ed. B. Ross, vol. 62
(Amsterdam: Academic Press / Elsevier, 2015), 141–94.
10. See, for instance, Frank Ankersmit, Sublime Historical Experience (Stanford,
ca: Stanford University Press, 2005); and Keine Wirth, Musically Sublime: Indetermi-
nacy, Infinity, Irresolvability (New York: Fordham University Press, 2009).
11. Christine Battersby, The Sublime, Terror, and Human Difference (New York:
Routledge, 2007), 1.
12. The interest in Kantian aesthetics is not limited to the sublime side. This clas-
sical aesthetic repertoire also has been enriched by parsing out the pleasing and
identifying new subcategories such as cute, dainty, and dumpy, as in the work of
Sianne Ngai titled Ugly Feelings. It seems we are currently witnessing another blos-
soming of Kantian aesthetics. Sianne Ngai, Ugly Feelings (Cambridge, ma: Harvard
University Press, 2005); Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Judgment, trans. J. H. Ber-
nard (New York: Hafner, 1951).
13. Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, The Anti-Christ, Ecce Homo, Twilight of the Idols,
and Other Writings, ed. Aaron Ridley and Judith Norman (New York: Cambridge
University Press, 2005), 157.
14. Aeschylus, The Oresteia, trans. Iain Johnston (Arlington, va: Richer Resourc-
es, 2007), 13.
15. Kant was aware of the possibility that there is a more shattering category than
the sublime, but he could not conceptually explain it as an aesthetic experience,
because he could not solve the problem we are facing here of the ground for such
definition. For Kant, the nature of aesthetic experience is always subjective, where
subjective does not mean proper to one individual but rather determinative of sub-
jectivity. In other words, an aesthetic experience does not happen to some already
existing subject, it rather creates the subject as a subject of a specific experience,
such as looking at the ocean. Because the subject is the result of the experience, we
cannot talk about beautiful or sublime objects—or, rather, the object of such an ex-
perience is the subject itself. For the same reason, because this process is universally
presupposed to create a subject, Kant could not understand how trauma could be
one of the aesthetic experiences, given that it shatters the subject.
16. Greg Forter, “Freud, Faulkner, Caruth: Trauma and the Politics of Literary
Form,” Narrative 15.3 (2007): 259–85 (259).
17. Marianne Hirsch, The Generation of Postmemory: Writing and Visual Culture af-
ter the Holocaust (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012).
18. Most works gathered in the mla database that are about trauma belong to

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 21

this category. They all aim to diagnose a cultural moment and an experience in the
way, for instance, Michael Cotsell does in The Theater of Trauma. In this work, Cot-
sell claims that T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land is a “great poem of trauma and dissocia-
tion” that represents “the scandal of the unbearable in modern life.” Michael Cotsell,
The Theater of Trauma: American Modernist Drama and the Psychological Struggle for
the American Mind, 1900–1930 (New York: Peter Lang, 2005), 11.
19. Leys, Trauma, 295–96.
20. Marguerite Duras and Alain Resnais, Hiroshima mon amour (New York:
Grove Press, 1961), 18.
21. The reader may want to pay particular attention to Caruth’s use of terms that
denote becoming, such as “arise.” In one of her key claims, Caruth writes, “Through
the notion of trauma, I will argue, we can understand that a rethinking of reference
is aimed not at eliminating history but at resituating it in our understanding, that
is, at precisely permitting history to arise where immediate understanding may not”
(Unclaimed Experience, 11). I take this sentence literally: Caruth will replace the no-
tion of history as a look at the past with the notion of becoming history, or history
as an ongoing experience whose frame of reference and understanding are yet to be
formulated.
22. Jacques Lacan, The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, book 11, The Four Fundamental
Concepts of Psychoanalysis, trans. Alan Sheridan, ed. Jacques-Alain Miller (New York:
Norton, 1978), 55. See Linda Belau’s elaboration of the connection between Lacan’s
trauma theory and tragedy in “Trauma and the Material Signifier,” pmc 11.2 (2001).
23. From Lacan’s reading of Oedipus, we see that he does not use Sophocles’s
tragedy as a representation of how a traumatized person acts. Instead, for Lacan the
play is a metaphor for the structure and the process through which meaning is con-
stituted anew.
24. Sigmund Freud, Beyond the Pleasure Principle, trans and ed. James Strachey
(New York: Norton, 1961), 17.
25. Strictly speaking, Freud already allows that the author of the play is both
traumatized and not traumatized, though his theory of trauma does not cover such
a contradictory enactment. The presence of trauma through, or as, enactment was
more fully developed by Dori Laub in his contribution to Testimony, specifically the
chapter titled “Bearing Witness.” The theory, as Bernard-Donals and Glejzer argue,
is an important addition to the theory of representation. However, enactment, be-
cause it is a form of representation, is not an alternative to Aristotelian aesthetics,
only its limit case where subject and object coincide. Michael Bernard-Donals and
Richard Glejzer, Witnessing the Disaster: Essays on Representation and the Holocaust
(Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2003), 4.
26. This gives us yet another way to understand the role of the chorus in Greek

22 Journal of Literature and Trauma Studies 3:2

 tragedies. They are there, first, to show what the conventions are, and then, to
demonstrate how to follow them.
27. Freud’s distinction between his theory and what it describes relies on Aristo-
telian precepts and his aesthetic understanding is Aristotelian. This despite the fact
that his concepts (effect coming before cause, the coexistence of past and present,
Nachträglichkeit, and so on) undermine Aristotle’s universe and are among the inspi-
rations for modernist artists.
28. Whether Felman’s coauthor, Dori Laub, shares Felman’s aesthetic views is
beside the point I am trying to make. I will understand Testimony as being about
narratives that are performative and nonreferential, whose chief aspect is that they
contain a specific figure that can be identified by its audience as a total catastrophe.
29. Wendy Brown made such a point a while ago. Wendy Brown, States of Injury:
Power and Freedom in Late Modernity (Princeton, nj: Princeton University Press),
1995.
30. Primo Levi, The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal (New
York: Random House, 1989).
31. Dominick LaCapra, History in Transit: Experience, Identity, Critical Theory
(Ithaca, ny: Cornell University Press, 2004), 115.

Ramadanovic: Unclaimed Experience and Testimony 23

View publication stats