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Mabel Moraña - The Monster As War Machine-Cambria Press (2018)
Mabel Moraña - The Monster As War Machine-Cambria Press (2018)
Mabel Moraña
The war machine is that nomad invention that in fact has war not as its
primary object but as its second-order, supplementary or synthetic
objective, in the sense that it is determined in such a way as to destroy
the State-form and city-form with which it collides. (A Thousand
Plateaus, 418)
Through opposition to the state, the war machine points beyond the discourse
of violence and terror: instead, it seeks to escape the violence of the state
apparatus, its order of representation, although sometimes it exercises that same
violence as part of its function of resistance and the redefinition of power.
Together with the philosophical foundations with which this book attempts to
shed light on the figure of the monster from different aesthetico-ideological
perspectives, this study also integrates an abundant bibliographical corpus of an
interdisciplinary nature, elaborated from a variety of theoretical and political
standpoints. Because the critique of the themes this book touches on is copious
and challenging, I wanted to do justice to this body of ideas, explicitly
incorporating them into my own reflections. These always refer, in one way or
another, to the way in which Latin American culture is situated in global
intellectual space and to the historico-cultural specificity of the region, a feature
that conditions to a great extent the reshaping of themes, the challenging of
aesthetic paradigms, and the proposition of new and innovative models of
thought and representation.
Finally, I would like to mention that this book has three biographical
foundations that may have played some role in my motivation to write it. The
first is a strange journey I once took through the mountains of Transylvania
which included a brief and unsettling stay in a Gothic castle. The second is my
Pittsburgh home, which had once belonged to George Romero, where, in the
living room, I saw scattered murals, masks, and other remnants that belonged to
the cinematic paraphernalia of the zombie world that Romero’s work redefined
in a well-known filmic saga. The third anecdotal element has to do with an
unexpected visit from a bat that entered my house late one night when I was
writing about Dracula. I have witnesses.
Chapter 1
Introduction
Teratological Preface: Thinking the Monster
For many reasons, thinking the monster has a liberating effect; it opens doors, it
connects with specific zones of the social and with broad swathes of critical
thought. Perhaps because we unconsciously situate within this historical,
thematic, ideological, and aesthetic labyrinth a series of contents that seem to be
unreachable in other archives of rationality and memory, thinking the monster is
an exercise that is both defiant and polemic, and it certainly abounds with more
questions and ambiguities than the topic suggests at first glance.
In The Monster as War Machine, I am interested more in theoretical
reflection than in teratological classification. I recognize the inescapable
fascination inherent to the investigation per se of literary works or visual images
in which monsters appear in the clear light of day or in the shadows, between
lines, hidden behind metaphors, hyperboles, and allegories, testing the limits of
language and figurative devices from different eras, media, and cultures.1
However, I have taken the time to reflect on these materials when they were
essential to the advancement of my hypothesis, recalling that, throughout
literature, film, and art in general, the representation of the monstrous traverses a
number of symbolic mediations. In effect, in the registers of literature and visual
art, the monstrous—preexisting as a cultural concept, as a dreamlike device, as a
dispersed element in collective imaginaries—is recaptured by symbolic
production and submitted to the codifications that are specific to the medium in
which it is inscribed. The monstrous is reproduced, taking up a pact of reading
or visual reception which modifies the meaning that this cultural operator has in
myths and legends, where supernatural beings are considered part of factual
reality. In the fields of popular culture or philosophy, the production of the
monstrous is not, strictly speaking, “fictitious.” In the former the monster exists
as a fact of a given reality, whether concrete or immaterial, that inspires feelings,
motivates reactions, and impacts daily life. In philosophy, what matters is, on the
one hand, the epistemic value of the monstrous as a critical and theoretical
category that constitutes an alternative to dominant rationality. On the other
hand, what stands out for philosophy is the paradigmatic dimension through
which the monstrous is constituted as a cognitive model, functioning as a trope
that connects the fields of ethics, politics, and religion. In literature and the arts,
the monstrous has been clothed in attire that is appropriate to each particular
situation. In other words, it has been constructed as an aesthetic simulacrum re-
signifying once and again its traditional meaning. In the interstice that separates
idea and representation, other levels of signification and ideological
manipulation become relevant. The monstrous serves, then, diverse masters, thus
becoming just one additional figure in the rich and heterogeneous gallery of
fictional characters.
My interest in the monster is situated at the most basic conceptual level, in
the idea of the monster as an epistemic apparatus: in its singularity as a cultural
artifact, in its ideological virtuality, and in its political ubiquity. I have been
seduced by the uses to which it has been put, as if the extenuating corporeality of
the monster extended multiple shadows across the reality of thought which both
obscure and illuminate the spaces of knowledge. I view the monster, in a
Benjaminian fashion, as a constellation of meanings, which is to say, as part of a
field of significations which comprise it without determining it, without diluting
its particularity, which neither conditions it nor distorts it, which does not
determine it or erase it from within a discursive totality but rather empowers and
inflames its fragmentary and polemical nature due to the contact between related
fields.
According to this line of interpretation, the monster is recovered here as a
semiotic artifact, that is, as the moment and the place at which the movement of
life and history pause, provisionally, fixed in an iconic image which crystalizes a
multiplicity of meanings projected over the real. The monstrous—its image and
its shadows—is constituted as the semantic space in which, according to Walter
Benjamin,
what has been comes together in a flash with the now to form a
constellation. In other words, image is dialectics at a standstill. For
while the relation of the present to the past is a purely temporal,
continuous one, the relation of what-has-been to the now is dialectical:
is not progression, but image, suddenly emergent.—Only dialectical
images are genuine images (that is, not archaic), and the place where
one encounters them is language. (The Arcades Project, 462, emphasis
added)
In this way, the character of the monster stands out as a cultural apparatus
that is oriented toward a productive interruption of the dominant discourses and
the categories that govern them. Always in a Benjaminian manner, the monster
reveals in reality what the ideologemes of Western rationality have obfuscated,
creating a field of significations that denaturalizes the known world, submitting
it to other logics, testing the limits of its tolerance, defamiliarizing it.
Paraphrasing what Benjamin wrote in “On the Concept of History” (1940), what
appears to us as a chain of events is transformed by the effect of the monster into
“one single catastrophe, which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls
it at [our] feet” (392). Like the angel of history, with whom it shares its
supernatural condition, the modern monster struggles against the storm of
progress and against conceptions of history as a linear and necessary progression
that do not interrogate their own course or the wreckage that the ceaseless
passing of time produces. The monster ruins the status quo, the “triumphal
procession” of modernity, as it reveals something that should have remained
hidden, as Freud suggests with his notion of the uncanny (a notion that, together
with alienation, also has threatening, ominous, and unsettling connotations).
It is necessary to recall, nevertheless, that the traffic of meanings that
surrounds the monstrous is subject (as is the case with any cultural product) to
the history in which it appears and from which it emerges both as a symptom and
a diagnosis of its time. To historicize the monster is thus not to oppose the
theorization of its specific functions and attributes. To the contrary, it is precisely
in the course of social struggles and politico-economic developments that its
nature attains its full meaning and its shadows acquire a particular form.
The monster is, above all, a narrative, and as such, it is language, image,
discourse. It is also soma, corporeality, both zoē and bios, immanence,
vulnerable and unfinished raw material, opera aperta, impossible and present
(id)entity, negative affirmation, substance in search of its form.
Together with the obligatory references to classic monsters, I take some time
at the end of this book to reflect on Latin American materializations of the
monstrous because the specificity of these peripheral settings of cultural
production incorporate particularities and substantial changes to the project of
universal monstering that has developed throughout the Western world from
antiquity to the present. These stops along the way attempt to illustrate the
theoretical—essayistic—development that informs this study. I have generally
remained on an abstract terrain, at times desolate and at others as complicated as
the habitat in which the monster inscribes its intermittent and terrorizing
presence. I am especially interested in the monster’s oblique view on themes
that, although they emerged in different eras, are all part and parcel of
modernity: identity, nation, territory, individuality, power, desire, interiority,
imagination, history, borders, repression, resistance, and social change. The
monster’s crafty procedures, the ways in which it devastates communities and
institutions and disturbs the status quo and bourgeois good taste, its ability to
unleash crises that express or obviate the tension of major conflicts and help to
create illusions of heroism and redemption in common, ordinary people, its
particular talent for announcing catastrophes, its enigmatic, oracular existence,
which remains to be interrogated from the most varied perspectives—all this is
sufficient to capture the attention of any critic situated at the crossroads of
philosophy, political thought, aesthetics, and language. In this sense, I have
followed the route indicated by the development of the theme of the monster
itself, guided by the eminently transcultural trajectory of my object of study. One
crucial element of this study has been the existence of an impressive critical
corpus that has explored the principal works from multiple theoretical
perspectives. Literary criticism, cultural theory, philosophy, and political thought
have in effect posed a series of topics and problems that constitute an
indispensable basis for the study of the role and characteristics of the monstrous
from a contemporary and transdisciplinary perspective that is focused on the
symbolic representation of biopolitical issues linked to symbolic production,
especially on the margins of capitalism.
The malleable and excessive personality of the monster is a both
sophisticated and naïve resource that presents itself to us with a disorienting and
deceptive obviousness. As a complex entity disguised as simplicity, the monster
exhibits a certain self-complacency and irony in the face of the repressive and
arrogant rationality of the Western world. In fact, its mere existence provokes
disparate reactions and interpretations in different audiences, appealing to the
individual’s proclivity toward the ludic, the oneiric, the melodramatic, and the
sinister, running along a spectrum that goes from “high” culture to mass culture,
from elite to popular consumption, from classical mythology and the medieval
worldview to camp and pastiche, from philosophical reflection to entertainment,
playing with the desire of knowledge-power that guides thought and frequently
leads it through intricate and uncertain trajectories.
I have appealed to essayistic resources through which the critic (myself
included) is submerged in interpretative possibilities, tentative practices of
thought and language, measured unfoldings of subjectivity, bibliographic
dialogues, and reflections that involve and combine disparate disciplines in order
to say otherwise everything that one knows or intuits or appropriates in the
practice of reading. Nevertheless, beyond the solitary reception of the monster
and the practices of imagination and language that inspire its existence, the
monstrous appeals to collective and transhistorical hermeneutic practices and
always inspires the work of synthesis, collage, bibliographic resignification, and
interdisciplinary, intermediatic, and intercultural articulation.
Every process of interpretation regarding the monster heads in the direction
of the same. The monster is always a new but also constant (id)entity: the
inexhaustible renovation of the message of the Other that slides in and out of
neighboring symbolic domains in order to be discovered, covered over, and
recovered again, that knocks at the door while rationality observes it through the
peephole, from within the system, turning the key one more time.
In addition to the aesthetic aspect of the monstrous, which some authors
elevate to the upper levels of cultural interpretation, what particularly stands out
to me is the critical and philosophical speculation that makes the monster into an
appropriable object in which every thinker can find support for his or her beliefs.
In a world dominated by commodity fetishism, the monster is one of the most
malleable and fascinating consumer goods of the entire symbolic market because
it communicates across language and image, religion, politics, science, and
technology. It appeals to multiple audiences, it is available to numerous levels of
reading, it says very little about itself, and it never goes out of style. It has been
exalted, venerated, desacralized, vituperated, commercialized, feared,
cheapened, mechanized, and reproduced with and without an aura in the most
disparate cultural spaces and ideological domains. It has inscribed in them its
language of gestures, its peculiar eating habits, and its unthinkable avatars,
interpellating diverse audiences that saddle it with all their anxieties, conflicts,
and expectations.
As with the human being, the monster’s desire is infinite. It remains mostly
latent and sometimes materializes in an incomplete way, recycled over and over
again into different formats. However, it is always representative of the more or
less distant echo of traditions, legends, and beliefs that keep it alive. The monster
is at one and the same time object and subject, mind without a soul, body
without organs, a hypertrophied, overflowing, unhinged corporeality that is
outside-itself, unrooted. It is presence and absence, ambiguity, hyperbole, hiatus,
metonymy, synecdoche, and catachresis.
Capitalism, psychoanalysis, and gender studies have been the most fertile
fields for the study of the monster, which connects with the processes of
production, reproduction, and accumulation of capital (in both its material and
symbolic senses), with exploitation, inequality, repression, and trauma, with Eros
and Thanatos. It is archetypical and thus atemporal, although, paradoxically, it is
branded by the imprint of history, politics, and philosophy. It is voraciously
consumed in both centers and peripheries, although appetites for the monster
differ from an ideological and geo-cultural point of view, which affects the
monster’s signification and functionality in every context.
It is a signal, a sign, and a symbol. Every monster has its own structure,
habits, bodily form, and preferences, but a common substance runs through and
unifies the entire lineage, connecting all its members, creating a separate species
that is conceptually endogamous and unified by difference. Hence its
vicissitudes are always resolved in the undulating line that goes from the
particular to the universal, from the synchronic, the carnal, and the concrete to
the diachronic, the rhizomatic, and the abstract.
I am primarily interested in the optic regime in which the monstrous is
inscribed. As an eminently performative being, the monster lives for the gaze of
the other and at the same time constructs its Other on observing it. The gaze of
the monster is a fundamental iconic element because it refers to the interiority of
desire, to the power of feeling, suggesting intentionality or teleology. Thus, we
see it in cinematic representations, for example in the captivating gaze of
Dracula as portrayed by Bela Lugosi, or in the oscillation between fury and
tenderness that appears in King Kong’s eyes, and even in the vacant eye sockets
of zombies. This gaze can paralyze, seduce, attract, or terrify the other, but in
any case it creates a force field that protects and projects, that demonstrates both
power and vulnerability. The monster makes every viewer or reader into a
voyeur upon whom it unleashes its obscenity.
But if the study of monsters were to concentrate solely on aesthetic,
historical, or thematic aspects it would still only address part of the problem.
Heuristically speaking, the question of the monster requires an interpretative
analysis that can, from within the contexts I have mentioned, attend to its
constitutive ambiguity, which is essential for comprehending the field of
connotations that are opened and mobilized by the figure of the monster. The
idea of the monstrous and the specific images that illustrate it have been
produced and/or appropriated in different eras, both by popular imaginaries and
by the discourses of power. The monster has been employed to demonize and
exclude certain subjects, segments of society, and counter-hegemonic projects in
order to discredit cultural and ideological alterity, to dehumanize the unknown or
the misunderstood, to channel suspicion, doubt, and melancholia. Also, the
figure of the monster is related to systems of control. It embodies repression and
catharsis, subversion and marginality, identity overwhelmed by the interior and
exterior otherness that besieges it and threatens its unicity. For this reason, the
study of the monstrous connects with the fields of psychology and
communication, with the “linguistic turn” that analyzes discursive textures and
representational strategies and with the “emotional turn” that deals with affect,
desire, and the construction of subjectivities.
The monster can therefore be positive or negative, hegemonic or subaltern,
aristocratic or popular, sacred or profane, because what defines its meaning is the
type of articulation that it produces between power and representation, which is
to say, the constellation of political and ideological meanings that catalyze its
apparitions. In this way, the monster can be understood as an incarnation of the
social being that determines forms of consciousness and direct (although not
mechanical) representation related to the conditions of production and cultural
reception in different contexts. It is in this sense that Halberstam, for example,
has spoken of “technologies of monstrosity,” following Foucault’s concept of
power, resistance, and discourse as networks and strategies of socialization and
knowledge that affect the production of identities and its historical interrelations.
The production of monstrosity thus creates symbolic constellations of gender,
race, sexuality, class, etc. which refer in turn to specific forms of socialization,
discourses, identities, and behaviors, that is to say, to imaginaries and
representational strategies through which particular forms of social
consciousness are expressed.
Finally, the figure of the monster is intimately connected to consumption,
which is both what the monster needs to define itself, survive, and proliferate as
well as what it imposes on those who receive its impact, either as victims or as
receivers of its unusual habitus of self-sustenance and maleficent propagation.
The monster is a good—an evil—of symbolic consumption as well as an artifact
that consumes the other. The monster is consumed while it consumes, reproduces
—as is also the case with zombies and vampires—the same in the other, in an
onanistic dynamic that reduces the vital to a vicious, self-referential, and
redundant circle.
Various major theoretical contexts have proven useful for thinking the
monster. The first, concerning philosophy and biopolitics, offers the possibility
of analyzing the condition of the monstrous from domains connected to
reflection on the topic of the social control of bodies and communities. The
second, the study of affect, provides a repository of concepts that offer not only a
way to approach the impact that the monster has on the community but also the
desires and drives that animate it. In a Deleuzean sense, the monster can be seen
as a desiring-machine, as a generative nucleus of intensities, and as an apparatus
for the “rhizomatic processing of desire.” The third theoretical field that has
provided essential questions and areas of focus for the topic of the monster has
been the critical work focused on otherness, particularly the contributions of
gender studies. Within this space of analysis, which privileges representations of
alterity, the monster has been studied from various angles; some recuperate it as
an alter ego, others associate it with the Name-of-the-Father, with the superego,
with the topic of (divine and maternal) creation, repression, sexuality, trauma,
and censorship. In any context, the presence of the monster creates intensities,
which is to say, emotional expressions with cathartic, sublimating, and
illuminating effects.
Regarding the theme of identity/otherness, the monster has also been
analyzed as an outsider: drifter, kidnapper, invader, alien, foreign entity that
serves as a pretext for paranoiac and xenophobic fears, as a scapegoat for
internal community conflicts, or as a metaphor for external threats. In this
context, it has been associated with the devastation of land, colonization, cultural
diversity, differences of race and gender, alternative sexualities, imperialism,
technological transformation, scientific discoveries, the cosmic, the illegitimate,
and the unknown.
Fredric Jameson has insisted on the positional nature that guides the
construction of discourses of identity/alterity, which are closely linked to those
of good and evil and applicable to the spheres of gender, race, ideology,
sexuality, etc. Such discourses refer to forms of belonging to the social and to
specific relations between subjectivity and power, hegemony and marginality,
normality and anomaly. Jameson points out that, in our shrinking and
interconnected world, the notion of otherness is used for the strategic definition
of subjective space, which is to say, as a discursive and ideological defense of
the dominion of the Self:
In this way, the figure of the monster emits significations that reach and
interpellate the social at all levels. The monster constitutes a vortex of emotional
and ideological energy that organizes its field of signification. It is loyal to the
distant origin that links it to the community that created it and which expresses
itself in an oblique, deranged way. For the same reason, it always returns to the
social space from which it emerged, even if it is in order to besiege it and
destabilize it. In this sense, it possesses an instinctive memory, a heliotropism
that makes it monothematic, obsessively equal to itself.
In order to construct the monstrous, it is necessary to break with organic
unity, fluidity between body and soul, psycho-somatic harmony, replacing it with
the pastiche that makes every monster a simulacrum of humanity. Nevertheless,
ontologically speaking, “se trata de una pluralidad que apunta a la unidad”
(Santiesteban Oliva 29; emphasis in original):
Above all, the monstrous is that which creates this sense of vertigo,
that which calls into question our (their, anyone’s) epistemological
worldview, highlights its fragmentary and inadequate nature, and
thereby asks us (often with fangs at our throats, with its fire upon our
skin, even as we and our stand-ins and body doubles descend the
gullet) to acknowledge the failures of our systems of categ orization.
(8)
In his analysis of the symbolic meaning of the monstrous and the terrors it
unleashes, David Gilmore examines this dynamic of interchangeability that
confronts the human with radical alterity, which the individual must at the same
time explore and interrogate in accordance with Nietzsche’s aphorism from
Beyond Good and Evil (cited by Gilmore) in which he advises, “He who fights
with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And
when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you” (106). It is in
this interplay between different forms of being and perceiving the world,
between positions and degrees of consciousness, that the presence of the monster
enters, transferring its qualities or revealing those that would appear to have the
power to oppose it when in reality they mock it. Perhaps this is why Gilmore
claims that “The mind needs monsters” (1).4 In fact, it is in the practices of
reflection and contemplation (with both words understood as referring to both
meditation and the observation of an aesthetic representation in a funhouse
mirror) that the mind accesses, at least to a certain extent, the mystery of the
human, its achievements, and its psychological, biological, ethical, and epistemic
limits.
The monster is radically and irremediably solitary, but at the same time it is
always guided by a heliotropism that returns it, like a boomerang, to the social,
either in order to satisfy the community’s basic, unavoidable need to survive, or
as a vain pursuit of transcendence and spiritual projection, or in order to carry
out the practice of evil as an act of perversion, excess, or abjection, as an activity
that almost always takes place as monotonous routine, as an insatiable symbolic
onanism.
In the first of his seven theses on the monstrous, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen
correctly claims, “[t]he monstrous body is pure culture” (“Monster Culture” 4):
the figurative expression of a certain conjuncture in which times, places, and
feelings (fear, anxiety, desire) intersect and are visually codified in a body that
exceeds experience and appeals to the intricate resources of fantasy. If, as the
etymology of the word indicates, the monster is a warning about the limits and
the unavoidable divisiveness of certain (social, cultural, subjective) realities, its
very existence constitutes a line of flight: a transitory sublimation that is as
defiant and fleeting as a nightmare. The specter of a monster, or even the mere
suspicion of its possible existence, engenders an acute mistrust of one’s
knowledge of the status and nature of the real. Its emergence, its presence, and
even its memory all create a hiatus in temporality and social knowledge, a
profound rupture of the certainties which make it possible to comprehend the
world and the definitions of goals, behaviors, and values. After the experience of
a monster, reality is never the same again. It has been tainted by mistrust and
incredulity: a suspicion that affects not only the world around us but also our
own ability to replace it, through either imagination or reason.
Cohen argues that “the monster only exists to be read” and that all culture
can be understood via the monsters it engenders (4). The monster must thus be
decoded through a semiotico-ideological hermeneutics that encompasses the
general order of culture, its values, projects, and representational resources.
Obviously, Cohen’s definition of the word “reading” is broad and not limited to
textual investigation. Rather, it refers to the multifaceted contemplation of the
monstrous image and to the recognition of the scopic regime that exists among
us. As a written discourse or image, as a semiotic space, and as an aesthetico-
ideological construct, the monster appeals to the senses and to reason in order to
surpass them, to become the bearer of messages that are open to unforeseen
responses in the cultural repositories of socialization and symbolic consumption.
The monster is inherently interstitial. It occupies the in-between-space, the
fissure that separates and connects norms, logics, and spatio-temporal
coordinates. It does not explain the unexplainable, but it suggests the necessity
of accepting the impossibility of rationally domesticating the real and
extinguishing everything that resists normativity in that domain. It blocks
totalization and does not glorify the fragment it exhibits as the symbol of the
identity of an alterity that it never stops reducing to the dominant norms.
According to Timothy Beal, the monster is “otherness within sameness” (6),
which is to say, a difference that is encoded within sameness and thus confirms
and destabilizes it.
Situated between life and death, between the human and the non-human,
between cultures, races, and species; between sleep and wakefulness, in the
cracks that divide and unite reality and fantasy, between time and space, between
reason and faith, between hegemony and subalternity; between textual forms and
oral and visual regimes, between identity and alterity, between silence and
discourse, between hierarchies, aesthetic registers, taxonomies, and social and
political systems, the monster perseveres in its precarious forms of existence. It
possesses a ubiquity that protects it and makes it unpredictable. As Weiss puts it,
“monsters exist in margins. They are thus avatars of chance, impurity,
heterodoxy, abomination, mutation, metamorphosis; prodigy, mystery, marvel.
Monsters are indicators of epistemic shifts” (125).
The monster is transhistorical, transcultural, trans-generic, interracial, post-
identitarian, antihuman, pre-and postmodern, an interclass product (although it
sometimes specifically represents certain sections of society). It inhabits the
space opened by prefixes as modifiers of concepts that are considered fixed in
the canon of Western modernity. It is from this pre-fixation that the monster
refutes paradigms of identity and notions of order and linear progress, cultural
frontiers and disciplinary protocols that attempt to push to the margins—and into
the past—elements that are foreign to regulation and bourgeois discipline. It is
repressed, invisibilized, and nearly suppressed by society, but it always
reemerges, reestablishing the chaos that, left unattended, is likely to be
reabsorbed into routine.
According to Franco Moretti, the monster—and the horror genre that
consolidates its agency—emerges precisely from the panic caused by the
possibility of social division and the desire for social unification. According to
Moretti, Dracula and Frankenstein’s monster, for example, are “totalizing”
monsters that displace and externalize social antagonisms, exposing a struggle
between humankind and its fear of being destroyed. They make inequality and
discrimination explicit and thus demystify political and scientific myths.
Regarding Mary Shelley’s famous character, Moretti argues: “the monster is man
turned upside-down, negated. He has no autonomous existence; he can never be
really free or have a future. He lives only as the other side of that coin which is
Frankenstein. When the scientist dies, the monster does not know what to do
with his own life and commits suicide” (71).
Apart from being incorrigibly marginal, the monster is usually also nomadic,
itinerant, diasporic. It exists in a deterritorialized way, as if it could only access
residual (recondite, obscure, unexplorable) spaces. The monster is itself a body-
in-ruins, a surplus in which the social and the political are expressed in absentia
or in a cryptic, degraded, elliptical, over-coded way. Its hybrid and fragmentary
nature has its correlate in the way in which the monster occupies geocultural and
symbolic spaces, inhabiting decentered—eccentric—compartments, always as a
foreign element, as an exogenous factor that exposes the distance between
normality and exception. The monster’s hidden subjectivity is subsumed in its
quality as cultural object. The monster is, in effect, the object of debates,
investigations, and theories that keep it under scrutiny and attempt to prove its
lack of essence, instead accepting it as an epiphenomenon of desiring logic,
which gives a dreamlike form to the delirium of an insufficient and authoritarian
reason.
Consistent with this marginal status, the monster’s legibility resides precisely
in the deciphering of its ambiguity: in the possibility of interpreting the
signifying saturation that characterizes it and the flow of significations that it
engenders. As Antonio Negri argues, every monster is political (as is every non-
monstrous creature). But the monster’s transgressive ethos is undeniably situated
in the sphere of subversion, on the border of the abyss that is opened up by the
decline of reason and the loss of all certainty. And even though the monster does
not positively constitute a line of change, it represents forms of collective
knowledge through the portrayal of an extreme, radically other social existence,
like a backdrop against which grotesque figures are projected. The monster’s
primary function is thus disturbing the status quo, establishing a symbolic
disorder that can be read as a semiotic system that breaks away from the
dominant norms and requires a new hermeneutics of the social. In this way, as a
negative aesthetics, monstrosity babelizes languages and destabilizes the logics
on which they are based, exposing the precarity of the social, its extreme
porosity, its unstable epistemic equilibrium. It is precisely this thanatic quality
which explains the widespread rejection the monstrous inspires. At the same
time, it also allows us to understand the fascination it holds and to access the
representativity of the sublime: the line that separates and unites the human and
the super-human, the natural and the supernatural, that is to say, the duality that
constitutes us culturally and psychologically. As we will see, Negri explains
precisely this turn in the connotation of the monstrous, which he converts into an
expression of the multitude and its supposed potential resistance: “If the monster
exists, the rest gets transformed and doesn’t remain” (“The Political Monster”
200).5
The monster is the visible indication of an alternative cartography. It points
toward other spaces of social existence, insubordinate, residual worlds inhabited
by the missing links of aborted races, pariahs in a world dominated by others.
The non-place of the monster reveals by its very existence the fissures and gaps
in maps constructed by different civilizing projects in which the dominant
groups determine and confirm the centers of power and the domains of reason.
The alternative cartography of the monster thus refutes the cultural geography of
social spaces ruled by hegemonic epistemologies and by technologies of social
control that regulate the flow and consumption of symbolic capital. In this way,
throughout history, the monstrous functions as a spectral reminder of lack, of
what has been suppressed, repressed, annihilated, or invisibilized. Sometimes the
monster represents the opposite: the rage of the displaced, the disappeared, the
unnamable. In this case, it is the enemy of impunity, it constitutes the guttural
voice of a silenced but looming knowledge that has returned with a vengeance.
In this sense, the monster’s lineage goes back quite some way. One of the
earliest texts to systematically describe fantastic and monstrous creatures is the
profusely illustrated Natural History by Pliny the Elder (23-79 CE), which
recognizes the importance of the perception of phenomena that have been
categorized as monstrous.6 According to Aristotle, the monster for Pliny is not
only a product of nature but also a result of culture, and it often embodies moral
aspects connected to values and behaviors. Pliny’s Natural History makes
reference to monster people or monstrous races that indicate the existence of
strange civilizations in unexplored lands and seas within the confines of the
Empire.7 According to Pliny, many of these monsters had strange tastes,
including cannibalism, preference for raw meat, etc.—appetites that modern
monsters would adopt to varying degrees. He recognizes a great variety of
monstrous races, unexpected and marvelous forms that inhabit the periphery of
the known world. Among these he includes pygmies, people with only one leg,
beings with dog heads, giants, and individuals with disproportionately large ears
or feet. The hybridity that exists among this immense variety of exotic races
(which, according to Pliny, populated both the lands and the imaginaries of his
time) places in doubt the fixity of the boundaries that delimit what is properly
human and separate it from other animal species.
Monsters were represented in the maps of antiquity, as well as in the Middle
Ages and the Renaissance, in its legends, bestiaries, travelogues, and popular
stories, because its religious connotations were a fundamental part of the
monster’s symbology. To this the Baroque period will add a taste for excess,
syncretism, and monumentality. As David R. Castillo argues: “the modern
fantastic is born in the context of the culture of curiosities of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, at the meeting place between certainty and doubt, and
between apprehension and fascination” (“Monsters for the Age” 162).
As part of the logic of colonialism, the mythical figure of the monster
inhabits the non-place of utopia. It provides a representational model that makes
it possible to interpret and situate new realities within the epistemic atlas that
governs the processes of the discovery, conquest, and colonization of the
Americas. The Other becomes assimilable through a recognizable figure
connected to the archetype of the adversary (the Moor, the infidel, the heretic,
the Indian), images that occupy an epistemic space void of knowledge but
replete with stereotypes, desires, and passions.
The monster does not seek redemption in a systematic way, nor does it
present any form of legitimation, because salvation is not a problem for this
(id)entity that is bound to its own contingency. Nevertheless, the monster always
bears a nostalgia for unity and organicity. In this sense, it is a content in search
of a form; it simultaneously embodies desire and the impossibility of ever
achieving a structure capable of defining and establishing its nature. A radical
melancholia emerges from its constitutive alienation and its irredeemable
exceptionality, a feeling inspired by the combined states of euphoria and
hyperactivity that permeate the social space occupied by the monster. The
monster is thus constantly engaged in a dialogue with the frustrations of the
civilization that gave rise to it and that it hopelessly evokes, as if it were always
elaborating a primordial trauma that has left an irreparable scar in the deepest
levels of consciousness.
Although the monster can be the product of a mutation (like Frankenstein’s
monster), what is proper to it is not change per se, but rather the permanence,
persistence, and inevitability of the mutations that constitute its form of being.
Although the present is plagued by monsters linked to natural catastrophes, the
excesses of technology, illusions of omnipotence, hybridizations, and cloning, it
would be mistaken to say that the monster has returned from its mythological or
gothic horizons because it actually never left. Rather, the history of the West is
the history of its metamorphosis and of its avatars, of its becomings, and of the
simulacra that it has engendered in order to survive, adapting to the varying fears
and fantasies of each era.
In fact, the monster perseveres in its being and remains outside of time,
identical to itself in essence, condemned to live within its own register.8 It is
contingent, immanent, although it points to a beyond that can be situated in the
past (thus maintaining the idea that the monster is associated with the primitive,
the arcane, the pre-modern) or in the eternity of the supernatural (referring to the
conceptualization of the monster as an indication of the sublime rather than an
error of Creation). In this sense, the monster functions as a missing link, a
broken bridge between well-determined polarities. As Persephone Braham
points out: “In monstrous terms, the Baron von Frankenstein’s creature is
perfection itself: an insolent concatenation of abject and hybrid parts whose very
creation transgresses the sacred frontiers between life and death, the human and
the divine” (From Amazons to Zombies 12).
The relation between the figure of the monster and the configurations
assumed by power at different levels (economic, social, cultural, political) is
undeniable. Sometimes interpreted as a metaphor of unhinged and irrational
force, the monster has also been seen as the embodiment of resistance or
rebellion, as the irascible expression of radical protest against the system and, in
this sense, as a metalanguage that, along with visual support, exposes the
fragmented and fetishized subjectivity of the modern human being. Extreme
excess or radical lack naturally indicate monstrosity because they break with
norm(alitie)s in some way or other. They suggest the insufficiency of accepted
classifications and open the space of exceptionality, which is to say, that which
escapes everyday, normal, predictable experience.9 They unleash a torrent of
relativism that incorporates abjection, excess, and perversion into individual and
collective reality.
In analyzing the relations between horror and everyday life, Philip Nickel
has referred to the fact that the reception of the monstrous and the generation of
fear always forces the viewer into an ethical commitment whereby repudiating
the anomalous and supernatural message provoked by horror entails taking
positions with regard to the actions and nature of the characters. At the same
time, for Nickel, horror has an effect similar to that of philosophical skepticism
(exemplified by the film The Matrix (1999), which destabilizes ordinary
knowledge by introducing relativism and doubt about the very nature of the
real).
Often the monstrous resides not so much in the characteristics that writing,
images, or oral tradition have judged to be extraordinary but in the surplus
figures or experiences that collective interpretation incorporates, canonizes,
ordains, discards, or includes in which the social is expressed in an oblique,
denaturalized way. The process of monstering exposes above all the tense and
contradictory relation between nature and culture, between human beings and
other animal species, between nature and technology, between subject and
object, between the terrestrial and the extraterrestrial, between the world of the
living and the world of the dead, between gods and humans, offering unforeseen
syntheses that explode preexisting associations and affinities and tests the limits
of the degrees and modalities of material and symbolic combination within the
known world.
The monstrous is outlined against the backdrop of political, cultural, and
religious institutionality and expresses various forms of politico-economic
repression, censorship, marginalization, or the endangerment of life. It
proliferates in totalitarian regimes, in classical colonial contexts, in modern
imperialism, in segregated, impoverished, and super-exploited societies in which
otherness is expelled by the dominant powers to the margins of the system, to an
indeterminate zone of neglect and hopelessness. This expulsion is dramatized in
the deranged figure of the monster that, as it materializes around a series of
aesthetico-ideological characteristics, radiates an ambiguous and paradoxical
ethics out toward its surroundings, thereby obliging a revision of moral canons,
hierarchies, privileges, social positions, and exclusions. In its own supernatural
way, the monster develops a pedagogy that exhibits the irrationality of a world
besieged by anomaly. Its representation is essential as a counter-image of notions
like order, normality, regulation, and social discipline.
Although it lacks the gift of speech, every monster has its own language, a
singular lexicon full of silences, reservations, and hiatuses. In addition, every
monster corresponds to a particular social environment, has a specific cultural
level, and reaches a singular audience. Monsters inhabit different spaces: urban
popular culture, traditional communities, the scientific world, mass culture,
“highbrow” literature, folklore, religious doctrine, rural, coastal, or mountainous
regions, magical thinking, history, ethnography, politics, filmic discourse, and
the arts. They are therefore subject to different forms of representation and
consumption. The culture of monsters is highly regionalized, although in some
cases monstrosity comes to be universalized and takes on local variations.
Therefore, it is subject to constant re-readings, adaptations, translations,
additions, and portrayals that frequently end up caricaturizing and thus
weakening the monster’s foreignness. When the monster becomes familiar, it
loses its mystery and its ability to seduce.
As with any cultural product, the monster is subject to the laws of the
marketplace. It is absorbed, coopted, and domesticated by commodification. The
demand for monsters, far from decreasing, seems to be exacerbated in the
postmodern era, that stage characterized by hypertrophied markets, advances in
technology, the supremacy of virtual worlds, resurgent fundamentalisms, the
weakening of traditional forms of the political, and the decline of the “grand
narratives” that provided totalizing explanations of modern societies. Instead, the
monster feeds on fragmentation and hopelessness, and although it is connected
through its magical and religious origins to cosmogonies and grand
philosophical concepts, it has gone on to inhabit a disenchanted, broken world
replete with fear and besieged by multiple forms of exclusion and violence.
In El legado de los monstruos: Tratado sobre el miedo y lo terrible, the
Mexican writer Ignacio Padilla has noted that we are the sum of our fears, which
is to say, that this emotion defines us on both individual and collective levels and
constitutes an indispensable survival mechanism. According to Padilla, panic
constitutes a social fuel that ignites collective reactions and is commercialized
by those who know how to exploit it. This fuel feeds the social, political, and
aesthetic machinery, as well as the domestic and public spheres.
Every monster is inscribed in a symbolic field. It forms part of the practice of
the cultural production of horror, a practice that is linked to popular imaginaries
and which often becomes part of the spirit of festivities: Carnival, religious
celebrations, representations in public theaters, the circus, ethnic rituals, fairs,
and celebrations like Day of the Dead or Halloween, all situations in which
people attempt, through layers of simulacra, to contain the expansive capacity of
the monstrous by domesticating it.
In this way, despite its delirious and sometimes melancholic nature and its
tragicomic or melodramatic derivations, the horror induced by the monster is
always connected to intuitive and cognitive aspects with ethical and political
connotations. In his analysis of horror as a path toward moral reflection, Philip
Tallon argues:
Despite its frequent kinship with dark humor and its tendency toward
vulgarity and schlock, I will suggest here that horror as a genre is
worth taking seriously (at least for a while) because of how well it can
inform and enlighten our vision of the world by reminding us of our
inner moral frailty and by forcing us to take seriously the moral reality
of evil. (36)
Notes
1. Teratology is the treatment or study of human anomalies or abnormalities from the multiple perspectives
of biology, medicine, mythography, etc. In connection with the present theme, cryptozoology is the
discipline concerned with the study of fictional animals. Geoffrey Saint-Hilaire is considered the
founder of modern teratology (Histoire des anomalies de l’organization [1832], Histoire naturelle
generale [1860]). Of particular interest for the present study is his book Des monstruosités humaines
(1822).
2. According to Nöel Carroll, “monsters are not only physically threatening; they are cognitively
threatening. They are threats to common knowledge” (qtd. in Mittman 8).
3. The concept of opera aperta comes from Umberto Eco’s book Opera aperta (1962) and refers to the
interpretative process that invigorates and strengthens the instance of reception. Every sign is
“produced” by the one who receives and decodes it within a determined system of significations. Every
work, insofar as it is a system of signs, exists “in movement” and rejects the fixity of meaning in favor
of a polysemy that incorporates the reader/viewer in an active and creative way. See Eco, “El papel del
lector” in Lector in fabula, 73-75.
4. At the beginning of their preface, Gerard Unterhurner and Erik M. Vogt make a similar claim: “society
needs monstrosity” (7).
5. See also Gabriel Giorgi, Ensayos sobre biopolítica.
6. Pliny the Elder’s encyclopedic work is a compendium of knowledge across a vast range of inquiry, from
astronomy and mathematics to geography, anthropology, zoology, botany, and physiology. It also
broaches the fields of agriculture, mining, and the arts. Divided into thirty-seven books, part of the
work (the prologue of which was written by the Roman emperor Titus) was published during the
author’s lifetime, and it has widely been seen as a model of totalization and humanistic organization
and as a source for the study of the linguistic customs and beliefs of the era.
7. Regarding this, see Guy Rozat 74 and passim, and Persephone Braham 5-6. This latter writes: “Pliny
made no moral assertions about monsters, suggesting that Nature had created them more as a diversion
than an admonition: “These and similar varieties of the human race have been made by the ingenuity of
Nature as toys for herself and marvels for us […]” (From Amazon to Zombies 6).
8. Some authors, such as Elaine Graham, insist that in the monster’s “illicit beginnings” one can locate a
sin or deviation that causes monstrosity, an offense that explains its condition, which introduces the
themes of causality, responsibility, and guilt. Nonetheless, not all authors who discuss the topic of
monsters focus on its philosophical implications (e.g., Foucault).
9. Regarding the topic of classification, Unterhurner and Vogt remark: “Monstrosity presents thought with a
preeminently modern problem: classifications begin to fall apart, order turns into disorder, normality
bleeds into abnormality and the very ground of the human starts to give way” (7).
10. On the psychological effects of the grotesque, see Wolfgang Kayser and Michael Steig.
11. See Alonso Miranda, “Máquinas.”
Chapter 2
Wonders tended cluster at the margins rather than at the center of the
known world, and they constituted a distinct ontological category, the
preternatural, suspended between the mundane and the miraculous. In
contrast, the natural order moderns inherited from the late seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries is one of uniform, inviolable laws. (14)
In his references to the Atlas Mercator (1569), José Rabasa writes that this
key element of universal cartography in itself constitutes a world in which all
possible “surprises” have been codified.6 As the “simulacrum of a totality,” the
Atlas provides a taxonomic pragmatism that historicizes space without failing to
make note of mysterious areas characterized by the lack of knowledge about the
features of its territories and or of its at that point unknown cultures. Some of
these areas appear on the maps as populated by monsters, although, as Rabasa
clarifies, “this population […] does not simply correspond to a lack of
knowledge. The presence of the monstrous also points to sedimented symbolic
associations of topographical regions with the fantastic and the demonic” (199).
The texts in which Columbus reported on his arrival in the Caribbean
(particularly the “Carta del Descubrimiento” but also his navigation journals), as
well as the chronicles and reports of the Conquest and the descriptions written
by missionaries and scientific explorers, integrate the monstrous as a probable
fact of reality in the New World. Columbus admits that he has never encountered
supernatural beings, although he has found cannibals in his journey through the
Indies. For example, in his Diario de a bordo del primer viaje, he writes in the
entry of Sunday, November 4, 1492 that, according to information he has
received, “lejos de allí había hombres de un ojo y otros con hocicos de perros
que comían los hombres y que en tomando uno lo degollaban y le bebían su
sangre y le cortaban su natura” (55). References such as this abound in
Columbus’s writings, as well as in the writings of other colonists and
conquistadors. They establish an image of American monstrosity that, even
though it defines the New World as radically other, is also similar to the
observations that Renaissance explorers made about the East, Africa, etc. Some
of these foundational elements of the New World (such as, for example,
mutilation and the extraction of blood) will be maintained as a dark and
persistent aspect in the collective imaginaries of many regions and will reappear
in modernity as atavistic elements.7
The beliefs of the time—which relied on information from treatises on
natural sciences or ethnographic compendiums as well as narrative strategies
from the travelogue tradition, such as the writings of Marco Polo and other
Renaissance travelers and explorers, as well as Columbus and other chroniclers
—describe varying and atypical species: men with tails, with only one eye, or
with dog faces. Marco Polo, for example, writes in his Book of the Marvels of
the World, “And I assure you all the men of this Island […] have heads like
dogs, and teeth and eyes likewise; in fact, in the face they are all just like big
mastiff dogs! They have a quantity of spices; but they are a most cruel
generation, and eat everybody that they can catch, if not of their own race”
(445).
Amazon women are frequently mentioned: a race of warrior women with
only one breast, bloodthirsty and strong, around whom innumerable stories are
woven, exalting their ferocious autonomy and their bellicosity:
Monsters are generally manifested by their absence (we hope to see them,
we assume and fear their existence), but the persistence of these references is
both obsessive and symptomatic. The reappearance of the monstrous is a key
element in the construction of a disturbing and anomalous otherness that sparks
curiosity and the dominating spirit of the Conquest.
As Rabasa notes: “the writings of Columbus suggest the fabrication of a new
region in space. A new language, a new historical moment, and a new world are
in the offing in Columbus’ metaphors, which conjoin legends with an indigenous
knowledge of the territories” (65). The monstrous element also accompanies Old
World visual representations of the Americas and is productively included in
works by De Bry and other artists who created etchings and drawings that
introduced the image of the lands and their foreign inhabitants in the European
imaginary.9
Michael Palencia-Roth argues that the quality of the monstrous, because it is
not concretely situated in the reality of the New World, is displaced onto the
behaviors of its inhabitants and considered proper to the savage (lacking,
wayward) condition of the indigenous populations. From that point on, various
forms of the monstrous (cannibalism, sodomy, bestiality) would serve to
culturally allegorize these foreign lands. The Americas were from the very
beginning produced through a “teratological theology,” the parameters of which
allowed for the interpretation of difference as a deviation from the human, a
disturbing variation that would require the rigorous application of the civilizing
project. In the same sense, as Carlos A. Jáuregui writes in his study of the
processes of representation of otherness in the colonial world (which he calls the
“specular trap of difference”), “producir el Nuevo Mundo como lugar
epistemológico implicó la aplicación del imaginario de la mismidad a la
significación de lo desconocido” (51).
In La guerra de las imágenes, Serge Gruzinski refers to the multi-faceted
function of the image in worlds that are dominated by epistemic hegemonies.
These images show the importance of visual discourse as an interpellative
apparatus and as a representation of contents that are otherwise absent in public
spaces. The monstrous manifests as such in the interiority of culture, but it
always refers to external circumstances or principles, to structures of
domination, to collective frustrations, to processes of subalternization,
marginalization, and extreme repression. The intensification of the flows of
capital and the progressive transformation of class privileges into plutocratic
values, as well as the racial stratifications that are directly connected to super-
exploitation, the division of labor, and the imposition of massive literacy and
evangelization campaigns in metropolitan languages, caused a steady growth of
collective fears and the need to express them in a coded manner in social spaces
subject to persecution and censorship. Every era has its own conflicts, crises,
heroes, and monsters—instances which are interrelated and which expresses the
social conflict in different registers. As anticipated, the monster is dialectics in
repose: the image in which thesis and antithesis momentarily halt their dynamic,
allowing for history itself to be observed as a constellation of fragments—as
ruins.
Analyzing the representation of the colonial subject, Iris Zavala refers to the
relations between language, experience, belief, and invention, recalling Michel
Foucault’s observation that, until the end of the eighteenth century, language was
primordially representational and principally oriented toward establishing the
differences between identity and alterity, between the self and others. The new
elements belonging to foreign lands were thus evaluated according to criteria of
similarity, contrast, continuity, homology, etc.—operations oriented toward the
necessity of finding a taxonomic space for everything that in principle seemed
not to fit any of the established classifications.
Pygmies, giants, and mermaids constitute some of the more frequently used
categories in reports on the New World. Other figures, such as the cyclops, also
emerge from the European archive and serve to express the strangeness and
exceptionality, the exoticism and mystery, of these new lands, in spite of their
cultural foreignness.10 Although they do not necessarily refer to the specificity
of the Americas, their use delimits a gap in knowledge and is a sign of
advantageous conditions for implementing the civilizing mission. In particular,
mermaids can be counterposed in some senses to Amazon women as they allow
for the development (at least from a classical perspective) of the themes of
femininity, mutation, and hybridity, as well as the relation between imperial
cultures and the foreign lands in which the themes of danger, death, seduction,
and conquest are re-established.11
The depiction of indigenous peoples as having negative identities in turn
supported the concepts of degeneracy, deviation, and corruption, all of which
were part of “a borrowed language” (Zavala 332), which used to refer to human
forms that were considered aberrant, irregular, or monstrous because of their
foreignness to European experience. Such notions would also be broadly
applicable in criollo society with regard to the processes of mestizaje and in
general to the theme of inter-ethnic combinations (which, according to some,
lend themselves to degenerative processes). The monstering of indigenous
peoples borrowed from these representational strategies, which were applied
both to subjects as well as to the cultural processes and narratives in which these
rhetorical recourses originated.12
As documents from the time show, the arrival of the Spanish in the Americas
had been foretold by the appearance of monsters ten years before the
conquistadors landed. The predictions the Aztecs witnessed were later reported
on by Bernardino de Sahagún (1499-1550) in his Historia general de las cosas
de Nueva España (also known as the Florentine Codex), written between 1540
and 1585. These prophecies included the image of la Llorona, natural
phenomena like fire in the sky, and fantastic yet terrifying animals.13 The
mestizo chronicler Diego Muñoz Camargo (1529-1599) also mentions similar
situations in his Historia de Tlaxala (c. 1585).
As a space of proliferating signification and symbolic saturation, the
Baroque period constituted an ideologically advantageous discursive
environment for the propagation of the monstrous, which in this context is
associated with what in the seventeenth century was conceptualized as the
modern. In his study “Historia de un fantasma,” Francisco Ortega argues that the
colonial Baroque presented a monstrous synthesis of the modern and its
negation, a dualism that has been projected into the present day.14 Furthermore,
he notes that, if modernity emerged already afflicted by a contradictory attitude
toward subjectivity, monstrosity in the Americas (characterized by its exotic
appearance, paganism, and incomprehensible languages and cultures) seemed to
require unusual forms of imperial intervention because “monstrosity calls for its
own technology of control” (Ortega 190). The supposed monstrosity of the
Americas thus provided an excuse for the devastation of conquered imaginaries
and territories inhabited by subjects who showed themselves to be unassimilable
to European civilization. New forms of social being (which are linked to the
disappearance of feudal society and to the intensification of transoceanic
commerce) continue to generate modalities of collective knowledge that
symbolically emerge from the heteroclite and often enigmatic visual quality of
the Baroque, which brought to the Americas its rhetoric of power and its
celebratory sensuality.
From the European perspective, the image of the Indian, elaborated as
monstrous in the colonial context, provides a simplified and stereotypical
version of other forms of being-in-the-world, liable to be incorporated into
European cultural archives of sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. By their very
existence, the indigenous populations express “the sin of being other” and
confront their time with the sudden necessity to judge this radical departure from
the norm and to absorb the excess of that alterity on both imaginary and practical
levels (Gastón Carreño).
According to Castillo, “the modern fantastic is born in the context of the
culture of curiosities of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, at the meeting
place between certainty and doubt, and between apprehension and fascination”
(“Monsters” 162). It is in this era that the definition and functionality of the
monstrous begins to change. In his Tesoro de la lengua castellana (1611),
Sebastián de Covarrubias includes a good number of terms for particular species
such as Amazons, harpies, Sphinxes, cynocephali (dog-headed men), and so on.
He defines “monster” as “cualquier parto contra la regla y orden natural, como
nacer el hombre con dos cabeças, quatro brazos y quatro piernas.” He refers to
the case of a monstrous birth, indicating that in the face of this frightful
offspring, “los padres y los demás que estaban presentes a su nacimiento,
pensando supersticiosamente pronosticar algún mal y que con su muerte se
evitaría, le enterraron vivo. Sus padres fueron castigados como parricidas, y los
demás con ellos” (812). This definition focuses on physical deformations that are
considered to be alterations of biological norms and recuperates the monster’s
prophetic aspect. This situation exemplifies the forms of social knowledge and
juridical practices of the era which made it possible to recognize the humanity of
the victim while distinguishing between monstrosity and pathology.
Within the broad characterization of the monstrous, colonial society
produced a wide range of notions linked to the demonic, from the inoffensive
practices of curanderismo to outright witchcraft, passing through the moderate
dangers of wizards, herbalists, and shamans, in which such deviation from the
strict doctrines of Christianity formed an anomalous environment linked to the
occult as the proper space of inferior races and their “irrational” imaginaries.
Amerindian or African rituals, religious beliefs, superstitions, traditions, legends,
and customs, including trances, visions, or mystical experiences were monstered,
persecuted, and punished as sacrilege. However, as Kathryn McKnight has
explained, the border between sainthood and heresy was not always clear and
was susceptible to arbitrary and often malicious interpretations. Monstering
constituted instead a strategy of political domination and social control:
On the basis of this and other texts, Stephanie Kirk has highlighted the
debate around the “monstrous parthenogenesis” in Sor Juana’s work, connecting
the notion of monstrosity to concepts of the era about biological reproduction
and intellectual creation. This is an expression both of a sense of wonder and of
an opposition to and rejection of dominant models:
Tarde parece que salgo a esta empresa: pues vivimos muy lejos los
criollos y si no traen las alas del interés, generosamente nos visitan las
cosas de España …. Ocios son estos que me permiten estudios más
severos: pero ¿qué puede haber bueno en las Indias? ¿Qué puede haber
que contente a los europeos, que desta suerte dudan? Sátiros nos
juzgan, tritones nos presumen, que brutos de alma, en vano nos
alientan a desmentirnos máscaras de humanidad. (17)
This passage illustrates the space criollos shared with monsters in the
colonial imaginary: a site that brings together marginality and disrepute, both
forms of exclusion that derive from the authoritarian and illegitimate exercise of
epistemic power by imperial culture.
At the same time that Sor Juana was developing her work, in the context of
the Andean Baroque, the Peruvian physician, architect, and cartographer Pedro
Peralta y Barnuevo (1663-1743), who would later become Rector of the
Universidad Mayor de San Marcos, was also concerned with the subject of
monsters from a scientific and religious point of view.16 Known in particular for
his long epic poem Lima fundada (1732) (which sings the praises of the
Conquest and the foundation of the Viceroyalty of Peru), Peralta y Barnuevo had
almost forty years earlier published a lesser-known volume titled Desvíos de la
naturaleza, o Tratado del Origen de los Monstruos (1695) under the pseudonym
Joseph Rivilla Bonet y Pueyo. This text deals with pathological cases classified
as monstrous, such as, for example, that of the birth of conjoined twins, which
motivated the treatise presented to Viceroy Don Melchor Fernández Portocarrero
Lazo de la Vega, Count of Monclova, who was the twenty-ninth Viceroy of New
Spain and the seventeenth Viceroy of Peru. This unusual birth prompted Peralta
y Barnuevo to investigate the themes of identity, the soul, and the meaning of
such deviations from the biological norm. He argued that these kinds of
phenomena had found in the New World a fertile ground for emerging and
proliferating because, according to the beliefs of the time, these transoceanic
lands were vast and uncontrollable zones dominated by irregularity and anomaly.
The image of the conjoined twins analyzed by Peralta y Barnuevo is
representative of a world perceived as chaotic, excessive, and overflowing with
supernatural forces that resist the laws of logic and the analytical methods of
natural science. Because of its counter-normative character, monstrosity defies
both science and belief, posing epistemological questions related to themes from
the Golden Age that became visible in Baroque aesthetics: misleading
appearances, the sensory world as a mask of mysteries impervious to reason, and
trans-Atlantic nature as a voluptuous and strange habitat where reality and
fantasy are combined. At the beginning of his text, Peralta y Barnuevo assures
the reader that, in his interpretation of these “prodigies,” he has refrained from
vulgar considerations, turning his attention rather to the confirmation of
empirical data as support for a rational understanding of the phenomenon: “No
me valgo de alusiones frívolas…sino de observaciones, que hechas en la virtud,
precisan a la razón.”17
Also, in Spain, the Capuchin monk Antonio de Fuentelapeña had a few years
earlier published another polemic about the nature of magical creatures, ghosts,
and other “beings,” like leprechauns.18 He considered all of these to be part of
the animal world and not to the incorporeal domain of angels—although he
claimed that the “materiality” of these beings was in many cases invisible. The
work, which was titled El ente dilucidado: Discurso único, novísimo que
muestra ay en la naturaleza animales irracionales invisibles, y quáles sean
(1679), is an imaginative and exhaustive treatise that, although it is based in
relativism—indicating, for example, that monstrosity depends to a large extent
on the (intellectual, scientific, religious) perspective from which the
phenomenon is observed—also opens up a speculative and Scholastic
philosophical point of view (as the work’s title indicates).19 Praised by some
later intellectuals, like Juan de Valera, and vilified by others, like Benito
Jerónimo Feijoo, who sees in the book an equivocal compilation of superstitions
that are unacceptable to Enlightenment thought, El ente dilucidado provides a
massive amount of information about beliefs in supernatural beings, monsters,
and creatures related to the world of myth and religion. The work reaffirms the
importance of tradition but also of empirical observation, giving evidence of a
preoccupation with the existence of worlds that exceed the real-rational and
require new forms of knowledge and philosophical conceptualization.
In this era, “elucidating” these beings was a philosophical concern with
scientific and political connotations, as such investigations considerably
rearranged the status quo and the conventions of Scholasticism. As an example
of this attitude, in the same era in the Hispanic world a group of thinkers known
as “los novatores” [“the innovators”] became active. Composed of both
humanists and scientists (renovators and/or innovators), this intellectual
tendency systematically began to question previous ways of knowing, shedding
light on the exhaustion of methods and categories of knowledge that had reigned
until then but which seemed insufficient for grasping the spirit of the new
times.20 The analysis of monstrosity is also connected to these contexts of
intellectual curiosity because, as we have seen in the cases cited here, the
experience of anomaly defies rationality and exposes the limits of knowledge.
Authors like Jesús Pérez Magallón, Helena del Río Parra, and Jeremy
Robbins connect the monstrous to the interrogation of epistemic and religious
models that met with crisis in at the end of the Baroque period, preparing the
way for modern thought. In this sense, they discuss the “construction of
modernity” and the elaboration of narratives that seek to give sense to a world
that exceeds and destabilizes previous paradigms. Related to scientific and
technological discoveries that would materialize with the Industrial Revolution
but had strongly impacted collective imaginaries much earlier, these knew
knowledges and methods of knowing were combined with religious beliefs,
legends, doctrinal principles, and leftovers of mythology. This resulted in a
syncretic panorama in which the force of reason could not eliminate either the
imaginative elements or the intensity of the affects (fear, curiosity, desire) that
invaded the thought of the era.21 Paul Hazard referred to this transitional period
from the final decades of the seventeenth century to the first decades of the
eighteenth as the moment of the “crisis of the European mind,” when, after the
religious wars, Classicism’s desire for stability was threatened by the forces of
change that culminated with the Industrial Revolution and the consolidation of
capitalism. The theme of monstrosity is inscribed precisely in this intersection
between diverse cognitive models that represent the widely-studied stages of
Western culture in which the intense and frequently contradictory sensorium of
modernity would gradually be defined.
Progressively weakening its links with mythico-religious thought, although
without ever completely disconnecting from the sacred, the monster follows a
process of secularization that brings it ever closer to political power and theories
about the construction of the state and the organization of civil society. From
early modernity onward, the monster does not appear as an alien creature from a
strange, extra-human realm but rather it represents disturbing forms of humanity
that threaten the social order, thus turning monstrosity into an essential element
of what David McNally calls “the secular grotesque.” This representational key
registers continuities between medieval monstrosity (hybrid beings with
distorted bodies) and the representation of foreigners, who are considered to be
socially anomalous and threatening elements. Thus, the monster passes through
the mythical and teleological domain to the space of the social in which, more
than physical monstrosity, what assumes primacy is the danger of deviant and
inhuman behaviors (60-61).22 The concept of the monstrous is thus in modernity
part of the field of political philosophy and ethico-juridical reflection, becoming
an ideologeme used to metaphorize or allegorize both the excesses of power and
the popular forms of resistance they generate. The monstrous thus indirectly
articulates the notions of sovereignty, citizenship, and free will.
Ideologically, the idea of the monstrous illustrates the excess or illegitimacy
of authority, the interminable proliferation of the mechanisms of domination and
megalomania, the horror of despotism, and the desire to control spaces,
individuals, and resources. Political power is conceived as a monster that
threatens and consumes the social. The Leviathan, the gigantic sea monster with
satanic associations described in terrifying detail in the Book of Job and taken up
again by Thomas Hobbes in 1651, constitutes one of the most powerful symbols
of the social contract that, through the absolute power of the sovereign, would
save society from the state of nature and the war of all against all. The idea of
the state as monster is maintained well into modernity, generating a profusion of
metaphors and allegories of the nation, the sovereign, and the popular.23
Characterized by a stereotypical nostalgia for the Middle Ages and the era’s
supposed affinity for mystery, darkness, and the sinister, the neo-Gothic style
emerged as a countercultural movement in the second half of the eighteenth
century and the beginning of the nineteenth century and constituted a response to
the balance and sobriety of neoclassicism. The new ways in which the neo-
Gothic produced and interpreted visual and literary images emerged as a reaction
to the principles and aesthetics of modernity. As indicated before, Bakhtin noted
that the grotesque acquired in the neo-Gothic a particular meaning, which
restrained festive and satirical elements in favor of dark and mysterious worlds.
The passion for the grotesque, the representation of funeral rites and
mysterious places (caves, cemeteries, remote castles, dungeons, catacombs), as
well as the notorious tendency to defy bourgeois aesthetic preferences, all
converge in a lugubrious thematic in which macabre settings and plots
proliferate. Unusual characters with connections to Satanism, witchcraft, and
secret rites express a generally implicit opposition to the status quo, particularly
with regard to law, religious canon, and the habits and social rituals of the
bourgeoisie and aristocracy. Witches, wizards, madmen, vampires, and demons,
beings who physically or psychologically deviate from the norm, extreme
situations connected to extrasensory realities, powers, and perceptions that
exceed common experience—these all constitute the basis of an alternative form
of representing the human and the mysterious and irrational spaces that surround
and threaten everydayness. This is the irrational side of Enlightenment thought
which expresses the alienation of the real and the veiled connection it maintains
with the unconscious, the contents of which torment and intrigue modern
consciousness. In contradiction to the conventional conception of the
Enlightenment as dominated by scientific logic and humanistic reason, the neo-
Gothic and Romanticism are both firmly based in this perspective. Such an
affective landscape of disturbing chiaroscuros and extreme emotionality created
a fertile terrain for the proliferation of the monstrous.
One characteristic of the monstrous that is directly related to Enlightenment
imaginaries is its universalist portrayal of the monster which, in spite of its
always precise location, also is always provided with a cosmic, transhistorical
dimension. As Bakhtin points out:
Taking as one of its starting points Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto
(1764), the neo-Gothic style, which flourished in the eighteenth century,
promoted other forms of beauty and aesthetic sublimity, concepts analyzed by
Edmund Burke in his classic and influential study, Philosophical Enquiry into
the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1756).26 In this analysis
(which preceded Kant’s study of these topics), Burke emphasizes the importance
of fear as a catalyst of passions and projections that go from the contingent to the
transcendent, making it possible to perceive the limits of reason and
understanding: “No passion so effectively robs the mind of all its powers of
acting and reasoning as fear. For fear being an apprehension of pain or death, it
operates in a manner that resembles actual pain. Whatever therefore is terrible,
with regard to its sight, is sublime too” (Burke 53).
Burke also refers to the relationship between pain and pleasure as a human
reaction to the victory over life-threatening obstacles. The monster thus makes it
possible for the Enlightenment to confront both the fear of death and the joy of
survival, including the sublime experience of coming close to a limit situation
and contemplating the triumph of the heroism that defeats monsters and
reestablishes collective harmony. The monstrous approaches the individual and
the community through emotional intensity, facilitating contact with those
obscure and disgraceful zones of humanity haunted by the restrictions and
unfulfilled promises of modern reason.
In his article “Gothic Sublimity,” David B. Morris attempts to correct
Burke’s essentialist tendencies with regard to the sublime by including in his
analysis of the Gothic a necessary historic perspective. This strategy makes it
possible to distinguish the features of the Romantic sublime, with its more
visionary and hermeneutic qualities, from the more affective and pictorial
conception of the sublime applied to eighteenth-century culture and literature
(Morris 299). Beginning with the Gothic novel, the concept of the sublime is
modified to include, along with emotional factors (terror in particular), elements
that reject the procedures and principles of realism and bourgeois morality.27
The Gothic sublime incorporates social critique into the emotional intensity of
the genre without excluding psychological elements. These aspects complement
Burke’s vision, which, without providing a context for the primacy of affectivity,
maintains that the substantial importance of terror is based on the fact that this
feeling constitutes a sensorial and rational experience that takes evil to a
transcendent level, thus generating the revelation of the sublime.
Along with this affective argument, Morris analyzes the concrete stylistic
forms Walpole uses in The Castle of Otranto, highlighting the techniques of
exaggeration and repetition as concrete procedures for the production of terror.
He complements Burke’s essentialist perspective with observations from
Sigmund Freud’s essay “The Uncanny,” which, basing itself in the fundamental
concept of repression, develops a combined theory of the sublime and the
terrifying that metaphorically approaches what is by nature unrepresentable
(Morris 307). Elements that are inaccessible through language are often
expressed, as Morris notes, through visual images. Edvard Munch’s (1863-1944)
painting The Scream (1893), for example, captures and expresses everything
outside the domain of the word. This painting brings us closer to the idea of a
terror that settles into and overtakes the individual: it fills the world, paralyzes
language, and invades both subjective space and surrounding reality, blurring the
lines between them.
On this same path toward the comprehension of the sublime, Terry Castle
refers to the invention of the ominous (once again, Freud’s uncanny) as an
eighteenth-century expression of a world of shadows haunted by the phantoms
of the Inquisition, the excesses of colonialism, and the fears generated by
secularization. According to Castle, who reads other investigations of
eighteenth-century secret societies, witch hunts, and macabre superstitions
against the grain, “The ‘new’ eighteenth century is not so much an age of reason
but one of paranoia, regression, and incipient madness” (7). This ideological
atmosphere is crystallized in the image of the panopticon, conceived of at the
end of the eighteenth century by Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832), a symbol of the
eye of power that captures, reifies, and destroys subjectivity. At the same time,
the uncanny that emerges from these extreme circumstances of social control,
alienation, and fear of punishment represents the return of the repressed (the
darkness that exits into the light and fills it with shadows). In this process what
has been lost returns out of its submersion within the unconscious onto the
surface of social consciousness and intervenes in it (Castle 8-9). This “toxic
effect” of the dark, the monstrous, the uncanny is made invisible by the
canonization of the eighteenth century as the Age of Enlightenment, thereby
burying under a shroud of totalizing rationality all that escapes the dominant
models of intellectual and affective knowledge.
From the sophisticated and poetic tales of classical antiquity full of centaurs,
minotaurs, griffins, and mermaids, the neo-Gothic moves on to stories of
werewolves, vampires, and hybrid beings that bring together the notion of the
human in the face of the limits set by death, alienation, madness, and radical
alterity, thus encouraging reflection on the frontiers of humanism. The neo-
Gothic style recuperates popular legends and beliefs that combine a profuse and
striking visualization of the monstrous with hyperbolic narratives that
deconstruct the ideals of balance, harmony, moderation, and bourgeois “good
taste.”
The industrial age thus generated its own versions of vampires and ghosts as
well as a broad repertoire of hybrid beings that express the anxiety of a world
increasingly unfamiliar with itself to the extent that it is captivated by the
machinery of progress. In this context, it is not necessarily superhuman forces
external to the individual that generate incomprehensible and uncontrollable
realities but rather the human being him or herself, who becomes a mechanized
(id)entity discovering its own potential with fear and astonishment. The notion
of the monstrous continues to be modified and adapted to new realities in which
social change and the impact of technology create an alienating environment in
which the grotesque functions as an emotional reaction to the challenges of
modernity. In this Kafkaesque world, the monstrous is associated with unease,
alienation, and the weakening of social bonds. As Wolfgang Kayser explains,
“we are strongly affected and terrified because it is our world which ceases to be
reliable and we feel that we could be unable to live in this changed world. The
grotesque instills fear of life rather than death. Structurally it presupposes that
the categories which apply to our world view become inapplicable” (185).
The concept of anomaly and the emotional effects caused by the experience
of the monstrous constitute the principal axes of the definition of this category.
To these we can add other phenomena connected to the monster’s appearance,
which reinforce the importance of the body in the production of terror. For
example, the Diccionario de Autoridades de la Real Academia Española
published between 1726 and 1739 included aesthetic elements and bodily size as
constitutive attributes of monstrosity which “by extension” added to the more
general quality of deviation from the norm: “Monstruo: Parto o producción
contra el orden regular de la naturaleza. Viene del Latino Monstrum. […] Por
extensión se toma por qualquier cosa excesivamente grande o extraordinaria en
qualquier línea […]. Por translación se llama lo que es sumamente feo” (598).
This is also the case with derivative concepts: “Monstruosidad: Desorden grave
en la proporción que deben tener las cosas, según lo natural o regular […]. Por
translación se toma por suma fealdad u desproporción en lo physico y en lo
moral” (599). And: “Monstruoso: Lo que es contra el orden de la Naturaleza […]
Se toma también por excesivamente grande o extraordinario en qualquier línea
[…]” (599).
Enlightenment thought struggled with the notion of the extraordinary as a
variant of the normative, and far from managing to avoid categorization of the
monstrous, it absorbed the model of totalizing reason, which prohibited
supernatural lines of flight or predictable departures from collective imagination.
As Vicente Quirarte argues, referring to the process of representation of
monstrosity,
The result of all this is that a great part of Europe has been infested
with vampires for five or six years, and that there are now no more;
that we have had Convulsionaries in France for twenty years, and that
we have them no longer; that we have had demoniacs for seventeen
hundred years, but have them no longer; that the dead have been raised
ever since the days of Hippolytus, but that they are raised no longer;
and, lastly, that we have had Jesuits in Spain, Portugal, France, and the
two Sicilies, but that we have them no longer. (149)
For his part, Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778) opines that the topic of
vampires, which many consider to be mere fabrication, is nevertheless
legitimized by official culture: “If there is a well-attested history in the world, it
is that of the Vampires. Nothing is missing from it: interrogations, certifications
by Notables, Surgeons, Parish Priests, Magistrates. The judicial proof is one of
the most complete. And with all that, who believes in Vampires? Will we all be
damned for not having believed?” (qtd. in Fingerit 26).
In this sense, Rousseau ironically registers the way in which belief, including
superstition, is “administered” by institutions of power. Reason assimilates the
irrationality of the monstrous and naturalizes it through the principle of authority
that guarantees the proof and verifiability of the phenomenon. The monster
functions as a mediation of the connection between knowledge and power and
manages the coexistence of the irrational in a world that privileges scientific
criteria. This is a use of the monstrous that differs from the one registered in
other branches of philosophy. While Rousseau disregards the empirical truth of
vampirism, he does not reduce the trope to a mere poetic device, nor does he
regard it ironically, as if it were a popular hoax, but rather he uses it as an
operative element within a larger ideological apparatus. This philosophical and
political use of the monstrous is based on the understanding that the main
function of monstrosity is to shed light on complex phenomena that form part of
social experience and that do not always appear in obvious ways.
Gábor Klaniczay has analyzed the emergence of these new forms of magical
thinking in the eighteenth century which are connected not to the archaic
imaginaries of witchcraft but rather to the medical and technological discourses
of the time. According to Klaniczay, “The most radical counter-reaction, that of
Voltaire and some other French thinkers, had another evolution for doing away
with vampire beliefs. They have tried to shift the public attention from vampires
to the ‘bloodsuckers’ in the social sense of the term (the metaphor was coined by
Mirabeau in the 1770s)” (178).
Visual art also brings together these directions in social thought, articulating
reason and vampirism in a metaphorical reflection on the achievements of the
intellect and the forms of controlling the flights of imagination and the excesses
of affectivity. At the end of the eighteenth century, Francisco José de Goya
(1746-1828) published his Caprichos, which included in one of its etchings the
concept that “the dream of reason produces monsters” (engraving number 43 in a
collection of 80). This concept is always presented as a relativization of the
univocally positive value of reason and as an opening toward those domains that
the human mind cannot control. It is well-known that, although many of Goya’s
works had a particularly satirical and burlesque quality, others were more
dramatically directed toward showing the abuses of political and religious
power, the exploitation of people, and the perpetuation of social injustices. The
image that represents the dream of reason has a not only critical but also
philosophical quality that can be read against the backdrop of canonical
interpretations of the Enlightenment or in relation to the spirit of Romantic
thought, of which Goya was a principle exponent. This image portrays a
nightmarish scene in which man is beset by monsters (owls/vampires) that
would bring into being the threat of the negative that inhabits the depths of
thought where reason sleeps. If in this case reason is able to “awaken” and
control the world through knowledge, in other interpretations Goya’s monsters
represent the relentless pursuit of free imagination and the unfolding of all its
excesses and dangers. A third approach to the meaning of the image proposes
that the conquered disposition of the individual in the engraving who is hiding
his face behind his hands suggests his anxiety about the failure of reason.
Finally, it can be interpreted as a representation of how enthusiasm for the
powers of rationality ends up promoting the appearance of uncontrollable, life-
threatening creations. The world of the mind manifests itself not as a space of
enlightenment but as a dark realm inhabited by monsters.
One perspective that informs the neo-Gothic originated with Edgar Allan Poe
(1809-1849), whose work is closely linked to the imaginaries of nineteenth-
century horror. He proposes a literature that opens thematic doors and innovates
representational devices, thereby establishing the monstrous as part of everyday
life. Poe’s work disturbs the idea of a stable and rational order through an
aesthetics in which the grotesque, the morbid, the obsessive, and the demonic are
positioned as alternatives to bourgeois morality and customs.
It has been noted that Poe attempted to create a bridge between popular
sensibility and the “new sublime” that Gothic literature produced by combining
the medieval and the modern in an unusual synthesis (Bloom 5). Rediscovered
by Baudelaire and integrated through the path of symbolist codification of fin-
de-siecle aesthetic frameworks, Poe, as a representative of literature maudite
(which features the monster as one of its main protagonists) recognized
alternative forms for cognizing and interpreting the real in the occult and the
anomalous.
H.P. Lovecraft (1890-1937), an author who was strongly influenced by Poe’s
work and who is considered one of the creators of the horror genre, writes in his
essay “Supernatural Horror in Literature” (1926) that fear of the unknown is the
oldest form of terror and the strongest one experienced by humanity. He
distinguishes between everyday fear and what he calls “cosmic” fear, which
induces a horror that transcendentally expands toward those realms outside
knowledge that have always fascinated and terrified humans. In a broad-ranging
and detailed summary of canonical horror literature from antiquity up to the first
decades of the twentieth century, Lovecraft evaluates the genre’s different
orientations as well as the most salient representatives and methods of what he
calls “weird literature.” He recognizes that literature expressing cosmic terror is
found in the folklore of all cultures to the same extent as chronicles, ballads, and
sacred texts. For Lovecraft, this style has always existed as a method for
thematizing the feelings of fear and uncertainty that overwhelm daily life and
that, in order to be expressed, require certain elements that elevate fiction above
the stereotypical scenes of the mundane grotesque. These requirements are the
suspension of both reason and the laws of nature, as well as perplexity in the
face of the inexplicable:
For those who relish speculation regarding the future, the tale of
supernatural horror provides an interesting field. Combated by a
mounting wave of plodding realism, cynical flippancy, and
sophisticated disillusionment, it is yet encouraged by a parallel tide of
growing mysticism, as developed both through the fatigued reaction of
“occultists” and religious fundamentalists against materialistic
discovery and through the stimulation of wonder and fancy by such
enlarged vistas and broken barriers as modern science has given us
with its intra-atomic chemistry, advancing astrophysics, doctrines of
relativity, and probings into biology and human thought.
(“Supernatural Horror” 31)
In this sense, the Gothic has been seen as a symbolic system that responds to
the challenges and fears that afflict the individual in a secularized world. The
combination of fear, anxiety, mystery, and incertitude that accompany the
experience of terror corresponds to a spiritual state in which individuality comes
into conflict with the incommensurable, a feeling with religious, ethical, and
existential connotations. In The Gothic Imagination, Thompson writes that
“Gothic literature may be seen as expressive of an existential terror generated by
a schism between a triumphantly secularized philosophy of evolving good and
an abiding obsession with the medieval conception of guilt-laden, sin-ridden
man” (4-5).
For his part, David Punter argues that the Gothic is a reaction to the attempts
of industrial capitalism to impose a totalizing vision based in instrumental
reason, as well as in the productivism and exclusivity of dominant cultures (The
Literature of Terror 411-426). To begin, the Gothic disarticulates the solid vision
of the real and the pillars that socially and ideologically support it (e.g., family,
heterosexuality, monogamy), offering a representation of an other world rife
with invisible forces within capitalist modernity. The particularism and alterity
of the dark and unsayable energies of the Gothic setting defy the universalist
pretensions of bourgeois humanism and complicate the triumphalism of
secularization with the demonstration/monstering [mo(n)stración] of forces that
undermine the modern project and its civilizing mission. The monster does not
only serve as a portent of catastrophe. It also reveals the constitution of the real
itself as a space in which anomaly proliferates and where the repressed
encounters multiple forms of expression and historical reactivation.
Pastiche is, like parody, the imitation of a peculiar or unique style, the
wearing of a stylistic mask, speech in a dead language: but it is a
neutral practice of mimicry, without parody’s ulterior motive, without
the satirical impulse, without laughter, without that still latent feeling
that there exists something normal compared to which what is being
imitated is rather comic. Pastiche is blank parody, parody that has lost
its sense of humor. (167)
The figures of Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Dracula, and others
that emerged from Europe in the nineteenth century were accompanied by an
ample cohort of vampires, ghosts, and split and anomalous personalities that
hover over the cultural scenes of Western modernity, suggesting the subliminal
presence of forces that had filtered into the societies of the time.
The classic novel Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus (1818), written
by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1797-1851) when she was eighteen years old,
was composed as a metaphor for solitude and the inherent fragmentariness of the
human in a world subject to violent transformation. The supernatural and
destructive force of the narrative’s monster exudes pain and promotes an
emotional identification with this creature born from the unrestrained zeal for
knowledge and the hubris of reason that does not recognize its own limitations
and possibilities. Through his interactions, the monster’s trajectory reveals
aspects of his surrounding reality: contradictions, paradoxes, conflicts related to
forms of social organization and the values that inform it. The hunchbacked,
Promethean figure of the monster concentrates and metaphorizes a collective
fear connected to concrete historical and social referents but which is presented
in a sublimated form as a fear of the Other, of its strange and disturbing
presence, but also as a fear of the endeavors of the self, with its impenetrable
background.
From other critical perspectives, more so than other monsters of its kind,
Frankenstein’s creation bears witness to a failure: the embodiment of an ill-born
progeny destined to be demonized, a case of the failed transmission of the
Father’s qualities, a tragic destiny in which the monster is the first and primary
victim. The character’s monstrosity, as Joan Copjec has argued, is not accidental
but structural (57).34 For other critics, Mary Shelley’s work represents the guilty
conscience of the society of the time, punishing itself for having produced the
monsters that inhabited it (Monleón 23).
From the very beginning, the structure of Frankenstein presents the novel as
both artifice and simulacrum, like the process of the production of an entity that,
although it is “impossible as a physical fact,” as Shelley writes at the beginning
of the work and as Franco Moretti reminds us, it becomes a fact—an object, a
subject—real in the domain of literature, achieving an iconic and prophetic
dimension with exceptional cultural and ideological resonance.35 At the same
time, the author writes in her Preface that “The event on which this fiction is
founded has been supposed by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers
of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence.” This situates the monster within a
narrow, interstitial space between science and imagination, between reality and
fantasy, between possibility and impossibility. This location destabilizes the
conventional parameters of literary reception and places the reader in a zone of
indistinction with regard to the nature of the story and the pact of reading it
establishes. The work challenges any rigid or definitive positioning of the text
within the category of the supernatural, offering instead an internal critique of
the atmosphere and beliefs of the time in which knowledge and scientific and
technological proposals competed with intuitions about occult and inaccessible
dimensions of the real, thus revealing the dark side of the Enlightenment (Tallon
36-37).
The ambiguity inherent to the monstrous acquires a paradigmatic status in
Shelley’s novel. The monster, created by a young scientist in his laboratory, is
even up to the present day frequently referred to erroneously with his creator’s
name. This is because the creature the scientist creates lacks a name, a feature
that from the very beginning exiles the monster’s otherness to an empty space of
(re)cognition. In a conversation with Victor Frankenstein, the monster identifies
himself as “your Adam,” “your fallen angel,” invoking the theme of Creation
and signaling the monster as a mutant that from the very beginning of its
existence symbolizes lack, loss, and non-belonging. The descriptions of the
monster’s creator emphasize rejection and exclusion and indicate impatience,
cruelty, and fear of the anomalous being he has brought to life and the danger it
embodies. Victor uses the terms “monster,” “creature,” “demon,” “devil,”
“thing,” “wretch,” “vile insect,” and other similar expressions to refer to the
product of his experiments. The use of language as a technology of the
production of monstrosity has an undeniable relevance in Frankenstein because
it functions as an apparatus that both consolidates and demonizes otherness in a
vain attempt to organize the chaos that will no longer submit to taxonomies or
the disciplining capacity of the name.
Shelley’s novel opens with a quotation from John Milton’s Paradise Lost
(1667), considered a paradigmatic work of literary sublimity and which,
according to Chris Baldick, was built on two myths: that of creation and that of
transgression, which in Shelley’s work are brought together in one and the same
figure.36 References to this text appear throughout the novel in which the
scientist’s given name comes from “the Victor,” an allusion to the way in which
God is referred to in Milton’s epic poem, which also constitutes a reading of the
monster that this latter takes as a real story. The narrative of Paradise Lost is
articulated between the figures of God and Satan, and it creates a polarizing and
allegorical scenario in which the monster acts as a mediating device that
problematizes the Christian conception and the limits of reason as a fundamental
element of language and as a mediator between instinct and social
consciousness.
Composed in the form of letters exchanged between Captain Robert Walton
and his sister Margaret Walton Saville, but also as the autobiographical tale of
the young scientist, the novel is based on the recourse of doubling and
interweaves textual registers in the same way that the monster is composed of
organic parts from different sources. In effect, Victor Frankenstein and his
monster function as a split entity; they use similar arguments, they constantly
seek and repel one another, and they are incomprehensible without one another.
Attraction and repulsion, life and death, technology and emotionality, love and
hate, all create interlocking counterpoints and give the narrative an agile
dynamic that dramatizes identities and events and causes meanings from the
realm of the real to circulate within the domain of the fantastic, from the polar
region toward which the monster flees to the fire that consumes its remains.
In her study of Franknstein and the social contexts that inform the work,
Johanna Smith draws attention to the importance of feminine writing and
interpretation as a specific angle of textual production, seeing in Mary Shelley
an author who was able to create a foundational work which consolidates the
canonical qualities of its narrative form, establishing the characteristics of a style
and a thematic with a long-ranging trajectory and intense symbolic connotations.
In addition, Smith underscores the importance of Shelley as a cultural producer
who was able to enshrine within her work the legacy of her mother, the feminist
philosopher and novelist Mary Wollstonecraft—author of, among other titles, A
Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792)—who died shortly after Mary was
born, as well as the intellectual impact of her father, the anarchist philosopher
William Godwin, who introduced his daughter to the political debates of the
time.37 Mary Shelley’s work has a paradigmatic value for feminist criticism,
which has primarily examined the representation of identity in Frankenstein as
an illustration of the permanent and frustrated desire to achieve a stable and
harmonious form of being that would be able to resist the belief that every
individual is “half-made,” that the essential fragmentation of subjectivity must
be made whole.38 The character of Frankenstein’s monster is marked by this
internal rupture, which is metaphorized in his patch-work body, his body
language, and the way he acts. From an existential perspective, what additionally
stands out is the fact that Frankenstein’s monster is actually a victim, a creature
abandoned to his destiny by his creator, a quality that on some level is connected
to the author, whose mother died after giving birth to her. For his part, the
weakness of Victor Frankenstein the scientist is not, as McNally argues, his
insatiable thirst for knowledge and experimentation but rather his isolation from
social interaction, which turns his research into a neurotic, self-referential, and
alienated process. In this way, the topic of solitude stands out as one of the most
essential aspects of the composition of the monstrous: loneliness, difference,
alienation, frustration, and melancholia form an emotional constellation with
strong symbolic, ideological, and socio-cultural connotations.
More political readings see in the figure of Frankenstein’s monster a
metaphorical staging of the ideological debates of the French Revolution. For
some, his monstrous and out-of-place body represents radical projects for the
creation of a new social order; for others, it is a symbol of the frustrations of the
oppressed, of their resistance and anxiety in the face of injustice and negligence
from the dominant classes. It seems that, more than just these two positions,
Frankenstein harbors the harrowing existence of both in a social body searching
for identity and organic unity.
McNally performs an excellent reconstruction of the fundamental elements
of Godwin’s paternal influence on Mary Shelley’s work. Godwin, the
paradigmatic author of so-called Jacobin novels, used Gothic themes in his
work, particularly the motif of splitting as a device for rendering the psycho-
social complexities of his characters and plots. He integrated this “radical
Gothic” (83) into storylines like that of the novel Things Are as They Are, or the
Adventures of Caleb Williams (1794), which portrays power relations and social
positions that condition the characters’ actions. If, McNally argues, in her
passionate critique of the French ancien régime Mary Wollstonecraft had
extended “the analysis of monstrosity to the oppressed classes, arguing that
despotism produced grotesque effects among the downtrodden” (82), then
Godwin contributed to a large extent to the consolidation of her defense of the
Irish cause and her denunciation of the monstering of its representatives.
According to McNally, both Mary Shelley and her husband Percy Shelley
maintained a never-ending commitment to the struggle for the liberation of
Ireland, the first British colony.
As McNally also notes, another movement that helped delineate the
ideological context from which Frankenstein emerged was Luddism, an anti-
industrialist perspective that was mainly active between 1811 and 1817.
Luddism originated in the resistance of artisans to the advance of capitalism as it
replaced human labor with machines, thus upsetting the existing regime of
labor.39 Social struggle and political confrontations caused fractures in the
organic structure of society to the detriment of the qualities and potentialities of
the human: “In Shelley’s dialectic of monstrosity, violence and oppression
rebound on the oppressors—distorting their own personalities and marring their
judgment, while also creating, as Wollstonecraft had warned, an enraged
underclass intent on retribution” (McNally 89).
Within this context, Frankenstein represents a machinic apparatus which
seeks to convince the reader of certain principles, including, as Moretti notes, the
ethics of the family, the importance of technological development, and respect
for tradition. In this same movement, the novel denounces social inequality and
the mysterious power of science, and it expresses a fear of a divided society
without coherence or organic activity. According to this interpretation, the
monster is affirmed as an ideological artifact. His appearance and behavior are
the vehicle for his message. The monster has a social mission here: he has been
coopted by the system since birth. Moretti points out that, as both a product of
history and an artifice, the monster has the power to transform himself into a
new “race” through which he would be able to return to Nature. However, the
most ideologically relevant aspect is the configuration of the monster as a
concentration of the irrationality of capitalism, which Walter Benjamin identified
as barbarism within civilization, the virtual demonization of work that produces
while it deforms, degrades, and reifies. According to Moretti’s inspired and
perhaps excessively radical reading: “By this means Mary Shelley wants to
convince us that capitalism has no future: it may have been around for a few
years, but now it is all over […] Wishing to exorcise the proletariat, Mary
Shelley, with absolute logical consistency, erases capital from her picture too. In
other words, she erases history” (72).
Laurence Rickels offers a “monstrous” reading of Frankenstein, a book born
(as the author himself remarks) from an originary chaos: from dark and formless
substances that are added together as pastiche, showing the seams that unify the
diverse fragments that make up the precarious totality of the story. Rickels
underscores the significant fact that the monster himself speaks “in the citational
mode” (278) in the story, incorporating elements of texts from different aesthetic
registers, as if language did not belong to him. Shelley uses this as a metaphor of
the artificial and pre-human nature of her character: “In her own melancholic or
antimetaphorical mode, she pieces together (just as the monster is sewn up out of
corpse parts) a monstrous novel primarily constituted out of fragments of
overhearing and overreading” (278).
Representative of a residual and countercultural aesthetic, Mary Shelley’s
monster is the result of recycling—that is, of the accumulation and
rearticulations of “found objects” that technology returns to life, resignifying
them and granting them an other, non-conventional, and counter-normative
existence.40 In this sense, Frankenstein exacerbates the qualities of the
monstrous by constructing the central figure of the novel as a precarious,
unstable, and helpless entity. His interstitial nature affords him an exogenous
position with regard to the system that cannot contain him and which the
monster occasionally interrupts, destabilizing its order with a radical otherness
that intensifies the tendencies of sensualism, emotional breakdown, melancholia,
and instability. The monster’s size (approximately two-and-a-half meters tall) is
terrifying and impossible to ignore, and it functions as a metaphor of his
excessive, hyperbolic, and out-of-place condition.
The Foucauldian expression “technologies of the self” takes on a new
meaning in Frankenstein insofar as it incorporates the philosophical meanings of
this concept with aspects related to real-world technology, thereby creating the
(id)entity of the monster as an unthinkable yet pardigmatic form of being-in-the-
world. Scientific technology is portrayed in the novel not only in the process of
the monster’s construction but also in the electrical energy used to animate the
inert material from which he is made. Mary Shelley had actually witnessed this
practice in the laboratory of Andrew Crosse, an amateur scientist who was
notorious at the time for attempting such controversial experiments that included
the attempted reanimation of corpses.41 Thus, beyond what is foreseeable,
history and fantasy feed off one another and combine with one another in the
hybrid monster and his melodramatic trajectory.42
Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
(1886) focuses on dual identity in a psychological drama that combines
ambition, fear, and the use of witchcraft. Capturing the repressive atmosphere of
Victorian society and its highly regulated social structure, the novella stages a
struggle that has been seen as a confrontation between heroic and anti-heroic
energies. In this way, the work dramatizes the conflict of human nature with all
its limits and possibilities.
Narrated through the intuitive perspective of a lawyer named Mr. Utterson,
as well as through other characters who advance the narrative (Richard Enfield,
for example), the tale concerns the incidents of the lives of two mysterious
characters: a doctor named Henry Jekyll and an unsettling individual named
Edward Hyde who together combine aspects of a split personality composed of
opposing elements that interact in a contradictory and mysterious dynamic. The
different narrative voices enhance the story’s texture, developing in a
convergence of complementary visions and versions informed by differing
degrees of psychological penetration. It has been pointed out that the story (in
which scientific, moral, legal, and even “mystical and transcendental” aspects
are expressed) defines itself in relation to the prestigious professional fields that
frame the masculine figure as the nucleus of social space, as well as the identity
politics that characterize it. The main narrators, who represent legal and medical
discourses, are involved in the discovery of aspects that always surround the
monstrous: the revelation of the mystery of being, the secrets of bodily and
psychological anomaly, and the reasons that would solidify or negate its
existential legitimacy.
The enigmatic and split figure of the dual protagonist brings together
elements connected to a capitalist society captivated by the mechanisms of
accumulation and alienation, processes that demonstrate the metaphorical quality
of Stevenson’s novella. It also represents models that have been proposed by
psychoanalysis: the splitting of the self (Jekyll and Hyde as “polar twins,”
according to the former’s own description), the idea of the double
(Doppelgänger or alter ego), multiple personalities, the notions of libido,
repression, sublimation, etc. In addition, critiques that concentrate on specific
themes linked to Victorian socialization and the distribution of symbolic spaces
(which are attributes and values associated with the genre) have detected in the
Jekyll/Hyde constellation the demonstration/monstering [mo(n)stración] of a
conflict whose epicenter is the homosocial economy of the era and the forms of
transgression that characterized it.
Subjected to the progressive accumulation of information provided by the
text, the reader is kept in suspense about the identities that coexist in the
character of Dr. Jekyll until the end of the novella. At only eight chapters long,
the brief book ends with a final section consisting of two posthumous letters—
presented as autobiographical texts which limit textual transmission and the pact
of reading that sustains it. In this way, the text constantly oscillates between the
interiority of Jekyll’s fragmented consciousness and the accounts of various
narrators, as well as between references, scientific discourses, and confessional
writings. The process of the apprehension of the self becomes a kaleidoscopic
exercise in which the truth is hidden in the intricacies of cognition and its
discursive translation. Textual body and social body, psychological, affective,
and cognitive aspects are all defined by the patchwork construction of
monstrosity.
Composed of multiple accounts supported by different points of view,
through shifts of perspective, reticent statements, and partial revelations, the
story materializes in the body an array of symbolic connotations. This
contradiction manifests as an undeniable fissure that is constitutive of human
nature and that no social convention can suture. Body, person, and gender
constitute categorical foundations that delimit the self without containing it.
Stevenson’s novella illustrates the excess of difference and its transgressive and
threatening character, which appears as rupture, metamorphosis, and
melancholia.
What stands out in the character of Hyde is his despicable, demonic, and
ape-like appearance—all features of the dehumanization and incompleteness
associated with the monstrous. His small stature, likened to that of a dwarf or
troglodyte, has been interpreted as an allusion to the fact that he has been
repressed for years and that his physicality has come to illustrate his subordinate
and withdrawn condition. His image is elusive and resists any fixity (there are no
photographs of him, and his appearance seems to continuously change), thereby
situating him as a mysterious and strange character governed by rules other than
those which define human normality. At the same time, the narrative elaborates a
series of mediations that complicates the epistolary apparatus: letters that contain
other letters, narratives that transmit opinions that are not those of the narrator,
legal, medical, and purely speculative angles all create a polyphonic web that
attempts to trap (without capturing) the mystery of human identity. The reality of
the self, its “truth,” remains inaccessible to the cognitive attempts to try to seize
hold of it.
However, in this context it is the gaze that constructs monstrosity and
narrativizes it, textualizing cognition and making an epistemological break into a
narratable moment. In other words, monstrosity constitutes an experience that
exists to be narrated, while it is, at the same time, unrepresentable. The
circulation of the monstrous has an immanent, self-contained quality in this
work. More than a presence, monstrosity is an excessive attribute that lurks
within the intricacies of the story. Looking at himself in the mirror, Jekyll
interrogates the mystery of the self: he feels that he has lost his identity, his
home, his face, and his name, and he subjects himself to the effects of a potion
that triggers his metamorphosis. His body and his “persona” are Hyde’s alibi, the
place where evil resides, smashing the boundaries of individuality and making
the foundations of the body and the psyche precarious and unstable. What is
never revealed to the gaze is demonic, essential, and inevitably teratological.
The plot, which combines aspects of suspense, morality, medicine, and law,
develops the struggle between good and evil as forces in contention for an
individual’s soul. The character’s fragmented identity has been decoded in
different ways, with perhaps the most convincing being its interpretation as a
representation of the “gay Gothic,” that is, as an illustration of the theme of
repressed homosexuality through the metaphor of social pathology. In Ed
Cohen’s words, Stevenson’s novella, and particularly its duplication of the
masculine figure, expresses a destabilization of gender that, although it occludes
any feminine quality, exposes “the failure of masculinity as a coherent subject
position” (181). The divided subject, dominated by irrational drives and desires,
is defined by this alienating duality in which the two sides of his psyche wage
war over his body while coexisting in the common space of his memory. Jekyll
defines himself as a “double dealer” (42), suggesting a duplicity ruled by the
desire for pleasure:
What the sexologist Krafft-Ebing called “the never ceasing duel between
animal instinct and morality” (5) would find its discursive expression in
Stevenson’s novella, in which the social, scientific, and moral problem of
masculine sexuality is narrativized in the rhetorical register of fictional self-
representation. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thus gives a
physical body to the preoccupations of the time, transmitting through visual and
discursive imagery an incipient critique of modernity and its regimes of “truth,”
which are all challenged in Stevenson’s text by the notions of partial truth,
hypocrisy, and secrecy.
More than just a moralizing sentiment, the work involves an allegorical
orientation that portrays internal struggle as the disintegration of the individual
and, by extension, the social. The individual is constructed as a queer (strange,
peculiar, counter-normative) subject/object whose social alienation ends in self-
destruction. The construction of the monstrous (transgressive, threatening,
embodied anomaly) has a prophetic quality that the Jekyll/Hyde split establishes
as a sign of impending dissolution. The contingent is overcome by a reflection
on human nature concerning identity politics and the values on which they are
based. In the movement of diegetic particularity to the universality of its
existential connotations, the text passes through intellectual, affective, ethical,
mystical, legal, and scientific levels and presents itself as a prophecy of the
conflicts of subjective development and the attempts to apprehend and contain it:
The notion of an occult truth that can only be partially discovered and that
hides an essential knowledge about human nature is inherent in the theme of the
monstrous and in the explorations and the discoveries/concealments it generates.
The novella extends beyond its own limits and thus moves on from “the
profound duplicity of life” to multiplicity, from doubling to the proliferation of
identities, a notion that puts forth a hypothesis of the real and applies it to both
the real/social world and the world of interiority, thus promoting the idea of
reason as a principle that unifies and gives organic sense to perceptions, feelings,
and contradictory knowledges.44
While exploring the splitting of identity, the novella establishes its specific
and disillusioned approach to the monstrous as an endeavor that can only capture
identity in the deforming mirror of the Other (a notion which is expressed in the
iconic phrase that organizes the story: “He, I say—I cannot say, I”). Subjectivity
is conceptualized through otherness insofar as the latter becomes part of the
former and constitutes it, even while opposing it. Jekyll adds, in a blunt
assessment of his other half: “That child of Hell had nothing human; nothing
lived in him but fear and hatred” (The Strange Case 52).45 The discovery of the
monstrous is more terrifying if it reveals itself as interiority compromised by
evil, dehumanized but animated by emotional intensification and the will to
power.
Jekyll’s monstering is nearly metaphorical. The monster does not take hold
of him as a craving for the flesh or blood of the Other but rather as an invasion
of his inner life (his psychology, his affectivity, his cognition, and his memory)
—which nevertheless has equally devastating and destabilizing effects. Confined
to individual subjectivity and contained by the coded rhetoric of self-
representation, Stevenson’s work strikes at the heart of the canon of monstrosity,
sowing the seeds of doubt about the status of the human itself, as well as of the
monsters within it. The novella presents a “case” that illustrates an indisputable
break in the social structure as well as in the nature of the social itself. In other
words, the monstrosity embodied in Mr. Hyde is, in its own way, vampiric. He is
sinister, perfidious, instinctive, hunchbacked, and in his own way a werewolf
who prowls the scientific, moral, and legal domains of his time, a zombie who
colonizes the biopolitical protocols of modernity and destabilizes them, an
interstitial, borderlands being, illegitimate, anomalous, and threatening.
In Dracula (1897), by the Irish writer Abraham “Bram” Stoker (1847-1912),
the theme of drinking blood (established many decades earlier by Polidori’s
short story) connects diverse social strata through aggressive individuality and
the exaltation of the interpersonal, illicit, and strongly embodied relations which
are posited by vampirism—the symbolic derivations of which have made it
possible to connect this type of narrative to sexual, social, and economic themes
from the perspectives of Marxist, feminist, and psychoanalytic criticism.
Stoker’s work had been preceded by the lesser-known Gothic novel
Carmilla, written by another Irish writer, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814-1873).
First published as a serial in the literary review The Dark Blue between 1871 and
1872, the story’s protagonist is a vampire-woman whose name (Carmilla) is an
anagram of her true name, Countess Mircalla Karnstein. This fictional character
is supposedly inspired by the “bloody countess” Erzsébet Báthory, whose story
has been fictionalized and rewritten multiple times over the centuries. The story
of Carmilla also inspired numerous re-elaborations in literature, film, comics,
and other media. Widely admired for his narrative technique and for the
originality of his themes, Le Fanu has been recognized for having set out the
original parameters for lesbian vampire stories (which subsequently have had a
long trajectory).46
Nevertheless, it would be Stoker’s work that would garner more critical
attention as the key story of the vampire genre in the West. The general features
of this style are well-known: constant transgression of the lines between life and
death, humanity and inhumanity, good and evil, science and sorcery, dreaming
and wakefulness, subject and object. The genre creates ambiguous characters
and atmospheres that disarticulate the certainty of knowledge, and it introjects
elements of Satanism, abjection, and mystery into modern reason. In many
cases, the genre’s inclination toward evil is assimilated into brutal mutations that
defy nature. Additionally, as Beal has remarked, the theme of the extraction of
blood is inscribed in a broad field of connotations: “For blood is not simply life
but also masculine potency, and Dracula’s blood not only threatens to
contaminate the distinction between life and death; it also endangers the
patriarchal order of familial relations, which are at the heart and soul of larger
Victorian society…” (131-132).
In any case, the vampire is a character whose monstrosity is refined and
reduced to a series of elliptical elements through which the grotesque is
sublimated. To give a few examples of this sublimation, it is worth mentioning
that the vampire’s desiring nature manifests as a contemplative and persistent
hunt for the object of anxiety. The vampiric sucking of blood, which is generally
takes place through small punctures on the neck or as a passionate kiss, prepares
the fusion of the bodies of the victim and the vampire. The attack takes the form
of an embrace that the vampire covers with his cape, and the victim’s
progression toward death involves increasing weakness and pallor and the
gradual extinguishing of vital signs. One might say that the vampire is an elegant
monstrosity with often aristocratic overtones, who disguises his grotesque
aspects under the character’s apparent sensuality and talent for seduction. In her
study “Reflections on the Grotesque,” Joyce Carol Oates argues that the vampire
effectively articulates repulsion and eroticism, minimizing the physical aspect of
monstrosity and lending it a touch of the sublime, which helps to conceal the
vampire’s truculent cannibalistic instincts.47
As Carroll recalls, in his psychoanalytic study On the Nightmare (1910),
Ernest Jones analyzes blood-sucking as a form of seduction that encompasses
the shameful incestuous desire for a dead relative, because mythical vampires
first spread their impulses within their families. Such attraction, disguised by
sadism and repulsion, makes living victims passive and subject to the power of
the dead, whose “agency” allows the living to enjoy without shame. Such a
transformation of attraction into repulsion and of the regression of genital
sexuality to its oral form (biting and sucking of blood) would come to satisfy
incestuous and necrophilic desires, lashing them together in a combination of
horror and eroticism, camouflaged by primal, unsayable, and unrepresentable
incestuous drives. Repulsion is the emotion that allows pleasure to be attained
(Carroll 169-70). In this way, monstrosity both transgresses and confirms the
norm:
[A]rt-horror is the price we are willing to pay for the revelation of that
which is impossible and unknown, of that which violates our
conceptual schema. The impossible being does disgust; but that disgust
is part of an overall narrative address which is not only pleasurable, but
whose potential pleasure depends on the confirmation of the existence
of the monster as a being that violates, defies, or problematizes
standing cultural classifications. (Carroll 186)
From this perspective, Stoker’s work, along with other Victorian texts, has
been seen not only as a metaphor for the fears awoken by scientific knowledge
but also as a representation of the dangers of “inverse colonization” in which the
dark forces of instinctive, primitive, and atavistic otherness seek to dominate the
British Empire. Thus, the novel has been read as an anti-imperialist critique and
as a veiled warning about the threat represented by other European nations
competing for the global hegemony on which England was quickly losing its
grip.48
In addition, Stoker’s text, which begins with a journey by train, makes
references to the invention of the linotype (a technological device that
revolutionized the forms of the reproduction and dissemination of knowledge) as
well as the emergence of the gramophone and the typewriter (another recurrent
element throughout Stoker’s novel). These are all elements that signal the
influence of the industrial age on the book as well as the links between
individualism and capitalism which are symbolically elaborated in the
narrative.49 Rickels suggests that the figure of Count Dracula represents the
phantasmatic image of the new imaginary that emerged along with the new
technologies of the time. Other critics, like Leah Richards, follow this same
thematic line, which is developed in the novel in parallel to the central story of
vampirism. In fact, the theme of technology intersects both the main plot and the
cultural imaginaries of the era, impacting the construction of the novel itself and
effectively articulating the relations between literature, orality, folklore, and
melodrama.
According to Friedrich Kittler in “Dracula’s Legacy,” “Dracula is no
vampire novel, but a written account of our bureaucratization” (164). The
character of Mina mediates between two worlds; she represents technological
modernization and the advance of women onto previously forbidden terrain in
both the public and private spheres. More concretely, within the economy of the
novel, she functions as an apparatus that unifies and gives sense to multiple
versions and discursive registers. This allows for a cognitive approach to the
mystery of the main character and the meaning of his peculiar attributes. In this
sense, Mina is responsible for the creation of what Richards refers to as a
transnational and “transpersonal authority,” a textual and editorial task that can
only end with the monster’s destruction. For Kittler, what occupies the core of
Stoker’s novel is the representation of this techno-cultural aspect, and not the
atavistic mechanisms of evil understood as a primitive or demonic force.50
In Dracula, the compositional aspect functions as a formal counterpart to the
main character and his symbolic field because it incorporates the resources of
heterogeneity and fragmentation as constitutive procedures for the production of
meaning. Jennifer Wicke, referring to the mode of production of the text, has
pointed out that this constitutes
Satan is a fallen angel; human beings are at the same time virtuous and
vicious, magnificent and abject. Such a portrayal of unreason, after its
banishment from reason, necessarily created a sense of confusion and
ambiguity. The old polarization between good and evil that had been
effective in the Gothic tales disappeared with the progressive
internalization of the demonic. As a result of this process, an
epistemological uncertainty arose in bourgeois thought, a crisis that
was articulated through and tamed by the fantastic and that […] very
often appeared in artistic representation in the form of madness,
hallucinations, or multiple divisions of the subject. (Monleón 24)
[l]a escritura de Cambaceres habla del Otro del ser nacional cuya
identidad monstruosa se halla configurada a partir de una hibridación;
de una conjunción entre lo que aparenta ser humano y cierta
“animalidad” instintual (sic) que lo desmiente, que anula sus rasgos de
humanidad […] De este modo, la imagen del espejo realista/naturalista,
al ver al Otro, no hallará sino monstruosidades: enfermos engendros
portadores del contagio, lenguajes bárbaros aún en su fase de
articulación fonética y toda una serie de elementos negativos que
configurarán el marco (etno)teratológico sobre el cual se desplegará la
mirada antropológica de Cambaceres y su Generación […] El híbrido
se constituye así como el monstruo decimonónico a conjurar. Ya no se
tratará de una superposición del discurso médico sobre sujetos
patológicos (el masturbador, la histérica, las anomalías sexuales), sino
de ciertos elementos que tiñen al contorno objetivado del cuerpo del
Otro: color de la piel, el origen de procedencia, la lengua, y que
atribuyen un repertorio de conductas a corregir asociadas a ciertas
características físicas perturbadoras. (95-96)
The allegories of the national that find one of their figurative supports in
monstrosity extend from the nineteenth into the twentieth century in Latin
America with a continuity that reveals that the monstrous has been canonized as
a symbolic space that serves to emphasize the persistence of congenital
barbarism that comes from the anomalous articulation of Eurocentric concepts
like order and progress and is transplanted to other societies whose specificity
prevents the easy assimilation of such models. The postcolonial disarticulation
of economy, politics, and society and the vernacular elements that have survived
colonial domination function as obstacles that prevent the adoption of the
civilizing paradigms embraced by elites. Translated into the terms of regional
policies, this epistemic disruption is a result of the entrenchment of monstrosity
in national institutions.
In other contexts, the regionalist novel or “La novela de la tierra” (e.g., La
vorágine, Doña Bárbara, Don Segundo Sombra [all 1926]) incorporate
monstrosity, nature, and sexual voracity in a synthesis that portrayed the limits of
the civilizing project of modernity and presented telluric and vernacular forces
as antagonistic to the European models of civility and progress. The continuity
between these conquest narratives, in which Latin American nature was seen
both as a promise of abundance and as a physical and natural threat that resisted
the advance of Western reason, is notorious in these texts, although in the
regionalist novel the national project seems to be inserted as a redefinition of
hegemony and as an exogenous force imposed on regional logics. The monstrous
generally appears in the diluted form of personal features, exceptionality,
irrationalism, or uninhibited instinct. Thus, it forms part of the indomitable
reality of Latin America and the characters who represent it. Nature, character,
and destiny also appear to be associated insofar as the monstrous is a signifier
that crosses boundaries between all these levels, incorporating the idea that this
violence is inherent to both the civilizing project and the realities that resist it.
Spectral elements, magical suggestions, and irrational factors inform this
approach to the natural world as the symbolic context of a state reason that is
unable to colonize all levels of the real, levels where what is irreducible to
civilizing logics surpasses conventional representational models and pushes the
limits of the bourgeois novel.
In a similar way, the Antropofagia (“Cannibalism”) movement, whose
principles were outlined in the Manifiesto Antropófago (1928) by Oswald de
Andrade, established (in an anthropological key) the poetics of American
exceptionalism. In the contexts of reflection on the limits and the political and
social meaning of “national culture,” this movement consolidated an alternative
position, locating in the idea of cannibalism an image that represented cultural
voracity as one of the constitutive elements of the process of identity formation,
which consisted of the incorporation of the Other in order to strengthen and
enrich one’s own cultural values.57
With the benefit of hindsight, we can see that Juan Rulfo (1917-1986), in El
llano en llamas (1953) and Pedro Páramo (1955), incorporated ghosts as part of
the popular imaginaries that registered the conflicts and challenges of modernity
from the perspective of marginalized populations whose epistemologies
elaborate on the themes of death, scarcity, land, nature, and power through
alternative models that are frequently antagonistic to dominant principles. The
grief-stricken souls in the desolate world of the Mexican countryside find
themselves trapped in an interstice similar to that of the social condition of the
population betrayed by the Republic and the Revolution, in which colonialist
domination is perpetuated as coloniality. The presence of spectrality—and with it
the representation of the illusory, delirious, imagined, dream-like—does not
produce a de-realization but rather, on the contrary, it accentuates the features of
a radical experience of the social that cannot find words to express itself, nor can
it find any visual images that can adequately represent the subsumed dimension
of the experience of collective alienation. This reality is (re)presented in popular
imaginaries with an over-encrypted symbolic charge, as John Kraniauskas
suggests, in which the (individual and collective) soul has been separated from
its body and floats in a limbo where there is no substantial difference between
life and death. The biopolitical flow that traverses from one domain to the other
can only be expressed in the impure register of the supernatural, the eccentric,
the excessive, and the monstrous.
In Argentina, the spirit and rhetoric of El matadero is taken up again and
rewritten in much later political contexts and elaborated through the grotesque
aspects of the language, tone, and general thematic of the poem “La refalosa”
(1839) by Hilario Ascasubi (1807-1875) and in Jorge Luis Borges and Alberto
Bioy-Casares’s story “La fiesta del monstruo.” Published under the pseudonym
H. Bustos Domecq, the story combines monstrosity, instinct, and abnormality. It
describes the events of a paradigmatic day in the Peronist movement in which
“the Monster” (Juan Domingo Perón’s nickname) addresses the Argentine
people in the middle of a collective uprising. This clandestinely circulated text
was only published after the fall of Peronism. “La fiesta del monstruo”
constitutes a “cruel, heartless, one-dimensional, over-politicized vision”
(Feinmann) of the popular barbarism resulting from a political passion in which
civic duty and monstrosity become confused. In scenes replete with racism and
classism (which Echeverría also uses in El matadero to represent the instincts of
people overwhelmed by hunger), it demonstrates the entrenchment of
monstrosity in the heart of the polis, which is to say, the corruption of social
space and the figure of the political monster as a sign of the catastrophe and
collapse of sociality.
With monstrous scenes dedicated to expressing the biopolitical excess
unleashed by the active presence of the Other who is opposed to one’s own
values or to dominant projects, Borges and Bioy-Casares’s story forms part of an
aesthetico-ideological constellation that, in addition to the texts already
mentioned here, includes narratives like “El fiord” (1969) and “El niño
proletario” by Osvaldo Lamborghini (1940-1985), which were posthumously
published in a collection edited by César Aria. In these cynical texts, satire and
parody overlap in order to offer a deranged, bloody, and allegorically
carnivalesque vision of the political and national scene. The monstrous and the
popular converge and separate in a chaotic game in which ideology turns the
mechanisms of a machine that has lost its teleology. The political monster and
the human monster are two sides of the collapse of the social pact. They are
presented in a unified way as hybrid constructions that define “the literary
unconscious of Peronism” from a teratological basis, and more generally the
unsayable system of desires, drives, and interests that constitute the most corrupt
and least visible version of the political (Kraniauskas, “Revolución-Porno” 47).
By comparing revolution and pornography, Kraniauskas emphasizes the
grotesque as a symbolic mediation that consists of the immodest and shameless
exposé of the repressed which, in determinate circumstances, acquires a political
status and forms a “perverse theater” of passions that construct, destroy, and
deconstruct the social. This is the setting for the dramatization of the excess of
“political affect” and ideology that are represented as a surplus of sexuality, a
metaphor of “a state structured by fetishism” where the social functions as a
commodity and subjects are “out of place,” decentered, unhinged, monstered,
outside themselves.
In a study that articulates both literary and filmic analysis of Manuel Puig’s
novel El beso de la mujer araña and its 1985 adaptation for the screen by Héctor
Babenco (a film which won an Academy Award that year), Dolores Tierney
discusses the progressive value of horror in contexts in which it can reveal
elements of resistance or some other aspect of repressive or marginalizing social
experiences (such as political authoritarianism, patriarchy, sexual or racial
discrimination, classism, or xenophobia), although often in a coded, enigmatic,
or self-censoring way.58 Terror thus functions as a pretext for discussing topics
that have been prohibited or relegated to the margins of public debate; therefore
it generates critical knowledge and reflexive thought. Tierney analyzes the
emotional element of terror in both the literary and cinematic versions as a
mediation between the domains of political ideology and sexual politics (more
specifically, the Left and homosexuality), which are broad conceptual fields
introduced by the characters through their own personal peculiarities in a
confrontation within a prison cell during the dictatorship in Argentina. The
characters come to know one another through retelling the storylines of movies,
some real (Cat People (1942), I Walked with a Zombie (1943), and White Zombie
(1932), with these last two combined in a fictitious film called La vuelta de la
mujer zombi) and others invented by the characters. What interests Tierney is the
use of terror as a destabilizing element of social experience, which establishes its
control through supposed certainties and regulations that make the world
predictable and “safe.” According to Tierney, “Puig, al manipular textualmente
el cine clásico de terror y su concepto clave del ‘miedo a lo desconocido’,
intenta cuestionar el estilo clásico de Hollywood como uno de los ‘modos de
conocimiento’ hegemónico/homofóbico del siglo veinte, a la vez que ofrece a
cambio una ‘realidad del placer’ como utopía” (“El terror” 357). The movies that
symbolically circulate between Valentín (Raúl Julia) and Molina (William Hurt)
create a Gothic environment accentuated by the location of the exchange (a
prison cell). However, what concerns us here is how, through the exchange of
stories, the characters become immersed in the transmission of knowledge and
life experiences that terror helps to intensify with its charge of emotional excess
and its defamiliarization of the everyday. In this way, the prison cell becomes a
place of freedom and creation that includes the reshaping of the conventions of
terror through a re-narration that results in strategic innovations of the genre.
The knowledge/ignorance dichotomy, which is a device that makes the workings
of terror more dynamic, is employed in the novel in footnotes that deal with the
topic of homosexuality. This metanarrative device also sheds light on the silence
of the characters as well as on their revelations both to each other and to the
authorities that have incarcerated them. What is at stake in the gap between
knowledge and non-knowledge is true freedom. Terror constitutes a symbolic
mediation that intervenes and guides the repressed as it emerges within
consciousness as well as within the story and its strategic and meaningful
suppressions.
The processes of codification provided by elements of the Gothic in the case
of Mexico were particularly expressed in settings and themes about identity that
in a more or less diffuse way refer to the mystery of the real, which cannot be
represented by realist mimesis and therefore must rely on other expanding and
resignifying registers of social experience. Carlos Fuentes (1928-2012)
incorporated Gothic elements into his fiction in works such as Aura (1962), Una
famila lejana (1980), “El Chac Mool,” “Tlactocatzine, del jardín de Flandes”
(published in the collection Los días enmascarados, 1954), and the six stories
that make up Inquieta compañía (2004) (“El amante del teatro,” “La gata de mi
madre,” “La Buena compañía,” “Calixta Brand,” “La bella durmiente,” and
“Vlad”), to mention only the most salient examples. Gothic themes proliferate
throughout these narratives, including vampires. Fuentes is perhaps too faithful
to the classic models of the genre, which makes his plots somewhat predictable,
although they do seem to hold their own within the context in which they were
composed. Vampires, angels, demons, pagan idols that come to life, specters,
and scenes of duplicity, delirium, and dreams and nightmares all create a
ghoulish gallery in which more than one contribution to the universal genre of
the monstrous offers thematic variations that traverse supernatural, paranormal,
and fantastic realms.
Una familia lejana integrates the phantasmagoric into the theme of identity
—both on the level of the individual as well as that of the family and the nation:
“todos somos padres de los padres e hijos de los hijos” (Fuentes 138). In this
way, the novel explores the passing of generations, their branching off, and their
secret and distant connections—as if they were rivers with infinite, impossible-
to-trace tributaries that flowed toward unknown deltas. The supernatural element
of this story consists primarily in the effect of unreality caused by the
recognition of dreams as a source of reality, as a reliable form of cognitive
approximation. From this perspective, modernity is no longer a result of the
process of secularization and disillusionment with the world but rather a
repressive structure of knowledges that rejects other forms of knowledge of the
real, which are thus reclaimed and defended by literature.
This modality of Mexican fiction, which makes use of Gothic elements in
plots, settings, or the composition of characters, often incorporates reference to
the pre-Hispanic period, thereby creating historico-cultural bridges that rework
the past and take into account the innumerable vestiges that form part of
contemporary society and whose evocation and fictionalization make it possible
to reflect on still unresolved matters within the collective imaginary. The
supernatural is situated—as in Fuentes’s Aura and “El Chac Mool” (the Mayan
god of rain) or Julio Cortázar’s “La noche boca arriba”—in the intermediate
zone between reality and dreams, between past and present, or put another way:
between the historical time mythologized by national narratives and the present
day. Organized around binary conceptual systems (outside/inside, above/below,
darkness/light, sublime/grotesque, history/fiction, reason/madness) that are
sometimes embodied in symmetrical characters (General Llorente/Felipe
Montero, Consuelo/Aura), this literature elaborates the mournful, the sinister,
and the supernatural through the transgression and erasure of the limits that give
meaning to these antinomies, placing its interests instead in the intermediate,
ambiguous, and troubling zone where these domains come into contact with and
contaminate one another.
The individual body, the environment, and history all converge in images
that allegorize the monstrous, anomalous, and supernatural within national
history. This articulation can be seen, for example, in the image of Aura: “El
detritus del cuerpo y del lugar también se extiende a los manuscritos de la
historia del General Llorente” (Fuentes, Aura 30), a continuity that affirms the
ideological value of the Gothic in its ability to infiltrate occult realms that are not
always immediately visible. In these instances, monstrosity does not consist so
much in the creation of an exceptionally strong, terrifying, or demonic entity
(such as in classic monster literature), nor of an individual who, like
Frankenstein’s monster or Count Dracula, articulates in himself a modern anti-
epic with political and transcendent connotations. Rather, these postcolonial
approaches to the Gothic exhaust themselves in the analysis of the
decomposition of identity, metamorphosis, dualities, physical transformations,
and spectralizations that dissolve the subject’s materiality without totally
annihilating it. It is as if, following Rulfo’s narrative, they were retransmitting
the idea of a reality inhabited by ghosts, especially those that represent the
colonized and marginalized segments of society that have been betrayed by the
nationalist policies that ensued from the Mexican Revolution. It is a matter of
minor monsters (or processes of monstering) that have resulted from the
corruption of myth or history, or from ghostly forms (as in the case of Aura) in
which the same narrative perspective in the second person (perhaps one of the
story’s most attractive literary devices) causes doubt about the limits between
what has been lived and what is being told.59
Combining a realistic narrative “tone” with magical elements layered
between fantasy, melodrama, and psychological narrative, these stories alter the
pact of reading by constructing themselves within uncertain aesthetico-
ideological domains that are not properly Gothic (although they incorporate
many of its resources) and that formulate an option for defamiliarization (for the
uncanny) and for the abandonment of mimetic aesthetics.
Náter has referred to the theme of ruins and their connections to both the
concept of the sinister or ominous (the uncanny) and the field of the Gothic,
indicating that the hellish space of cities or depressing, corrupt, and desolate
places express a reaction to industrialism and its faith in progress, symbolized in
the city’s energy and its value of productivity.
The real world diegetic reference is the latent threat to society posed by
rebellious non-whites inside the country (former slaves and recent
immigrants) as well as outside the country (global uprisings at the
colonial periphery) and the newly emerged movement of progressive
women demanding their share in self-determination and autonomy.
(143)
Out of the intersecting themes of class and race comes a reading that reveals
within the figure of King Kong a set of racist conceptualizations of black people
as simians whose dark skin color is the source of their supposed antisocial
behavior and irrational and devilish tendencies. Ann Darrow, the white and
blond protagonist with whom the gorilla falls in love, represents the woman in
search of social liberation who ends up being “contaminated” by Kong’s
forbidden desire and is reabsorbed into the system through marriage. The context
of social struggles, on the level of both gender and race, demonstrates the
prominence of these conflicts in society during the era as well as in the collective
imaginaries, saturated as they are with images of slavery, discrimination, and
lynching. According to Affeldt, white women falsely accusing black men of rape
was a rampant practice in the period when the film was made, and this sharpened
derogatory stereotypes of African Americans and created an extremely
emotionalized perspective. This resulted in a context for the film’s reception and
decoding as a symbolic product that was fraught with social conflict: The
audience heading off to see King Kong was thus manifestly prepared to
understand that this movie was not merely a horror film version of Beauty and
the Beast. They were easily able to relate images of a white woman being
threatened by an ape to the discriminatory discourses of their racial society”
(152).
However, if King Kong can be interpreted from this perspective as an
allegory of the traumas that haunt the culture of the United States, it also has
connotations that link it to the broadest idea of empire and its besieged margins,
which can also be detected in the figure of Count Dracula and other monsters
that emerged from postcolonial cultures. In this sense, Affeldt points out that
Kong connects the heart of the empire and the “heart of darkness,” the center
and the periphery of a transnationalized system of colonialist exploitation.
Descendants of Africans and immigrants from the old colonies, still seen as
bearers of a latent and ancestral savagery, constitute one of the most persistent
threats to capitalist modernity, which can find no form of productive
incorporation or social acceptance of those populations, either through
instrumental reason or social Darwinism:
When the original King Kong was shot, day-to-day politics were
informed by uprisings of anti-colonial movements in the colonies and
internal dislocations in terms of class, race, and gender, caused by, inter
alia, the “Red Scare” after the October Revolution in Russia and the
emancipation movements of both the “New Woman” and the “New
Negro.” (158)
The figure of King Kong has been revived in comic books, musicals,
theatrical works, parodies, video games, and commodities of all types and is
frequently portrayed in battles against superheroes or rivals who share his
teratological characteristics, as in King Kong vs. Godzilla (1962), also directed
by Ishirō Honda.
Notes
1. Also of great importance, in the Middle Ages and along the line of inquiry opened up by Aristotle, is the
work of the Dominican naturalist Albertus Magnus (c. 1200-1280), known as “Doctor Universalis,” the
author of De animalibus, in which he provides classificatory criteria that include monsters.
2. Rosi Braidotti offers the following summary of the causes of biological monstrosity: “Sexual excess,
especially in the woman, is always a factor. Too much or too little semen are quoted as central causes,
as is the mixing of sperm from different sources –for instance, intercourse with animals. Hereditary
factors are not ruled out. Intercourse during menstruation is fatal. The influence of stars and planets
also matters, as does the consumption of forbidden food or of the right food at the wrong time. But the
monster could also be conceived because of bad atmospheric conditions or by divine or diabolic
interventions.” Also, “the devil is extremely resourceful when it comes to satanic penetrations and
conceptions” (“Signs of Wonder” 291).
3. In this regard, see Braham, From Amazons to Zombies 26-29.
4. The French humanist François Rabelais (1494?-1553) was also part of the Renaissance and plays a
significant role in the development of the satirical grotesque.
5. According to Lorraine Daston and Katherine Park, “Ambroise Paré’s vernacular treatise on monsters and
prodigies, first published in 1573, exemplifies the attempt to appeal to a broader audience; uniting two
popular topics, exotica and portents, the volume was copiously illustrated with woodcuts lifted
unapologetically from the works of a host of authors ranging from Conrad Lycosthenes, an influential
compiler of prodigies, to the cosmographer André Thevet” (149).
6. “The Atlas thus constitutes a world where all possible ‘surprises’ have been precodified. Along with a
projection of the monsters and marvels populating terrae incognitae in the Middle Ages, categories
and images generated out of the encounter with the New World constitute a stock of motifs and
conceptual filters prefiguring any possible discovery” (Rabasa 194).
7. Carlos Jáuregui indicates how these forms of monstrosity connected to cannibalism spectrally reappear
as fear or desire, becoming reactivated in diverse contexts and forming the basis for arguments about
the trope of cannibalism in Latin America (54). In a similar sense, the figure and attributes of the
Amazon women provide elements for the codification of certain matrices of the representation and
interpretation of the feminine. The monstrous thus contributes to the definition of identity through
configuring spaces that are exterior to but contiguous with collective subjectivity.
8. We should add to this list the references Alvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca makes in his Naufragios to Mala
Cosa, a character described as a subterranean, bloodthirsty being with a mutant sex organ.
9. In this regard, see Mabel Moraña, “La indecencia de las imágenes” in Inscripciones críticas.
10. On the representation of monsters in and around the New World, see Maria Alejandra Flores de la Flor.
11. On the topic of mermaids and their metaphorical value, see Braham, From Amazons to Zombies,
especially chapter 3.
12. According to Zavala, “These images of the ‘other’ obey categories of natural history, which prop up the
representation of the colonial subject in terms of artificial ‘trans-species’, ‘trans-conceptual’ entities,
linking animals, geographies and verbal constructs” (340). As we can see, hybridity was utilized as an
argument for demonization and social exclusion.
13. La Llorona is a prominent figure in colonial and present-day Mexico. Her origins can be traced to the
pre-Hispanic world. She is represented as a woman who appears on lonely roads at night, dressed in
white, with a veil and long flowing hair, calling out to her children with cries and terrifying shrieks.
Her legend is based on the mother goddesses Cihuacóatl, Coatlicue, or Tonantzín. It is said that before
the arrival of the Spanish she appeared at Lake Texcoco to herald the fall of the Mexicas. For more on
this topic, see Yólot González Torres.
14. Ortega writes: “Not surprisingly, the baroque simultaneously evokes a number of interpellatory
practices we associate with modern subjectivity, and behaviors, ideas, and cultural products we
imagine as deviant or impervious to those modern ideals. Such an agonic mediation presents the
baroque as embodying both the modern and its negation, or better yet, the reticent presence that
thorough self-negation (a double monstrosity) makes the modern possible elsewhere. Hence, its
phantasmatic nature” (189).
15. Ortega also mentions the nun Francisca Josefa del Castillo y Guevara, who defined herself as a monster
when faced with the impossibility of managing sexual desire within the parameters of Christian
doctrine: “Y ser yo un monstruo y aborto de la naturaleza” (189).
16. Peralta y Barnuevo enjoyed great popularity and recognition. Among other accomplishments, he was a
Corresponding Member of the Royal Academy of Sciences of Paris and Madrid. For more on this
author, see Luis Alberto Sánchez, who nicknames him “Dr. Ocean” to highlight the Baroque
intellectual’s erudition and achievements. I thank Marcel Velásquez for his reference to Peralta
Barnuevo's Tratado.
17. As Iwasaki-Cauti notes, Fray Antonio de la Calancha had in the sixteenth century already referred to
another unsettling case indicative of deviation from nature and the development of the monstrous as an
extreme form of humanoid hybridity: “No es menos de advertir que abrá 42 años que sucedió en este
Trugillo aver quemado a una India, porque aviendo parido tres perrillos, sin más semejança umana que
no tener mucho pelo en los rostros, i ser los braços a modo i forma umana. La India confesó su delito
de averse mesclado con un perro, quemáronla” (qtd. in Iwasaki-Cauti 154).
18. For a general vision of the representation of deformity, anomaly, monstrosity, etc. in the Golden Age,
see Del Río Parra, who discusses the topic in multiple cultural scenarios, in relation to sexuality,
gender, everyday spaces, literature, and in the context of politics. On the representation and
conceptualization of the wondrous in the medieval era, see Le Goff.
19. Fernando R. de la Flor remarks apropos El ente dilucidado: “Aunque en el mismo se desarrolle una
hermenéutica no racionalista, es también cierto que se atiene a una actitud racionalizadora y está, por lo
demás, dotada de todos los instrumentos del pensamiento lógico deductivo. Tratado que se presenta,
pues, como una auténtica y vasta legislación sobre el mundo fantasmal, sobre el espectro —aquí en su
versión amable de duende—, que era una antigua recurrencia del pensamiento mitopoético y una
presencia siempre inquietante y desajustada en todas las grandes constelaciones culturales humanas”
(156).
20. The novatores contested the traditions on which European culture is based, arguing that it is reason—
and not belief or custom—that should be appealed to for explanations of reality and for bringing about
necessary change. The novator group rebelled against academicism and intellectual conformism but
kept a distance from revolutionary positions, believing instead in the benefits of gradual and rational
transformations of the status quo. On the so-called scientific revolution in Spain and the intellectual
climate of the era, including the novator movement, see Mestre Sanchis and Navarro Brotóns.
21. María Portuondo underscores the theme of the construction of narratives capable of explaining the
scientific and technological evolution of the Americas from colonial times onward, emphasizing the
hybrid character of these processes. If these American narratives combine elements of European
science with Amerindian beliefs and knowledges, then European culture itself came to be permeated
with hybrid elements. As Portuondo points out, pre-Copernican science combined with elements of
Christianity in many aspects related to knowledge and the representation of the cosmos.
22. Although McNally mentions this point in the context of English culture, his observations on the secular
grotesque are applicable to other Western cultural domains that have undergone similar transitions
from religious thought to reason and a preoccupation with other Western social and political topics
(such as the construction of the state, individual duty, and social conduct).
23. On the Leviathan, see Springborg.
24. On Linnaeus, see Lisbet Koerner.
25. On the origin and etymology of the word “vampire,” also see Mike Wilson.
26. On the topic of the Gothic and the grotesque, see Ewa Kuryluk and Gavin Baddeley. Walpole’s novel,
set in medieval Italy, establishes the narrative and thematic climate of the Gothic through techniques
such as chiaroscuro and binary structures that give primacy to morbid atmospheres with an
exaggerated, dramatic tone and a superabundance of dismal and mysterious settings and characters that
defy the conventions of earlier literary styles.
27. H.P. Lovecraft recognized Walpole’s extraordinary influence, although he nevertheless ultimately
dismissed him as “unconvincing and mediocre,” “tedious, artificial, and melodramatic” (“Supernatural
Horror” 4).
28. J.M. Sánchez Arteaga (among other scholars) has pointed out the influence scientific racism had on
even evolutionists of Darwin’s stature, about whom he writes: “Imbuido, como el resto de los
evolucionistas de su tiempo, de los prejuicios raciales victorianos, y dando por sentada una
incuestionable analogía evolutiva entre el nativo colonial y el hombre primitivo, Darwin llegó al punto
de no ver, en el exterminio real de numerosos pueblos a manos de la ‘raza caucásica’ a la que él mismo
pertenecía, más que el desarrollo implacable de las leyes biológicas del progreso” (387).
29. Rosemarie Garland-Thomson explains the origin of the word “freak”: “As divine design disengages
from the natural world in the human mind, the word freak emerges to express capricious variegation or
sudden, erratic change. Milton’s Lycidas seems to have initiated freak into English in 1637 to mean a
fleck of color. By the seventeenth century freak broadens to mean whimsy or fancy. Not until 1847
does the word become synonymous with human corporeal anomaly” (“Introduction” 4).
30. In this sense, as Garland-Thomson points out, “The freak show made more than freaks: it fashioned as
well the self-governed, iterable subject of democracy –the American cultural self” (“Introduction” 10).
31. On the topic of freaks, see also Leslie Fiedler.
32. According to some critics, Polidori’s work was plagiarized from an idea originally expressed by Byron.
33. For more information on Polidori’s “The Vampire,” see Gelder, Reading the Vampire 30-32.
34. Copjec discusses the theme of Frankenstein’s failure from a Lacanian perspective. She writes, for
example, that “Frankenstein’s invention did not go awry, as the standard reading claims, it failed. It is
only insofar as it failed, only inasmuch as Frankenstein’s scientific efforts fell short of their goal that
the monster appears, the embodiment of this failure” (57).
35. In this same sense, Chris Baldick has argued that the novel’s “monstrous” quality, as well as the
monster within it, is produced as an accumulation of textual fragments that reveal disparate
connections and resist homogenization and unification. Baldick inscribes this fact in the context of the
diagnostics of the time about the disorganization and fragmentation of European society.
36. On the demonic aspects of Frankenstein, as well as the influence of Goethe on the novel and its moral
connotations, see chapter 3 of Baldick.
37. See Baldick.
38. In this sense, the film The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), directed by James Whale and starring Boris
Karloff, focuses on the theme of complementing the masculine figure.
39. According to McNally, Byron, as well as members of Mary Shelley’s family, sympathized with the
Luddite movement, which they saw as representative of the victims of the excesses and manipulations
of the dominant classes.
40. Rickels has even proposed that Shelley’s text is prophetic insofar as it announces (among other things)
the death of her son. See Rickels 279-82, where he develops a complex interpretation of Frankenstein
in relation to the theme of the double and the concepts of mourning and melancholia.
41. According to Foucault, the technologies of the self are those processes “which permit individuals to
effect by their own means or with the help of others a certain number of operations on their own bodies
and souls, thoughts, conduct, and way of being, so as to transform themselves in order to attain a
certain state of happiness, purity, wisdom, perfection, or immortality” (Technologies of the Self 18).
42. The figure of Frankenstein’s monster is sometimes associated with the golem, a monster originating in
medieval folklore and Jewish mythology. Representing a being that is made from inanimate material
(mud, stone, or clay), the golem possesses a primitive vitality in a physical but not intellectual sense.
According to the legend, it cannot speak, and it behaves like an automaton. In certain versions of the
story, although it is amorphous, the golem can be brought to life if the name of God is spoken in its
presence. The name “golem” comes from the word guélem, which appears in the Bible and in Talmudic
literature and means “raw matter,” incomplete substance, in a state of gestation. Michael Hardt and
Antonio Negri revive the figure of the golem in their Multitude in connection with the theme of war
(10-12).
43. See Stephen Heath for more on this.
44. Stevenson’s work contributes to the theme of the double, which recurs throughout fantasy literature and
which takes on specific modulations with regard to monstrosity in the horror genre. As has been noted
with other characters who represent duplicity, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde illustrate the division of the two
personalities rather than their coexistence. Other examples include the character of Norman (Nor-Man)
Bates in Psycho, who is both man and woman, mother and son, victim and perpetrator, thus becoming
a “powerful icon of impurity.” In addition, in another register informed by the theme of technology,
David Cronenberg’s film The Fly involves impurity at the limits of the grotesque, portraying the
coexistence (although not at the same time) of two natures in a single organism, making the unfolding
of fusion and difference the central element of the staging of identity (Carroll, The Philosophy of
Horror 39).
45. See Ed Cohen, 195-96.
46. The influence that Le Fanu had on Stoker is widely known and is especially evident in the style of
“Dracula’s Guest,” a text published as a companion story in 1914. As Stoker’s widow Florence
explained in the prologue to the posthumous volume that included this text, it is believed that
“Dracula’s Guest” had originally been part of the first chapter of Dracula. There have been many
connections drawn between Stoker’s story and Le Fanu’s work, both from a thematic and a stylistic
point of view.
47. See Oates, “Reflections.” On vampirism and cannibalism, see Jáuregui.
48. On these readings of Dracula, see John Stevenson, Stephen Arata, and Ken Gelder, Reading the
Vampire.
49. On the representation of Transylvania and the travel diary in Dracula, see Gelder, Reading the Vampire
2-6. On the importance of writing and technology in Dracula, see Judith Halberstam, “Technologies of
Monstrosity.”
50. On this aspect of “media materialism” represented in Kittler’s critique, see Nicholas Gane.
51. For more on this kind of interpretation of Dracula, see Moretti and Terry Heller.
52. On Dracula’s name, see Beal, who confirms that it connotes “dragon” or “devil” and suggests that the
name also bears biblical allusions (125).
53. According to Beal, “Stoker’s novel is, moreover, deeply embedded in the larger discourses of late
colonialism and primitivism, and his monster is in many respects a projection of modern western
representations of unfamiliar religious traditions” (126). He also suggests that the figure of Dracula can
be identified with Judaism: “Dracula may be read as a novel about the not so culturally repressed
horrors of Jewish immigration into England during the 1890s especially from Eastern Europe” (127),
thus reinforcing the notion of otherness and the implicit threat that always exists in the monster. On
Judaism in Dracula, see Halberstam, “Technologies of Monstrosity.”
54. On the vampire (specifically Dracula) as monopolist, see Moretti 74.
55. Nosferatu itself has been readapted several times, including, for example, Nosferatu the Vampyre
(1979), directed by Werner Herzog and starring Klaus Kinski in the role of Count Orlok and Isabelle
Adjani as Lucy Harker. Other versions followed this one, such as Shadow of the Vampire (2000) and
Murnau the Vampire (2006).
56. Early Argentine films promoted the civilization/barbarism antinomy, offering representations of
savagery within the (at that time) untested genre of cinematic horror. In this regard, Fernando Pagnoni
Berns argues that “lo primero que debería llamar la atención aún al más circunstancial de los
espectadores es que el cine argentino clásico de terror no presenta horrores sobrenaturales. No hay
fantasmas, ni vampiros, no hay licántropos ni actos de brujería. El monstruo por excelencia en el cine
terrorífico argentino durante la Época de Oro fue el salvaje homicida” (433). This same author
identifies the film El hombre bestia (1934) by Camilo Zaccaría Soprani as the first horror film
produced in Argentina.
57. The influence of the Antropofagia movement has been noted by Jáuregui, who writes: “Antropofagia—
en un espíritu avant-gardiste de escándalo, carnavalización y ruptura—revierte los tropos y la
representación ideo-cartográfica del Brazil y resignifica la tropología colonial, declara una ruptura con
la tradición literaria indianista, cancela el debate vanguardista sobre la brasilidade versus las
influencias estéticas europeas y hace del canibalismo un tropo modélico de apropiación cultural”
(Canibalia 38). Jáuregui exhaustively analyzes cannibalism as a trope which, through the connotations
of the consumption of the Other, explores the processes of cultural assimilation, foreign influence,
transculturation, hybridity, and so on. It is interesting that the notion of identity is defined precisely
through this quality that generally constitutes an attribute of monstrosity: an anomalous, transgressive,
appropriative behavior connected to survival and bodily penetration. Jáuregui studies multiple
manifestations of this concept and its many aesthetico-ideological derivations. One of the more
interesting offshoots of the concept is that which connects different senses of the term consumption,
thus linking cannibalism and commodity fetishism, cannibalism and technology, cannibalism and
modernity, and so on. Another twist that results from these reworkings of the trope has to do with the
relationship between cannibalism and the character of Caliban (from whom Calibanism is derived), a
monstrous figure, especially when considered alongside the ethereal image of Ariel, who embodies
spiritual values as they are expressed in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. These characters have become
icons of the struggle of identity in Latin America, and they have dissolved into the forces of the
vernacular and primitive on the one hand and the Europeanized values of modernity on the other. This
symbolic economy has given way to multiple debates and reconsiderations of the ideological
connotations that these iconic figures acquire in different sociocultural contexts.
58. On El beso de la mujer araña, see Giorgi, Formas comunes, chapter 6.
59. In this regard, Carmen Vázquez Arce has noted that “El tú, es la forma del conjuro, la forma en que
Fausto evoca a Mefistófeles” (qtd. in Náter 43), which is an interesting comment that opens up
possibilities for reinterpreting the importance of the discourse of reason and its relation to myth as
organizing forces of natural history in Fuentes’s novel.
60. See Hardt and Negri, Multitude, 12-18.
Chapter 3
In the form of capital, the commodity (that is, labor) is kept alive, but always
at the expense of the vital energy of the worker whose blood is consumed by the
monster of capitalism. In this sense, one might think that the act of sucking
blood carried out by the vampire crudely (although also allegorically) represents
the circulatory system of capital. In turn, the transfer of blood from one organism
to another represents the search for an alternative to capitalist modernity. These
possibilities led Marx to portray the process of the transformation of labor into
capital as a form of transubstantiation, supporting the idea of capital as modern
religion:
Marx describes the process that converts money, labor, and commodities into
capital as a process of expropriation and dissociation that cuts off and alienates
the worker:
The violent process that separates the worker from the means of production
and alienates his relation to the product of his labor, the exploitation of his vital
energy for the benefit of the reproduction of capital is monstrous insofar as it
definitively alters the human being’s relationship to the environment and
himself, and this is inscribed in the annals of history, as Marx indicates, “in
letters of blood and fire” (Capital 1:875).
The violence of primitive accumulation thus functions as an act of mutilation
(“primitive mutilation”) that fragments the social body in a monstrous
dismemberment of Gothic dimensions that provides the ground for the system’s
normal functioning (Policante 12-13).6 As we see, Marx responds to the
dominant, “idyllic” version of the origins of capital with an analysis that is based
on vivid imagery of the bodily torture of exploitation and the system’s irrational
voracity, creating a politically and philosophically charged aesthetico-ideological
antithesis between idealism and monstrosity.
For example, in Chapter 25 of Capital volume 1, “The General Law of
Capitalist Accumulation,” Marx points out the resulting fragmentation of the
individual and the transformation of work into torture. He describes a process of
deformation that begins in a dialectical inversion through which the means that
ought to drive productive development end up as mechanisms of exploitation
and degradation:
within the capitalist system all methods for raising the social
productivity of labour are put into effect at the cost of the individual
worker; that all means for the development of production undergo a
dialectical inversion so that they become means of domination and
exploitation of the producers; they distort the worker into a fragment of
a man, they degrade him to the level of an appendage of a machine,
they destroy the actual content of his labour by turning it into a
torment; they alienate [entfremden] from him the intellectual
potentialities of the labour process in the same proportion as science is
incorporated in it as an independent power; they deform the conditions
under which he works, subject him during the labour process to a
despotism the more hateful for its meanness; they transform his life-
time into working-time, and drag his wife and child beneath the wheels
of the juggernaut of capital. (Marx, Capital 1:798-99)
Along these same lines, Nigel Thrift (who coined the term “soft capitalism)
argues in Non-Representational Theory that affective motives run throughout the
universe of the commodity, which cannot be reduced to a complex series of wins
and losses or to the game of interests that unfold in the generation of value.
Affective, aesthetic, and communicational elements create what Thrift calls
“magical technologies of public intimacy,” which make it possible to understand
the seduction of the commodity and the competitive interactions that it goes
through on the open space of the market (“Understanding the Material” 290).
The virtual and the real, the magic and the rational, the material and the spectral,
are all articulated around the object that captures the world of passion and makes
it public and which usually belongs to the sphere of the private, the intimate, and
the occult. For his part, Brian Massumi also recognizes the transversality and
ubiquity of affect, which makes possible a new understanding of power and
ideology.
From another perspective, Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari understand
affect as a counterattack, as a projectile or tool that functions through the
dispersal of energy and the intensification of experience (A Thousand Plateaus
400). Thrift asks up to what point affect is a political form in itself and how it
functions as a catalyst of transindividual dynamics. Obviously connected to the
theme of otherness as well as to the interactions between subjectivity and the
commodity, affect, as its use in Marx’s writings suggests, liberates and amplifies
the representational field. Supported by a broad repertoire of metaphors, affect
articulates ethical, aesthetic, political, and cultural aspects that channel the idea
of excess (as we see in Marxist discourse with the notion of surplus value, etc.),
which is essential for understanding economic force in capitalism and for
incorporating the question of desire as a mediation between labor and object,
production and consumption. The appeal to monstrous images and/or sentiments
(capital transforms into a monster and starts to act “as if consumed by love,” as
Marx notes) signals a limit, an “impersonal intensity” (Anderson 161) in the
configuration of the capital to come of labor: it points to a process of
incompleteness and instability, the field of biopower around which the relations
between subject and object, production and consumption orbit.
Vampires
In his classic study The History of Vampires (1924), Dudley Wright argues that
the word vampire comes from the Serbian term wampira (wam = blood, pir =
monster), meaning a dead person who comes back to life through consuming
blood and, according to central European legends, occasionally human flesh
(qtd. in Quirarte 21). The application of concepts and images related to
vampirism have established a broad metaphorical field around this figure and its
hemophagic practices which, in some cases, include other bodily substances
(flesh, organs, fat), thus linking vampirism to cannibalism.9 There are multiple
meanings and “uses” of the vampire, and the processes of resignification that
take place on different cultural levels diverge in many ways depending on the
totality of the discourse making use of the trope of vampirism. Generally
speaking, the symbolism of the vampire, which is always connected to the theme
of identity, reestablishes the relations between religion and superstition as well
as anxieties about the otherness (both internal and external) that inhabits the
depths of individual and collective subjectivity. As a sublimation of the erotic in
the morbid sensuality of the consumption of blood, vampirism aestheticizes the
ethical aspects of exploitation, dramatizes the ideological and the extreme by
subsuming them in a stereotypical (Manichean, functional, repetitive) synthesis
that articulates the notions of predestination, mutation, fatalism, and irrationality.
References to vampires, frequently found in Marx’s writing, help to
strengthen the idea of a historical continuity that goes up to the present day and
overflows with symbolic legacies, residual political and economic practices, and
references to past cultural stages that inhabit the present like the living dead.
Given its deep historical and cultural roots, the figure of the vampire continues
to bear premodern, irrational, and supernatural connotations that survive into
modernity and complicate the latter’s futurist ethos, which is oriented toward
scientific thought and the comprehension of the logics that govern society.
Running against the grain of this dominant tendency of modernity, the
generalized nineteenth-century belief in vampires channeled feelings of
skepticism about the ideology of progress and fears about the resurgence of evil
in a world that had been cut off from the salvific vision of religious faith as a
safeguard against the dangers of perversion and irrationality. According to
Gelder,
The capital-vampire, hence, with the same kiss, both feeds itself on the
blood of the workers and reduces it to an appendage of its necrotic
metabolism […] It converts the worker into a crippled monstrosity by
furthering his particular skill as in a forcing-house, through the
suppression of a whole world of productive drives and inclinations.
(14)
The vampyre: the one who pollutes lineages on the wedding night; the
one who effects category transformations by illegitimate passages of
substance; the one who drinks and infuses blood in a paradigmatic act
of infecting whatever poses as pure; (…) the one who is undead,
unnatural, and perversely incorruptible (…) For better or for worse,
vampyres are vectors of category transformation in a racialized,
historical, national unconscious. (Modest Witness 216)
Cyborgs
In using the monstrous as a representation of the power to exploit resources and
human labor at the expense of workers’ vital energy, literary criticism has shown
an interest in the hybridity invoked by Marx’s rhetorical articulation of archaic
elements (recodified for the nineteenth-century Gothic in figures like the
vampire) with the products of technology, such as these latter appeared in the
context of industrialism. According the definition provided by Lars Bang Larsen,
the relation between negative affect, power, and dramatization constitutes one of
the defining features of the Gothic, the genre that produced the monstrous
figures used in the nineteenth century as metaphors for society: “The Gothic,
understood as the revival of medieval styles in the seventeenth century and
since, is the theatrical representation of negative affect that emanates from a
drama staged around power; a pessimistic dialectic of enlightenment that shows
how rationality flips into barbarism and human bondage” (2).
This fusion of the archaic and the modern clearly shows the perspectives that
coexisted, although not without tension, at a time when the dynamics of progress
had not yet invalidated what remained of premodernity and the most advanced
methods of production were still unable to displace those of the past. Marx
exposes the irrational and demonic logics of modern capitalism through
strategies of visualization that recall Bakhtin’s grotesque realism in order to
create a shocking effect that defamiliarizes traditional forms of understanding
social relations and the logics under which they operate.
The recurrence of the topic of vampirism, for example, as well as
prefigurations of what today is called the cyborg, illustrate the processes of
industrial automation and serialization that would have a profound impact on
methods of production and on collective modern subjectivity. Marx frequently
refers to the transformations of the era caused by the experience of the machinic
assemblage as well as the reduction of working-class consciousness that resulted
from new forms of production. In addition, the combination of organic elements
and qualities of technological apparatuses gives rise to new realities in the field
of production—both of commodities and of collective subjectivities. Marx
understood mechanization as the key element that would play a central role in
manufacturing and relegate the worker to the role of an appendage subordinated
to technology in the process of the production of dead labor.
In the Grundrisse, Marx comments on the alienating relationship between
the worker and the machine and on the impact of the “alien power” that the latter
exercises over the individual, who is gradually transformed into a robot:
Marx insists on the idea of estrangement and alienation, and the emergence
of the automaton as a new entity that combines the machinic and presents itself
as a subjectivity altered by the processes of industrialization. The idea of the
machine’s “inanimate limbs” (zombies), the control of consciousness by an
“alien power,” the degree of abstraction of the machine’s repetitive and
mechanical movement, and the obsessive orientation toward a pre- and
overdetermined finality, all encircle the process of industrial production with a
mysterious and unsettling aura. Production is presented as a process controlled
by forces beyond the human, and at the same time it is reduced to residual forms
of (self) consciousness. Modernity, as the context of these transformations, is
represented as a dark and dehumanizing place, particularly with regard to the
capitalist mode of production.
In his study of the topic of machines in Marx, Gerald Raunig connects
reflections on technē to Guattari’s concept of the machinic, which moves the
term away from its everyday sense to refer instead to forms of socialization and
subjectivation (assemblages or systems of relating and refunctioning) that
comprise different aspects of the social.15 Referring to the “Fragment on
Machines” from the Grundrisse, Raunig writes that
A body overflowing with organs, the automaton surpasses the human in its
appearance, functions, and objectives. The monstrosity of the machine allows us
to visualize the inversion that is produced with regard to traditional
manufacturing, where human contact with the material and the process of its
transformation are considered in terms of human energy:
However, Marx maintains that the monster of capitalism is capital itself, and
that the machine ultimately has the potential to liberate, to facilitate
transformative labor under a policy of the humanization of labor and the fair
distribution of resources. In Symbolic Exchange and Death (1976), Jean
Baudrillard insists that this position naively misrecognizes the danger that the
machine itself represents as a replacement for living labor:
Zombies
Along with references to vampires and machine-like elements, a third aspect of
the monstrous that appears in Marx’s work is that of the zombie as an image of
the living-dead whose spectral presence haunts the imaginaries of modernity.
The recurring motifs of blood and fear also punctuate Marx’s texts. As a
disguised expression of alienation, the zombie is anomalous and transitional,
stereotypical and unclassifiable:
Above all, the State apparatus makes the mutilation, and even death,
come first. It needs them pre-accomplished, for people to be born that
way, crippled and zombielike. The myth of the zombie, of the living
dead, is a work myth and not a war myth. Mutilation is a consequence
of war, but it is a necessary condition, a presupposition of the State
apparatus and the organization of work. […] The State apparatus
needs, at its summit as at its base, pre-disabled people, preexisting
amputees, the still-born, the congenitally infirm, the one-eyed and one-
armed. (Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus 425, my
emphasis)
The relations between the figure of the zombie, labor, and capital, developed
in Marx’s writings in various works and continued by neo-Marxist criticism, are
complicated in the real world by variables like the situation of undocumented
migrant workers and/or that of workers who are alienated by the regimes of
flexible production (constant deterritorialization of factories, businesses, and
industrial complexes, the fluctuation of hiring demands, the inability to advocate
for workers’ rights or unionize, and the growth of the private sector). Under
these conditions, workers are transformed into “pariahs of the proletariat,”
whose productive capacity has been alienated from the social order and must go
without the shelter and protection of the law. The weakening and dislocation of
national bases of production and their replacement by transnational networks, as
well as the primacy of financial capital (which seems to follow a rhythm of
circulation and growth foreign to the dynamics of production) all structurally
separate labor and the state. Like zombies, the hordes of seasonal laborers haunt
indeterminate spaces, from the most developed to the most economically
depressed, across borders, languages, and regulations, in search of work and
living conditions that barely reach the minimum for survival. Scott Lasch and
John Urry have spoken of the “end of organized capitalism” and the emergence
of an international service class. For these authors, the structure of the capitalist
system of production that dominated modernity is being substituted by
“disorganized capitalism,” which is accompanied by substantial modifications in
social forms of the perception of space and the comprehension of the relations
between culture and production. The disorganization of industrial relations that
had prepared the fragmentation of the collective identity of the working class
indicates different stages in the development of labor: “first to the decentralized
shopfloor radicalism of the late 1960s and early 1970s, and then the shift from
national bargaining to enterprise-level bargaining in recent years that has
accompanied the demise of neo-corporatism” (285).
As Comaroff and Comaroff note, the worker is a disposable value in the
globalized division of labor in which the autonomy of the financial order and its
speculative regime are ever more separated from the concepts of manufacturing,
exchange, and the workforce. This scenario is adapted to the idea of
zombification as the loss of consciousness (of self-consciousness and class
consciousness), automation of behavior in different sectors, anonymity, lack of
leadership, submission, and the lowering of expectations.
The relation between the characteristics of developed capitalism and Marx’s
notion of dead labor, zombification, vampirism, and the demonic nature of
capital, far from being diluted or lost, survives in the economic transformations
connected to globalization, which have sharpened in the twenty-first century.
More than ever, “economic occultism” has taken up a place in collective
imaginaries where the diminished status of “grand narratives” have not been
substituted by totalizing discourses or utopic visions that would make it possible
to comprehend these transformations and give them historical, political, and
social meaning. The proliferation of informal economies, organized crime,
infrapolitical modalities, terrorist activities, and apocalyptic discourses of all
different political and ideological affiliations causes generalized anxiety about
the processes of dehumanization and the threat to the environment and to the
vast segments of society abandoned to subhuman means of survival.19
In Individualization: Institutionalized Individualism and Its Social and
Political Consequences (2002), Ulrich Beck and Elisabeth Beck-Gernsheim
refer to the “zombie categories” that haunt the social space today in a state of
death-in-life since, even though the social conditions have substantially changed,
already-established concepts in social sciences and the humanities continue to
designate forms of collective experience that have not even been given
alternative names in contemporary life. One case is that of the family, another is
social class or neighborhood, notions that continue to play a role in the discourse
of social sciences, although they do not represent the fluidity of contemporary
societies or the social situations that derive from them (changes in the forms of
nuclear cohabitation, forms of motherhood/fatherhood affected by scientific,
technological, and social changes connected to the politics of gender, modalities
of community functioning, etc.). Beck and Beck-Gernsheim note that these
categories, connected to nationalist ideas, lose validity (although not discursive
presence) in a globalized world: “Normal science categories are becoming
zombie categories, empty terms in the Kantian meaning. Zombie categories are
the living dead which blind the social sciences to the rapidly changing realities
inside the nation-state containers and outside as well” (qtd. in Dutton 183).20
Another use of the zombie connected to post-Marxist criticism refers to
“zombie economics,” alluding to forms of production that even after losing
validity reappear again and again, negating the space of the present and the
future. In his book Zombie Economics: How Dead Ideas Still Walk Among Us,
Australian economist John Quiggin argues that these zombie-ideas continue to
return, even though they are killed (2), creating deadlocks and setbacks in the
processes of the conceptualization of economic development and the
implementation of changes. Referring to the 2008 financial crisis, but also more
broadly to a global macroeconomic vision, Quiggin points out that the
ideological force of economic theories that made sense in the past but are no
longer valid help explain the inefficiency of confronting structural inequality:
“The ideas that caused the crisis and were, at least briefly, laid to rest by it, are
already reviving and clawing their way through the soft earth. If we do not kill
these zombie ideas once and for all, they will do even more damage next time”
(4).
The zombie-ideas connected to liberalism and the market Quiggins analyzes
here include both notions like privatization and austerity and concepts that deal
with specific strategies, like “trickle-down economics,” the “Great Recession,”
or the “hypothesis of efficient markets.”21 For Quiggin, “unlike other monsters
like werewolves and vampires, zombies always come in mobs. Individually, they
seem easy enough to kill, but in a group their strength can be overwhelming. So
it is with the ideas underlying market liberalism” (32).
Without denying the controversial character of the arguments Quiggin
deploys in this book, which combines economic analysis and polemical ideas
about state regulation and the insufficiency of Keynesianism in contemporary
contexts, it is of more interest for our purposes to discuss his use of the concept
of zombification as an appeal to a well-established metaphor of Marxist criticism
and political economy. As an ideological trope, far from having exhausted its
symbolic potential, the zombie has expanded its radius of applicability and its
signifiers toward new domains of cultural and political theory that cross into and
surpass the economic. It is also used in relation to the topics of migration,
marginal subjectivities, consumerism, political indoctrination, and so on. As
Comaroff and Comaroff argue, the trope of the zombie is characterized by its
semiotic saturation (“Alien-Nation” 788), which is supported by a powerful
visual message that concentrates not only the monstrous corporeality of this
border figure but also its radically indefinite nature and “mobility without
movement.” Analyzing the case of postcolonial South Africa, these
anthropologists also point out the relation between the “occult economies” that
exist in this region and “millenarian capitalism,” which combines “modernity
and postmodernity, hope and hopelessness, utility and futility, promises and
perversions (“Occult Economies” 283).22
A further step in the use of the trope of the living dead was undertaken by the
political scientist Daniel Drezner in the field of political economy and
international relations. As a way to allegorically set up the debate around the
various possible approaches to a supposed international crisis, in Theories of
International Politics and Zombies (2014), Drezner imagines the limit situation
of a global zombie epidemic that would oblige different governments to respond
to and neutralize this unprecedented threat to public safety. With both didactic
intentions and sufficient academic rigor, he uses this fictitious scenario to review
a series of ideological positions (conservative, realist, idealist, constructivist,
etc.) that offer in each of their analytical and methodological categories
alternative responses to the situation created by this imagined biopolitical
transgression. Drezner defines the zombie as “a biologically definable, animated
being occupying a human host, with a desire to eat human flesh” (21), a
condition that is used to illustrate an unanticipated form of collective danger for
which no preventative measures exist. The book draws on elements from the
development of the zombie theme in popular culture (for example, the films of
George Romero and Max Brooks’s apocalyptic horror novels like The Zombie
Survival Guide (2003) and particularly World War Z: An Oral History of the
Zombie War (2006), to Michael Jackson’s choreography and “romantic zombie
comedies” (a.k.a “rom-zom-coms”) and articulates this spectrum with different
theoretical approaches, thus discursively creating a kind of laboratory for
experimental political strategy. Bringing together these elements, Drezner
analyzes the way in which international institutions like the United Nations, non-
governmental organizations (NGOs), and particular governments might act in
the face of such a devastating and exceptional crisis, one that would test the
ability of each position to account for the phenomenon and generate ways of
combating its destructive potential. The crisis requires alliances and redefinitions
as well as improvisations based on new forms of interpreting collective action.
The hypothetical situation created around the fascinating figure of the zombie
catalyzes psychological and social reactions, exposes politico-ideological points
of view, national and regional particularisms, diplomatic protocols, and
institutional agendas, opening up a comparative analysis that makes it possible to
pedagogically infiltrate the theme into political philosophy, sociology, and
cultural criticism. In this fictionalized but plausible scenario of global terror, the
figure of the zombie functions once again as a trigger for actions and reactions,
as an apparatus that exposes, radicalizes, and resets the very meaning of life and
the biopolitical forms that can develop to protect it from external and
unforeseeable forces that could attack it as well as from internal ideological,
political, and social antibodies. In addition, the metaphorical device of the
zombie epidemic reveals the lack of preparation by nations and international
institutions for the implementation of effective means of defense. The enemy
thus is not only external but also inhabits the very heart of the system. In many
cases, the local becomes the enemy of the global and vice versa. The truncated
or simply non-existent dialogue between different dimensions of the social is as
catastrophic as the exogenous threat.23
In a similar way, one can observe that the obscene growth of wealth in some
segments of Latin American society and the continued impoverishment of
others, as well as the impossibility of comprehending the mysterious
mechanisms of the globalized market, causes arcane forces to reappear and
constitute a counter-discourse with powerful and diverse manifestations.
Following Max Gluckman’s ideas in “The Magic of Despair” (1957), which
came out of his studies of witchcraft in Africa, Comaroff and Comaroff observe
that rather than a resurgence of tradition, the recourse to arcane and monstrous
elements that emerge as part of daily life indicates the production of new forms
of social consciousness which express “the discontent of modernity” (“Occult
Economies” 284).24 The monstrous figure of the zombie has a special starring
role in these scenarios. Reflecting the changes in regimes of labor, zombies
appear in many cases as part-time workers, individuals who wake up exhausted
every day from having worked all night as zombies under the control of a master
who dominates them through magic. Poverty, crime, magic, and exploitation are
all articulated in this wandering, unconscious, and catastrophic figure who is the
testimony of the unkept promises of modernity.
In the African context, the zombie appears as a paradigm of collective
subjectivity that corresponds to the postcolonial and post-apartheid periods, in
which many segments of society found themselves to be more vulnerable than
they had been before.25 Faced with the collapse of the project of modernity, the
figure of the zombie testifies to the ruin of the system. Following Marx in
Capital, Comaroff and Comaroff note the symbolism of the zombie in these
scenarios:
Closely associated with the notion of nomadism, the figure of the zombie is
used as an illustration of a long series of subject positions that are situated
outside the productive and/or legal systems. Refugees, political prisoners, the
disappeared, tortured, dispossessed, marginalized, displaced, undocumented,
indigent, and exiled populations all exemplify a transnational form of social
fragmentation whose mere existence challenges the stability and legitimacy of
the systems from which they originated. Their monstrosity consists precisely in
the social (de)monstration/monstering of its anomaly as an irreducible quality
with the potential to threaten and destroy state control like a war machine,
exposing its perversions and internal contradictions.26 This “monstrosity”
illustrates the rupture of the bonds between the individual and community, the
relation between immigration and natural resources, the connections between the
local and the global, between the past and the future: “In this respect, the living
dead join a host of other spectral figures—vampires, monsters, creatures of
Gothic ‘supernaturalism’—who have been vectors of an affective engagement
with the visceral implications of the factory, the plantation, the market, the mine”
(Comaroff and Comaroff 796).
However, it has been noted that the zombie’s ambiguity prevents it from
being reduced to its purely negative features or from being assimilated to the
idea of alienation or the abjection of the economic system. The cultural role of
the zombie is disparate and circulates and re-circulates in various directions:
Because the zombie travels so widely, and across so many fields, it has
become a very familiar character, one that participates in narratives of
the body, of life and death, of good and evil; one that gestures to
alterity, racism, species-ism, the inescapable, the immutable. Thus, it
takes us to “the other side”—alienation, death, and what is worse than
death: the state of being undead. (Webb and Byrnand 83)
This new force now enters the scene: at first divided and confused, it is
forged in the destruction of machinery and then used by the
bourgeoisie as shock troops forced to fight its enemy’s enemies (the
absolute monarchies, the landed property holders, the petite
bourgeoisie), until gradually it absorbs the artisans, shopkeepers, and
peasant landowners who once were its adversaries but have now been
turned into proletarians by the bourgeoisie. The upheaval becomes
struggle as workers organize thanks to another power that the
bourgeoisie developed for its own profit: communications. And here
the Manifesto cites the example of the railways, but the authors are also
thinking of new mass media (and let’s not forget that in The Holy
Family Marx and Engels were able to use the television of that age—
namely, the serial novel—as a model of the collective imagination, and
they criticized its ideology by using the very language and situations
the serials had made popular). (“On the Style of the Manifesto” 25)
This passage is notable for its reference to magic as a task that, parallel to the
task of history, nevertheless incorporates the drama of forces in struggle, which
is to say, it finds its place in the staging of a modernity that cannot administrate
the very energies that it has liberated and which explode on the Gothic scene in
the middle of the nineteenth century.28 However, along with the irrationality of
magic, Eco recalls the presence of technology (printing press, railroads) as
machinic elements that constitute the “collective imagination.” Magic and
technology once again share the stage in a world debated in the construction of
unprecedented forms of social consciousness.
Analyzing the legacy of Marx in contemporary culture, Derrida deconstructs
the forms of validation and censure that surround the work of the Prussian
thinker, proposing a new reading of his texts with the aim of analyzing the way
in which they offer commentary on our own time and the possibilities they
provide for opening up paths of thought that would resist the hegemony of
neoliberalism. In Specters of Marx (1994), Derrida elaborates what he calls a
hauntology, a neologism that refers to the dynamic of haunting that the ghost
produces as it harasses and lurks in different spaces without completely
occupying them.29 This obliges us to learn to live with ghosts and to become
accustomed to their form of inhabiting the everyday and the imaginary. The
specter’s condition constitutes an immaterial yet essential part of the real and
maintains it as a presence/absence that dominates the scene without
compromising its particularity. Being open to the existence of ghosts, “to fall
back on its voice,” thus signifies for Derrida recognizing its constant insistence
within Western thought, which obliges us to elaborate an ontology of spectrality
as an alternative to an inflexible and exclusive logocentrism.30
The ghost exists in a conceptual, aesthetic, and ideological in-between-place,
an epistemic interstice that defies all dualist conceptualizations of the real:
life/death, presence/absence, identity/otherness, thereby disqualifying the binary
formulations that reduce reality to a series of oppositions and misrecognize its
constant state of fluidity and hybridization. In fact, the phantasmatic inaugurates
a new temporality and a state of things that exceeds the possibilities of the name
as a fixation of the signifier. Referring to the appearance of the ghost of the dead
king in Hamlet, Derrida recalls the phrase that the play employs to indicate the
apparition’s impact: “The time is out of joint,” an expression that signals the
installation of an other order that radically intervenes in historical time. Derrida
is concerned with re-qualifiying this out-of-jointness, demonstrating, page after
page, the inability of language to contain the sense or the reach of the
supernatural, “‘the time is out of joint’: time is disarticulated, dislocated,
dislodged, time is run down, on the run and run down [traqué et détraqué],
deranged, both out of order and mad. Time is off its hinges, time is off course,
beside itself, disadjusted” (Specters of Marx 18, emphasis in original).
The experience of the ghost is marked by repetition because the specter, as a
monster, lives through the expectation that creates the possibility of its
recurrence. Its power thus resides in eternal return, that is, in the spectral
permanence of its presence. The power of the ghost—and of the monster—
consists in the incessant expectation of its return, even though in reality it has
never left. Derrida explains this as a “question of repetition: a specter is always a
revenant. One cannot control its comings and goings because it begins by
coming back” (Specters of Marx 11, emphasis in original).
According to Derrida, the specter always (re)appears, or, to use a properly
Derridean term, disseminates itself as différance. It is a presence in process,
always deferred, the same and the other in each appearance. It is an event and an
advent, it is an “apparition” that returns and disappears without disappearing.
Like the monster, the specter is one and multiple, a bundle of meaning that
disperses itself and evades any attempt to exorcise it or to “conjure” it. Derrida
uses this latter term because of its connotations with secret plots to confront a
superior power, although he clarifies that the word also indicates convocation, in
the sense of a call. Through the figure of the ghost, Derrida reaffirms the central
importance of Marxism in Western thought: “a spectre is haunting Europe.” Its
present re-apparitions escape the conjurings and exorcisms that have taken it as
their object because its influence is firmly planted in the very heart of Western
thought: “One need not be a Marxist or a communist in order to accept this
obvious fact. We all live in a world, some would say a culture, that still bears, at
an incalculable depth, the mark of this inheritance, whether in a directly visible
fashion or not” (Derrida, Specters of Marx 14).
Hence the attempts to erase Marx in order to allow the infinite unfolding of
neoliberalism have tried to kill History, because Marx and History are intricately
related (the example of Fukuyama’s “fastidious anachronism,” deconstructed by
Derrida, exemplifies these apocalyptic positions). In response, Derrida proposes
a “new international” of thought that, without yielding to the temptation to
replicate the past or to ignore the flaws and mistakes of a doctrine originally
developed in the nineteenth century, nevertheless revises the foundations of its
analysis and the ways it can be applied (particularly with regard to its heuristic
uses) in the present day.
Finally, it is significant that in Specters of Marx Derrida ends up discussing
the theme of technology as a new form of spectrality that establishes the virtual
as an overlooked dimension of knowledge and communication, redefining it
along with the meaning of the real itself. Insofar as the advances of electronics
and cybernetics establish other forms of communication, identity, and even
existence, spectrality incorporates itself into the horizon of expectations in our
time as well as into new experiences of the social. Marxism will undoubtedly
continue to hover over modern consciousness, and its spectral presence will
remind us of the fundamental terms of the most extensive and radical analysis of
capitalist modernity up to the present day. According to Derrida, the ghost is
always to-come, it is a forewarning that, in the case of contemporary society,
addresses not the desire to recreate the past or to renovate the utopian thought of
previous centuries but rather the necessity of elaborating a new historicity that
can only come to pass as a redefinition of the political and as inclusion of the
alternative, the heterogeneous, and the impure.
Notes
1. Marcos Neocleous brings together Robert Paul Wolff’s ideas about Marx’s literary and philosophical
references and his use of “religious, Mephistophelean, and political images” in an ironic way and to
express his bitterness and analytic severity. Neocleous also recalls Marshall Berman’s views on Marx’s
“brilliant images” and the argument by Stanley Hyman that what we might call Marxist poetics
presents “the revolution as drama” or as a “dramatic epic.” The presence of vampirism in Marx’s
“story” thus in a certain sense stereotypes the categories in question, as these categories function as
characters in a staging of the history and society of his era.
2. The most notorious examples of this are those referring to the law applied to peasants who, after being
dispossessed of their lands are then tortured and persecuted for vagabondage until they secure waged
work, as well as those referring to the exploitation of miners in African colonies. For more on this, see
Stanley Hyman (145) and Neocleous.
3. In his study of Marx’s literary style, Ludovico Silva shows how, in his day, Marx had the ability to
translate abstract concepts into concrete images and to explain his ideas without oversimplifying them:
“A pesar de su enorme capacidad de abstracción, Marx nunca cayó en el facilismo especulativo; no se
inventó el capitalismo ‘pensando,’ sino estudiando fenómenos específicos y concretos. Este empeño se
tradujo maravillosamente en su estilo, que es el estilo de un escritor con gran capacidad de vuelo pero
que no pierde jamás de vista la tierra firme, que es lo apropiado en un escritor científico. ‘Todo
profundo problema filosófico’—escribía en La ideología alemana—‘se reduce a un hecho empírico
puro y simple’” (94).
4. Labor itself implies a magical relationship with the raw material that is transformed into an object, into
dead (or objectified) labor, which returns to life with a different shape and function, in the form of the
object-commodity.
5. Milton Friedman interprets the idea of the “invisible hand” as the possibility of obtaining individual
cooperation without coercion, which is to say, as the unsought consequence of the consumer’s personal
interest that results in gain or some other benefit for the producer and for society.
6. Freud describes the uncanny in similar terms: “Severed limbs, a severed head, a hand detached from the
arm, feet that dance by themselves –all those have something highly uncanny about them, especially
when they are credited with independent activity” (The Uncanny 150).
7. Much has already been written about Marx’s view of Goethe’s ideas, which, according to Sacristán,
Marx considered an extension of Hegelian thought. See Manuel Sacristán, Escritos sobre El Capital (y
textos afines), 321.
8. See Moraña, “Postcriptum: El afecto en la caja de herramientas,” where I present some of the ideas and
references on affect included in the present study.
9. See Jáuregui.
10. This does not imply that irony has no important rhetorical or ideological role in Marx’s work. See, for
example, Silva, “Epílogo sobre la ironía y la alienación” (116-30).
11. Neocleous writes: “Aunque Rousseau intenta situar al vampiro en el contexto más amplio de la
autoridad en la sociedad, su posición y la de Marx son muy distintas. Si bien puede ser que ‘Rousseau
se vea atraído por la imagen del vampiro porque ofrece un medio llamativo de simbolizar modos de
dependencia mutua en la sociedad que no son benignos’, no es evidente que la utilice de la misma
manera que Marx. Su visión puede tener que ver más con una ‘dialéctica amo-esclavo, con dientes’,
pero sin las mismas implicaciones que en Marx” (4). As Neocleous points out, Marx is closer to the
criticisms made by other Enlightenment thinkers (such as Voltaire) of the vampirism of the political
and economic elites.
12. Citing an expression from The Manifesto of the Communist Party, Policante asserts that, like capital,
“The vampire…‘creates a world after its own image’” (12).
13. MacLellan also discusses the positions of Althusser and Baudrillard on this subject.
14. In an alternative Reading, MacLellan proposes that in Stoker’s novel the vampire and his victims
constitute two sides of the same coin: the creative side (liberal individualism) and the destructive side
of capital.
15. This topic is also connected to the concept of the “general intellect” developed in Capital: the intellect
as a public, collective, and mass form of cognition that combines technical and social knowledge. For
more on the general intellect, see Virno and Christian Marazzi.
16. Gerald Raunig, “A Few Fragments on Machines.” http://eipcp.net/transversal/1106/raunig/en
17. According to Terry Eagleton, “The social revolution of the nineteenth century cannot draw its poetry
from the past, but only from the future. It cannot begin with itself before it has stripped off all
superstition in regard to the past. Earlier revolutions required recollections of past world history in
order to drug themselves concerning their own content. In order to arrive at its own content, the
revolution of the nineteenth century must let the dead bury their dead. There the phrase went beyond
the content; here the content goes beyond the phrase” (183). In this passage, in which the role of the
rationality of progress is excessively emphasized, Eagleton does not consider residual forms of the past
that the world of the dead bequeaths to capitalist modernity and the ways in which those elements were
integrated into nineteenth-century imaginaries.
18. On posthumanism, see Moraña, “La cuestión del humanismo.”
19. See Jean and John Comaroff, “Labor’s Lost,” in Alien-Nation.
20. See Edward Dutton, who develops an exhaustive critique of the concept of “zombie categories” in
relation to nationalism and questions the supposed “false rationality” of this idea.
21. “Trickle-down economy” refers to the idea that politics that favor the wealthiest segments of society
eventually result in the benefit of all through the effect of “filtering down.” The “Great Recession”
refers to the period of macroeconomic stabilization after 1985 and the possibility of its indefinite
perpetuation. The “hypothesis of efficient markets” refers to the idea that the prices generated by
financial markets are the best indicators about decisions involving investments and processes of
production.
22. Manifestations of this economy of the occult include, for example, organ trafficking, the sale of children
or their use in illegal work, the appropriation or exploitation of territories and labor forces, which
causes one to think that new forms of imperialism survive today under different methods and continue
to benefit global elites through transactions carried out via the bodies of the most dispossessed
populations in the world. Comaroff and Comaroff point out that, toward the end of the twentieth
century, violence increased markedly in Africa in the same way that reports of witchcraft and ritual
killings also increased to the point that special forces were created within the police to investigate
crimes related to occultism, witchcraft, and ritual deaths.
23. Alejandro Sánchez reflects on Drezner’s book and applies it to the case of Latin America, where
biological and technological threats to both individuals and society in general (including epidemics,
radiation, water pollution, food poisoning, and natural catastrophes) have tested the effectiveness of
emergency, evacuation, and public safety plans for scenarios which, like the fictional zombie epidemic,
have unforeseeable effects and bluntly expose the precariousness of life and the vulnerability of bodies.
24. “The Magic of Despair,” published by Gluckman as an independent essay in 1957, is included in Order
and Rebellion in Tribal Africa, 137-45.
25. For more on this point, see Comaroff and Comaroff, “Occult Economies” 289. See also Ronjon Paul
Datta and Laura McDonald, “Time for Zombies.”
26. See John Stratton, “Zombie Trouble,” 267.
27. Eco’s article was originally titled “Sullo stile del Manifesto” and published in the newspaper L’Espresso
on 8 January 1998. Eco recalls in this text the Venezuelan author Ludovico Silva’s valuable work El
estilo literario de Marx (1971). Eco laments that Silva only superficially discusses the Manifesto, a text
that the Venezuelan qualifies as “apocalíptico y poemático” (94). Curiously, Silva’s interesting study
also neglects to mention the theme of the monstrous in Marx’s work.
28. In this sense, Policante argues that the Manifesto implicitly rewrites Goethe’s The Sorcerer’s
Apprentice, although with substantial changes (for example, making the apprentice from the poem
disappear, diminishing the importance of the anecdote in Der Hexenmeister, through which the
devastated and irrational world of capital that, unable to control itself (like the vampire), can only
follow the logic of its own interminable reproduction. Policante associates this idea with the figure of
Dracula, whom he refers to as the narrator of Stoker’s novel, remarking that “His action is based on
selfishness, he confines himself to one purpose, and that purpose is remorseless” (342). Policante also
finds a clear parallelism between this characterization of Count Dracula and the description of capital:
“capital has one sole driving force, the drive to valorise itself, to create surplus value, to make its
constant part, the means of production, absorb the greatest possible amount of surplus labour” (Marx,
Capital 1:342, qtd. in Policante 6; Policante’s emphasis).
29. [This follows Peggy Kamuf’s translation of Derrida’s French neologism hantologie in Specters of
Marx. The term used in the original Spanish version of the present book is fantología.—Tr.]
30. As an example of the philosophical presence of the ghost, which can be traced back to Plato, Derrida
refers to Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit and Francis Fukuyama’s work, particularly The End of
History and the Last Man, which is based on Kojève’s reading of Hegel. Derrida’s objective is to
analyze the place that Marxism continues to have as a narrative of the deconstruction of capitalism and
to propose a new historicity.
Chapter 4
This disturbing feeling of uncertainty about the nature of the object or being
that we perceive as suspicious, strange, or different is connected, according to
Freud, to things that should remain hidden or secret but are eventually revealed
and thus destabilize the world as we know it. For Freud, the feeling that derives
from this unhinging of the real has to do with the concepts of castration,
repression, and narcissism. This latter, for example, is channeled through the
triumph of the hero who by killing the monster reestablishes the order that was
disturbed by the irruption of the supernatural.
Monstrosity and heroism function, in effect, as two sides of the same
phenomenon: the confrontation between community and catastrophe. The
monster and the hero are both united by exceptionality, and they protect this
necessary relationship. One entails damnation and the other redemption. The
former embodies one of the instances of the dissolution of the social: it
constitutes a paradigmatic moment of revulsion and the reemergence of the
occult, the instance in which disorder, anomaly, chaos, insurrection, incoherence,
anarchy, and discomfort flourish. It is located at the limit of the social, on the
edge between the ego and the superego. The hero is also the paradigmatic
apparatus for the reestablishment of order because he is always portrayed as an
agent of positive change. As Joseph Campbell remarks in his classic work The
Hero with a Thousand Faces, the hero represents the values of the community.
His function in the epic of moral character is to reestablish the balance between
nature and culture, between social orders, genders, species, and sociocultural
domains that are ruled by antagonistic forms of behavior and knowledge.
However, if the monster’s condition is necessarily indeterminate, from the
psychoanalytic point of view it is identified with the malevolent figure of the
repressive (and sometimes usurper) father, lending it, as Freud indicates, a
totemic quality. The figure of the monster marks the repressive space of
exteriority and censorship, the place of the superego, while the hero is associated
with social regulation. In effect, it is the purpose of the hero to redefine and
redirect the principle of authority and to reestablish the relationship between
freedom and order, between individual and community, and between nature and
culture.
The paradoxical and ambiguous quality of this kind of scenario sums up the
essential aspect of the monstrous. Freud describes the reaction that is caused by
the inability to determine if an object or individual (a wax figure, a doll, or a
robot) is alive, dead, or inanimate. This indeterminacy or latency defamiliarizes
the object and makes it difficult to react appropriately to its presence and its
potential threat. The uncanny refers to the object’s ability to become blurred and
dispersed within a space, moment, or atmosphere where the lack of certainty
about its origin and nature heightens feelings of apprehension and fear of the
unknown.3
Within the economy of social relations, the monster constitutes “the accursed
share”: the excess or instance of symbolic dilapidation that causes the subject to
border “on explosion” (Bataille 30). This allows the community to have contact
with its sacred aspect, with what lay beyond the productive experience that fuels
the great machine of capital and its social order, substituting it with an excessive
unproductivity—which is also machinic—that only concentrates energy at the
symbolic level, thus carnivalizing the concepts of investment, utility, and
consumption.
In his explanation of the uncanny, Freud emphasizes the visual. The fear of
blindness (a fear provoked, for example, by the Sandman) is associated,
according to Freud, with the latent fear of castration. Although monstrosity does
not accommodate itself to reality, it maintains sufficient connection with it to
create unease, perplexity, and cognitive disorientation. It is dissonant but not
completely foreign to normal experience, as even the strangest expressions of the
uncanny are composed of recognizable parts and actions that are nonetheless
incoherently arranged.
Also related to the characterization of the monstrous is the notion of
abjection developed by Julia Kristeva in Powers of Horror (1980), which stems
from Freud’s concept of the uncanny and is firmly connected to the body and its
relation to the unconscious. On all levels the monstrous stands in contrast to
conceptualizations of normality and processes of cultural institutionalization and
social discipline because its very nature is defined by the transgression of
historically delimited borders and norms.
The theme of the abject, closely linked to the emotional realm of the
monstrous and the sinister, is described by Kristeva as a radical disturbance of
the foundations of identity, an impurity that erases the tracks of culture and
abruptly returns the subject to a pre-natural state, provoking alienation. The
abject is everything that the individual must undo in order to maintain itself as an
Ego. The abject thus entails:
Like monstrosity, the abject alters norms and compromises order, exposing
the vulnerability and porosity of the social order, the precariousness of its
hierarchies and structures.
It is thus not lack of cleanliness or health that causes abjection but what
disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders,
positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite. The
traitor, the liar the criminal with a good conscience, the shameless
rapist, the killer who claims he is a savior…. Any crime, because it
draws attention to the fragility of the law, is abject, but premeditated
crime, cunning murder, hypocritical revenge are even more so because
they heighten the display of such fragility. (Kristeva 4)
The monstrous and the abject are already closely related in religious
discourse, which poses these elements as the inverse of virtue. Barbara Creed, in
her essay “Kristeva, Femininity, Abjection,” notes that
definitions of the monstrous as constructed in the modern horror text
are grounded in ancient religious and historical notions of abjection—
particularly in relation to the following religious “abominations”:
sexual immorality and perversion; corporeal alteration, decay and
death; human sacrifice; murder; the corpse, bodily wastes, the feminine
body, and incest. These forms of abjection are also central to the
construction of the monstrous in the modern horror film. (64-65)
The body is the terrain where the monster’s ominous activity unfolds: the
cadaver that returns to life or brings about death, the organism that feeds on the
other’s blood or fat, or which sacrifices, destroys, perverts, or alters its victims’
integrity, that appropriates spaces, and transgresses identities. In other words, the
monster’s body incorporates an element of degradation into life through the
macabre festival of its apparitions.
A criterion related to social hygiene delimits the field of the abject. From the
point of view of eugenics, the monster is excrescence, excess, impurity, and
should therefore be eliminated. In this sense, Carroll (following Mary Douglas’s
classic work, Purity and Danger) considers impurity to be one of the essential
features of the monstrous. In his opinion, together with the notion of danger, the
idea of impurity is an evaluative category that circumscribes and brings into
focus the object that generates the emotional reaction without which the art of
horror would fall apart. Interstitial and unfinished, the monster is defined above
all as a contaminated, corrupt, and condemned being. In her chapter dedicated to
“Secular Defilement,” Douglas analyzes the different forms of confronting
anomaly, as well as its connections to the ideas of ambiguity, pollution, and filth.
According to her analysis, this latter has several points of contact with the
monstrous, because, as we have noted, filth is an out-of-place material which
should be excluded to maintain order. Filth, like monstrosity, allows us to grasp
the differences and limits between the secular and the sacred, a criterion that is
present both in primitive and modern contexts (Douglas 50).
The domain of abjection is “the place where meaning collapses,” where the I
is annulled in its being. The monster, as an abject entity, is not only a concrete
and personal but also an epistemic threat. However, this very threat (as well as
the notion of the limit it establishes between life and death, normality and
exception) helps to define life and the quality of being human. Thus, abjection
and monstrosity are “the constitutive outside” of the vital principle, the thanatic
component, the alterity that delimits the borders of the self.
In Baudrillard’s theorization, evil constitutes a radical form of the
disequilibrium and vertigo that accompany seduction. From his perspective, the
monster is an apparatus for producing the re-enchantment of the world. Its
existence creates a signifying and productive disarrangement of the real because,
as radical alterity, the monstrous alters the predictable exchanges between
identity and otherness. For Baudrillard,
difference is itself a utopia: the idea that such pairs of terms can be
split up is a dream—and the idea of subsequently reuniting them is
another. (This also goes for the distinction between Good and Evil: the
notion that they might be separated out from one another is pure
fantasy, and it is even more utopian to think in terms of reconciling
them.)
[…]
The monster is thus not the other of the human being but the disarrangement
of difference, the non-negotiable element, the radical otherness that does not
enter into the contract. Hence its power of destabilization, its retreat into the
extreme contingence of its corporeality, its sacrifice at the altar of particularism.
The monster is an irreducible “fetishized difference,” and thus it should be
annihilated.
The monster also brings up the problem of hospitality. It only becomes
threatening when it is near, such that the central question is that of distance, the
ways of covering it and inhabiting it. The monster proposes crucial questions
about the politics of identity and inclusion: Who will receive it? To what extent
can difference and exteriority be absorbed? What are the limits of the system’s
tolerance? These questions are essential for any critical analysis of racism,
gender discrimination, and xenophobia because, as Baudrillard notes, “wherever
exchange is impossible, what we encounter is terror.”4
The monster can be eliminated, but monstrosity remains as a quality of the
real, an attribute that, like otherness, is inextinguishable:
Such is the power of this idea, and such is the power of the facts.
Radical otherness survives everything: conquest, racism,
extermination, the virus of difference, the psychodrama of alienation.
On the one hand, the Other is always-already dead; on the other hand,
the Other is indestructible.
Gerard Unterthurner and Erik Vogt come to a similar conclusion about the
topic of classification when they discuss the effect that monstrosity has on the
modern enthusiasm for taxonomy: “Monstrosity presents thought with a
preeminently modern problem: classifications begin to fall apart, order turns into
disorder, normality bleeds into abnormality and the very ground of the human
starts to give way” (7).
The theme of difference (anomaly, pathology, exceptionality), as well as the
inscription of difference in language is one of the central concerns of Foucault’s
thought, which necessarily leads to the problem of the monster due to its
disruptive and residual element that alters—ruins—the order of the whole. In the
fifth chapter of The Order of Things, which is dedicated to classification,
Foucault notes that monsters form “the background noise, as it were, the endless
murmur of nature” (155) and adds: “The monster ensures in time, and for our
theoretical purposes, a continuity that, for our everyday experience, floods,
volcanoes, and subsiding continents confuse in space” (156). Monsters are in
this sense a testimonial of an ephemeral and variable space and time; they can
disappear without a trace, while their materiality functions as a common thread.
In this sense, the monster constitutes an element of exceptionality that, by
defamiliarizing our perception of the real, allows us to reconstruct the future and
give meaning to our historical and natural timeframe. As Carroll has observed in
his study of the philosophy of horror, every monster is above all a heuristic
apparatus (27), “a collection of properties” (85) around which the material and
symbolic world is de/re/organized.
As Nuzzo affirms, by avoiding all taxonomy, that is, by being situated
outside the order of discourse, the monster alludes to the problem of
representation, not as the necessary imbrication of signifier and signified, but
rather as the eventual discontinuity of both levels. The monster is produced by a
discourse that upon creating it declares its foreignness, thus inscribing that
externality in the interiority of language, which the monster itself exceeds. This
ensures that the monster will remain cognitively opaque and inaccessible,
thereby heightening the effect of fascination and mystery and expanding the
emotional field that surrounds it.
According to Foucault, there is an analogy between the monster and the
fossil insofar as both allow us to read transformation and difference as textures
of the real. He argues that:
The monster and the fossil both play a very precise role in this
configuration. On the basis of the power of the continuum held by
nature, the monster ensures the emergence of difference. This
difference is still without law and without any well-defined structure;
the monster is the root-stock of specification, but it is only a sub-
species itself in the stubbornly slow stream of history…. because the
monster and the fossil are merely the backward projection of those
differences and those identities that provide taxinomia first with
structure, then with character. Between table and continuum they form
a shady, mobile, wavering region in which what analysis is to define as
identity is still only mute analogy; and what it will define as assignable
and constant difference is still only free and random variation…. as a
movement ceaselessly being outlined, then halted as soon as sketched,
and perceptible only on the fringes of the table, in its unconsidered
margins. Thus, against the background of the continuum, the monster
provides an account, as though in caricature, of the genesis of
differences, and the fossil recalls, in the uncertainty of its
resemblances, the first buddings of identity. (The Order of Things 157)
The norm consequently lays claim to power. The norm is not simply
and not even a principle of intelligibility; it is an element on the basis
of which a certain exercise of power is founded and legitimized…. the
norm brings with it a principle of both qualification and correction. The
norm’s function is not to exclude and reject. Rather, it is always linked
to a positive technique of intervention and transformation, to a sort of
normative project. (Abnormal 50)
The frame of reference of the human monster is, of course, law. The
notion of the monster is essentially a legal notion, in a broad sense, of
course, since what defines the monster is the fact that its existence and
form is not only a violation of the laws of society but also a violation
of the laws of nature. Its very existence is a breach of the law at both
levels. The field in which the monster appears can thus be called a
“juridico-biological” domain. However, the monster emerges within
this space as both an extreme and an extremely rare phenomenon. The
monster is the limit, both the point at which law is overturned and the
exception that is found only in extreme cases. The monster combines
the impossible and the forbidden. (Abnormal 55-56)7
The monster “violates the law while leaving it with nothing to say (Foucault,
Abnormal 56). Opposed to the norm, monstrosity is supported by the paradoxical
principle of intelligibility because, even though it illuminates zones of the real,
the monstrous continues to be in itself obscure, indecipherable: this is the
tautological quality that defines it—an impenetrable self-referentiality that keeps
the ultimate meaning of the monstrous inaccessible to reason. More than any
other counter-normative figure, the monster defies both the medical system and
the legal system. In Foucault’s words, “The monster is the fundamental figure
around which bodies of power and domains of knowledge are disturbed and
reorganized” (Abnormal 62). Defined as a hybrid and transgressive phenomenon,
the monster embodies a radical disorder.8 The monstrous abandons the domain
of the biological to solidly establish itself in the legal realm. The human monster,
particularly the criminal, but also the political monster (the one that represents
despotism, illegitimate power, state violence) ceases to be an enigma of nature
and becomes a social problem to be legislated. Monstrous behavior is the
purview of law as the discipline which regulates the activities and norms of
socialization.9
One of the most important aspects of Foucault’s reflections on the monstrous
concerns the connections that can be established between the models of
classification for these disproportionate deviations from the norm and the
organization of power. As Foucault argues, “It seems to me that the sudden
irruption of the literature of terror at the end of the eighteenth century, in the
years roughly contemporary with the Revolution, are connected to this new
economy of punitive power. It is the unnatural nature of the criminal, the
monster, that appears at this moment” (Abnormal 100). Thus, the figure of the
monster becomes historicized and imbued with political content.10
The criminal, like the monster, is a “body charged with hypotheses.”
Although Foucault’s reflections here address the construction of the monstrous
itself as a technology of subjectivation and social control, his considerations are
directly applicable to the transfer of these ideas to the symbolic registers of art,
literature, popular culture, mass culture, and so on. These domains construct
their own imaginaries of the monstrous, founded on received notions about
concepts such as normality, exceptionality, anomaly, pathology, health, and
illness, and its more or less predictable effects on society. In any case,
knowledge of the cultural contexts of the production of these discursive legacies
is indispensable for understanding the symbolic capital of the monstrous and its
possible political and ideological value.11
Canguilhem’s vitalist ideas, inspired by the work of Gastón Bachelard and
Henri Bergson (among others), address an understanding of the biological that is
capable of overcoming its merely physical and scientific aspects. Canguilhem
incorporates the concept of life with factors like living beings’ relationship to the
environment and the processes of the institutionalization of medicine, which are
crucial to the processes of social classification and the treatment of illnesses.12
For Canguilhem, the monster’s “value” resides in its countercultural,
contradictory character in relation to the vital principle. For this reason, the
monster functions from a death-like position, incarnating not the non-living but
the non-viable.
The monster is not only a living being with diminished value, it is a living
being whose value is its status as a counterpoint. This vital counter-value is not
death but monstrosity. Death is the permanent and unconditional threat of the
organism’s decomposition, the negation of the living by the non-living.
Monstrosity is the accidental and conditional threat of incompleteness or
distortion in the formation of the form: it is the limitation from within, the
negation of the living by the nonviable. (Knowledge of Life 135-136)
What Foucault particularly values in Canguilhem’s work is the analysis of
the conceptual formation that has been essential to the construction of scientific
knowledge and the determination of what is normal and what is pathological—or
simply anomalous—in society. These distinctions inform Foucault’s analyses of
madness, abnormality, sexuality, and related subjects. According to Foucault,
Canguilhem “proved impossible to make up a science of the living being without
having taken into account, as essential to its object, the possibility of disease,
death, monstrosity, anomaly, error…” (“Introduction”17). The monstrous is thus
the entropic obverse which is indispensable to the definition of the social.
Inversely, the concept of normality Canguilhem analyzes is essential for reading,
in reverse, the functionality of the monstrous from the perspectives of
philosophical anthropology and theories of value.
For Canguilhem, normality is a prescriptive prototype that emerged in the
nineteenth century to refer to the state of organic health. However, other aspects,
such as individual experience and individual modes of self-perception and social
recognition are fundamental for determining the notions of reality and
community “health.” Many physical or mental illnesses considered by medical
science to be deviations from the “normal” (a concept that historically varies and
is relative to different cultures) are not perceived by the individual as pathologies
(such as cases of hermaphroditism, conjoined twins, certain forms of mental
retardation, etc.) just as sexual orientations that are “normalized” today were at
one point understood as aberrations, illnesses, or dysfunctions. In this order of
things, the qualification of “monstrosity” as relational is reaffirmed, as are its
ethical, political, and ideological connotations, which are relative to the cultural
and social contexts at hand. The monstrous is thus connected inseparably to the
notions of social hygiene, eugenics, and biopolitics that define the anomalous
and expel it from the domain of order.
For Žižek monstrosity is the occult but undeniable side of the modern subject
because the monstrous is the site of a pre-ontological dimension of the real (the
“night of the world,” according to Hegel) that exhibits and preserves the gap
between reality and the sinister.14 This form of spectrality constitutes the
subject’s shadow, it is inseparable from it and indispensable to its constitution.
The monster embodies radical otherness, the nightmare that is projected onto
others, although in reality it refers more than anything to the interiority of
consciousness, the ambiguous and oscillating part of being and the real.
Žižek brings together the difference between the Kantian vision of the
impossibility of a subjectless reality and the Hegelian position for which
“subjectivity is inherently pathological (biased, limited to a distorting,
unbalanced perspective on the Whole).” According to Žižek, if in Kant the
monstrous constitutes the “vanishing mediator” between phenomenal reality and
the transcendent realm,
Hegel’s achievement was thus to combine, in an unprecedented way,
the ontologically constitutive character of the subject’s activity with the
subject’s irreducible pathological bias: when these two features are
thought together, conceived as co-dependent, we obtain the notion of a
pathological bias constitutive of “reality” itself. (The Ticklish Subject
78; emphasis in original)
Because we remember pain and the menace of death more vividly than
pleasure, and because our feelings toward the beneficent aspects of the
unknown have from the first been captured and formalised by
conventional religious rituals, it has fallen to the lot of the darker and
more maleficent side of cosmic mystery to figure chiefly in our popular
supernatural folklore. This tendency, too, is naturally enhanced by the
fact that uncertainty and danger are always closely allied; thus making
any kind of an unknown world a world of peril and evil possibilities.
(Supernatural Horror in Literature 14)
The monster is an advent, an event, an occurrence that disrupts the real with
its symbolic violence. Its presence, signaled by the feeling or experience of the
sublime, “marks the moment at which something emerges out of Nothing—
something new that cannot be accounted for by reference to the pre-existing
network of circumstances….The feeling of the Sublime is aroused by an Event
that momentarily suspends the network of symbolic causality” (The Ticklish
Subject 43).
The moment of the advent or appearance of the beautiful, whose symmetrical
impact is similar to that of the monstrous, is conceptualized by Kant as an
epiphany of the Good. Heidegger, through a reading of Antigone, maintains a
position that, in contrast to Kant’s, “ignores the Sublime—that is, he links
Beauty directly to the Monstrous…Beauty is the mode of apparition of the
monstrous; it designates one of the modalities of the Truth-Event that shatters
our allegiance to the everyday run of things—that is, it derails our immersion in
das Man (the way ‘it is done’)” (Žižek, The Ticklish Subject 48-49). As Žižek
notes, for Heidegger, the monstrous (the sinister, the demonic) is connected to
the fact that “man is primordially ‘out of joint,” a condition that is natural to him
because violence is inherent in the everyday world, which is governed by the
values and rules of the polis.
According to Žižek, Kant’s greatest contribution was not shedding light on
the gap that separates phenomenal reality and the domain of the transcendent but
rather revealing the “vanishing mediator” between both levels. He writes, “if one
brings his line of thought to its conclusion, one has to presuppose, between
direct animality and human freedom subordinated to Law, the monstrosity of a
pre-synthetic imagination ‘run amok,’ generating spectral apparitions of partial
objects” (The Ticklish Subject 52).
“Partial object,” “vanishing mediator” between different domains of being,
epiphany or advent that recalls logos, “the night of the world,” or “anamorphic
stain,” the monster announces, distorts, suspends the order of the real,
reaffirming the symbolic as a dis-located, interstitial space that paradoxically is
able to capture continuities and ruptures of meaning that are only visible from
certain forms of madness that reveal, uncover, and resignify through distortion.
This pre-ontological aspect, theorized by German idealist philosophy and other
modern philosophical perspectives on the subject of difference,
recognizes that it must take recourse to its other: the alien, madness,
body, gender, death, even its own blind spot or the unfathomable—in
short, it has to take recourse to the determining indeterminateness of a
stationary fastening ground that is carried by an impulse or differential
sense corroding and subverting all (reasonable) ground. This very
movement is the site of the monstrous. (qtd. in Unterhurner and Vogt
10)
In The Fold: Leibniz and the Baroque (1988), Deleuze refers to the event,
relating it to the concepts of multiplicity and chaos, defining this latter as the
sum of everything possible. The event is “something rather than nothing,” a form
of being of matter that fills space and time; an extensive series of intrinsic
properties and intensities, a “chaosmic” space whose occurrence changes the
world in a unique way. Hence, Deleuze sees the Baroque as a transition in which
classical reason is overtaken by divergences and dissonances (The Fold 81) that
open up paths to new realities.16 The Baroque, another of those symbolic spaces
where monstrosity and macabre aesthetics proliferate, monumentalizes a
rationality challenged by the difference that colonizes its principles of authority.
In Event: A Philosophical Journey Through a Concept (2014), Žižek returns
to many of these ideas in relation to the event as a rupture in the order of the
real, as “an effect that has exceeded its causes” and which develops “without
sufficient reason,” foreign to logic, like the cornerstone of an alternative that
prior to the event was unthinkable. The event lends itself to transcendental and
ontological approaches that explore its conditions and its location in the real
from different perspectives. The idea of discontinuity returns as a “rupture of
symmetry,” a kind of ontological Big Bang in which a “concrete universality”
generates antagonisms and inconsistencies that would otherwise be repressed
under the appearance of balance and “order” (Žižek, Event 6-8).
Converging with many of the positions mentioned above, Alain Badiou has
also written about the concept of the event since the 1980s, although in relation
to earlier philosophical influences.17 In the face of what Badiou calls the
“inconsistent multiplicity” of the real, the event appears as an interruption of the
social situation that uncovers and unleashes repressed, invisible, and
unrepresented (more than unrepresentable, since they lack any representation
whatsoever) elements. According to Badiou, reality is an “inconsistent
multiplicity,” a space that is both empty and excessive, absence and surplus. This
form of the real is subordinated by the dominant order, which is to say, repressed
by institutions, ideologies, and cultural practices. This repression constitutes the
realm of the excluded, which forcefully reappears on occasion, creating a fissure
or interruption in the texture of the real. This emergence is a cognitive
occurrence in which multiplicity and contradiction are revealed as inherent
qualities of the real.
Applying Badiou’s ideas to the central theme of the present book, it is
obvious that in any event the monster makes visible truths that exist outside the
real such as it is perceived through dominant knowledges. We thus understand
event to mean a non-systemic, antinormative, unforeseeable, unwilled,
unthinkable, disarticulating, disruptive occurrence. In the same sense, the
monster is an event, a scandal, a catastrophe, a happening, an incident: an
ephemeral but dramatic apparition that impacts the social order, an accident of
irrepressible epistemic intensity that compels reconsideration of values and
beliefs.18
The monster’s presence therefore constitutes a rupture, a scandal in the order
of the everyday that reveals the profligate heterogeneity that underlies the
normative conception of the social. Tzvetan Todorov had already referred in his
studies of the fantastic to Roger Caillois’s notion in Au Coeur du Fantastique
(1965) that “The fantastic is always a break in the acknowledged order, an
irruption of the inadmissible within the changeless everyday legality” (Todorov
15). The irruption of the monster bears this same liberating and revealing
character, although its profound meaning should be interpreted within the
concrete contexts in which it emerges.
As event, the monster makes its existence visible in a dramatic,
uncontestable way through an excessive, hyperbolic, and irrepressible presence
capable of interrupting the spatio-temporal sequence of history (understood as
continuity, progression, or development), leaving an indelible trace in the
imaginary.19 The monster has the principal effect of fundamentally altering the
registers of the truths of an era and, in its capacity as an event, authorizing a
reinscription of the social contract. It is part of the broad “rhizomatic resistance”
(Karatzogianni and Robinson; Anderson 265) that underlies the system and
induces social change since, by bringing to the surface elements that have yet to
be recognized, the monster constructs subjectivity and agency, gives a name to
that which does not yet exist, and becomes an irreversible tool for epistemic
intervention. In this sense, the monster is emergent in the double sense of urgent
and emerging.
What is fundamental in this process is the recognition of the event, because it
is only through this recognition that the excluded may find its place and
meaning. The irruption of the monster traumatizes the structure in which its
presence is embedded but in so doing defamiliarizes the real and suspends the
legitimacy of its regimes of truth, thereby allowing for reflections on lack and
symbolic substitution. It reestablishes the multiplicity negated by the pretensions
to consistency and homogeneity that constitute the ontologized masks of
hegemonic systems. As event, the monstrous fills a void, it allows the
anomalous, different, and disruptive to acquire (id)entity and to contribute to the
redesign of social fields. The monster constitutes a point of inflection: it permits
reflection on what Giorgio Agamben calls “the vertigo of immanence,” a
“contemplation without knowledge” that might allow for some type of intuition
of the meaning of life itself (“Absolute Immanence” 230, 233).
As with Agamben’s concept of bare life, the event has no specific qualities,
nor are the particularities of its identity the same as those that occur in the
existential plane in which it is inscribed. Its valence is generic, its relevance is
that of presence, of the interruption of dominant normality. What matters is its
praxis and the revolutionary and traumatic transformation (understood in the
broad sense of radical structural change) that it unleashes. This radical
transformation is neither managed nor controlled, and its causal relations with
the contexts in which it emerges are aleatory, which is why deciphering the
ultimate meaning of the event is subject to interpretation as well as its suitability
for varying theoretical and ideological purposes.
The monster as event is beyond the juridical, beyond determinism,
chronology, social regulation, and moral principles. Only its articulation with
certain discourses or historicity can provide its precise meaning. In any case, it is
clear that its disruptive character contains elements that point to the possibility of
an other world, to alternative values and epistemic models. After the event, just
as in the aftermath of the monster, reality is irrevocably changed, modified by
elements that reveal an alterity that should be incorporated in some way to the
social order and to collective imaginaries. From its presence emerge new forms
of subjectivity and new possibilities for political agency. The examples of events
that Badiou provides include the Bolshevik Revolution, the Paris Commune, and
Zapatismo, among others.
From the point of view of its trajectories, which is to say, from its relations
with the material and existential territories in which it moves, the monster’s
drifting movement ascribes it, although it does not circumscribe it, to geography.
Regarding nomadic mobility, Deleuze and Guattari note that “It is true that the
nomads have no history; they only have a geography” (A Thousand Plateaus
393). In this sense, the monster is a “vector of deterritorialization,” a line of
flight out of the system from which it originates and which ignores, contains,
and repels it.
In relation to these concepts, the monster can be thought from Maffesoli’s
proposals about the notion of wandering (which is connected to the concepts of
tribe, pack, horde) and is defined as an “immutable, always new structure”
which is supported by the notions of resistance and deregulated mobility
(Maffesoli, Du nomadisme 14-15).
In the chapter of A Thousand Plateaus titled “1730: Becoming-Intense,
Becoming-Animal, Becoming-Imperceptible…” (where the authors also allude
to Lovecraft and Borges), Deleuze and Guattari describe the relation between
becoming-animal, pack, and multiplicity, arguing that
In dialogue with the work of Pierre Clastres, particularly his book Society
Against the State, Deleuze and Guattari emphasize the importance of these other
forms of social functioning, a recognition that can only be achieved by liberating
oneself from those models of social organization that are imposed as the only
valid ones. According to Clastres, the notion of history as a progression from
primitivism to the state formation should be revised, an approach that Deleuze
and Guattari echo when they assert:
This idea of the mechanization of the state adds a technological twist to the
biopolitical conception of the state, a twist that is taken to such a degree of
institutionalization that it destroys the humanistic imaginaries that guided a large
part of modern political theory and introduced to postmodernity the fundamental
dimension of the simulacrum as a line of flight from realist, utopian, and
instrumental imaginaries. Institutions and individuals internalize the
technological under the prosthetic form that fills gaps or covers over deficiencies
in the original structures of the individual or community or maximizes its
functioning. Electronic devices, informatic processes, cybernetic apparatuses,
the virtualization of intersubjective and interinstitutional relations, are all
constitutively integrated into the state apparatus itself, conceived as a machine of
subjectivization and social control. The functions of regulation, communication,
vigilance, and administration rest on these monstered processes which generate
normative identities and reestablish the concepts of power, the subject, and
citizenship in relation to the machinic principles of serialization, efficiency, and
reproducibility. However, if the mechanized power of the state can be seen as a
biopolitical monster, resistance to it can also be metaphorized as the monstrous
strengthening of the multitude which, by acquiring agency opposed to
institutional domination, becomes a true alternative to the status quo. The field
of the political is thus the battlefield on which monstrous powers (whose
existence surpasses the modern definition of human) are dissolved. Monstrosity
is disseminated throughout the social body, which is itself monstrous, by
containing and articulating this degree of hybridity and hyperreality. What
remains fundamental is the location of this monstrous quality, its ideological
sign, the programs of knowledge/power it is plugged into, the interests that it
defends, and the strategies it employs.
The machinic incorporates the ideas of depersonalization, hybridity,
artificiality, simulacrum, automation, and dehumanization, but it also offers the
possibility of new forms of totalization that integrate fragmentarity as a
constitutive element of a new ontological register that is in dialogue with the
epistemic realignments of postmodernity. The monstrous evokes these intrinsic
associations in which disparate elements encounter unthought forms of
articulation and action, surpassing the horizons of the human, the natural, and
the scientific as classifications proper to modern thought.
According to Dominique Lestel, the posthuman is the tendency of the
monster, such as it is perceived, for example, in the figure and trajectory of
Frankenstein’s creature, in whom biological monstrosity appears as
technological contamination. The human includes the monstrous as an
irrepressible potentiality that forms part of the nature of life itself. From a
Darwinian perspective, monstrosity is understood as a transitional instance
between different stages of mutation and adaptation to the environment.
However, when the monstrous makes the leap toward the posthuman, a rupture is
produced that qualitatively affects the equilibrium of species and disrupts
cultural understanding of these processes:
The living social flesh that is not a body can easily appear monstrous.
For many, these multitudes that are not peoples or nations or even
communities, are one more instance of the insecurity and chaos that
has resulted from the collapse of the modern social order. They are
social catastrophes of postmodernity, similar in their minds to the
horrible results of genetic engineering gone wrong or the terrifying
consequences of industrial, nuclear or ecological disasters. The
uniformed and the unordered are horrifying. The monstrosity of the
flesh is not a return to nature but a result of society, an artificial life.
(Hardt and Negri, Multitude 192)
From the perspective of postmodern theory, Tania Modleski recalls that the
cinema of David Cronenberg, for example, situates the monstrous within
technology itself, as one of its becomings, as in the film Videodrome (1982), in
which the effect of a video game definitively confuses the limits between reality
and hallucination. Other Cronenberg films, such as The Fly (1986), explore the
possible mutations of an individual subordinated to technology. Cronenberg’s
work has been characterized as body horror insofar as it is particularly
concerned with changes to the body, psycho-somatic interrelations, hybridities,
and the decomposition of the human. As Shaviro argues, Cronenberg creates a
raw display of the body in its primordial materiality:
If then all bodies are capable of frustrating those binaries, it is the very
excessiveness of monsters that places them at the forefront of what
Haraway calls “queering what counts as nature.” The point is that
monsters signify both the binary opposition between the natural and the
non-natural, where the primary term confers value, and also the
disruption within that destabilizes the standard of the same. In other
words, they speak to both the radical otherness that constitutes an
outside and to the difference that inhabits identity itself. (Shildrick 11)
Notes
1. See William Uzgalis and Wolfe.
2. See Nicholas Jolley for more on this point.
3. Stephen Asma refers to this feeling, as well as to indeterminate forms of fear that communicate the idea
that the world has been invaded by an alien, monstrous condition that is both unclassifiable and
intimidating. This form of fear-provoking emotional and cognitive dissonance is in the monster’s very
nature: “Monsters are personifications of the unheimlich. They stand for what endangers one´s sense of
security, stability, integrity, well-being, health, and meaning” (Beal, “Introduction”, qtd. in Asma 188).
See also Asma 194.
4. “Racism does not exist so long as the other remains Other, so long as the Stranger remains foreign. It
comes into existence when the other becomes merely different—that is to say, dangerously similar.
That is the moment when the inclination to keep the other at a distance comes into being” (The
Transparency of Evil 146).
5. On Canguilhem’s work, see Foucault’s analysis in “Life: Experience and Science.”
6. As Élisabeth Roudinesco argues in her analysis of Canguilhem’s contributions, Lacan would come to
identical conclusions in his thesis on paranoiac psychosis in 1932: “In both cases it was a question, for
biological as for physical and mental questions, of embracing in a single essence, defining their
dissonance, the states of mind [affections] called normal and the ones labeled pathological. In this
conception, psychosis (as mental disturbance) and illness (as organic disturbance) are no longer
comparable to fixed constitutions, but reactions of the body or the personality to a life situation”
(Roudinesco 15). Translating these ideas to the field of monstrosity, the nature of this quality thus
would not be derived from a condition that is opposed to normality but rather from certain features that
determinate conditions of existence cause to flourish. The normal and the monstrous share “the same
essence” which can manifest to different degrees, bringing about one or another aspect according to the
situation at hand. Just as the demonic coexists with the divine, evil with good, sickness with health, the
monstrous is a natural component of the human. Continuing with Roudinesco’s analysis, the conditions
of violence, such as those created by the state of war, for example, cause the relations between the
normal and the pathological to be (re)presented in different manners and allow for different
interpretations since organisms react to catastrophe in diverse ways.
7. The other two elements Foucault notes in the construction of this field of abnormality are the
incorrigible, who defies all possibility of recovery and social reintegration, and the masturbator, who
embodies sexual fears and the processes of demonization that accompany them. These juridically
formalized figures share certain features with the human monster and are combined to form a
“technology of human abnormality” (Abnormal 61).
8. With the designation of “human monster,” Foucault is referring to the degeneration or deformation that
can manifest in both the figure of the “bestial man” and in anomalous forms that were not classified by
science in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Conjoined twins and hermaphrodites, for example,
were considered demonic phenomena because they defied the norm of nature. To these we can add the
notion of the “moral monster,” which combines monstrosity and criminality.
9. On the subject of the political monster, see Andrea Torrano, “El monstruo político.”
10. “There are no politically neutral or average monsters in Sade: Either they come from the dregs of the
people and have risen up against established society, or they are princes, ministers, or lords who wield
a lawless superpower over all social powers. In any case, power—the excess of power, the abuse of
power, despotism—is always the operative element of libertinage in Sade. It is this superpower that
transforms simple libertinage into monstrosity” (Foucault, Abnormal 101). In line with this
politicization of monstrosity, Foucault recognizes two principal figures of the monstrous in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries: the cannibal, “the monster from below” connected to the idea of
starving populations, and the incestuous monster, referring to the figure of the king (“the monster from
above”).
11. After all, because it is linked to the wondrous, the monster, like other fantastic creatures, depends on the
gaze that discovers and constructs it within culture (mirabilis—wondrous, coming from the root mir, to
gaze).
12. On the importance of Canguilhem’s relationships with other philosophers and scientists of the time, as
well as on his influence on contemporary biological and philosophical thought, see Balibar and
Geroulanos.
13. What follows is loosely based on some ideas presented by Leveque in his study of the notion of the
event.
14. On Žižek’s view of monstrosity, see Vogt, “Žižek’s Monstrous Figures” 131-154.
15. As Žižek notes, “Fantasy thus creates a multitude of ‘subject positions’ among which the (observing,
fantasizing) subject is free to float, to shift his identification from one to another. Here, talk about
‘multiple, dispersed subject positions’ is justified, with the proviso that these subject positions are to be
strictly distinguished form the void that is the subject” (The Plague of Fantasies 40).
16. On the concept of the event in Deleuze, see The Fold, 76-82 and “On Philosophy.”
17. Badiou first discussed the theory of the event in Theorie du Sujet (1982) then continued to develop it in
his major works L’être et l’évènement (1988) and Logique des Mondes: L’être et l’évènement 2 (2006).
For a simplified summary of the main concepts of the event in Badiou, see Anderson. On the notion of
the event in Heidegger, see Vattimo, Badiou, and Leveque.
18. Rosi Braidotti, however, questions the truth-value of the visible, an exception that is applied to the case
of the monster because “there is always more to things than meets the eye. There is no adequate
simulacrum; no image is a representation of the truth” (Nomadic Subjects 69). The metamorphosis,
excess, and artificiality that are essential to the monster keep it from being ascribed to fixed and
determinate truths, although they nevertheless affirm the transcendence that marks the monster’s
trajectory, the overcoming of its own particularity without succumbing to universality, maintaining
itself instead in an intermediate space that is encompassed by the idea of a warning, an intermediate
place between fact and possibility, the past and the future, the said and the suggested, the repressed and
the exposed.
19. As Bakhtin pointed out, “Exaggeration, hyperbolism, excessiveness, are generally considered
fundamental attributes of the grotesque style” (The Bakhtin Reader 232).
20. On nomadic thought in relation to the war machine, see Deleuze and Guattari, “Treatise in
Nomadology: The War Machine,” in A Thousand Plateaus, 351-423.
21. The word cyborg means cybernetic organism (words that give rise to a new term) and was coined,
according to Naief Yehva, in 1960 to refer to organisms that have been chemically and surgically
modified in order to adapt to new environmental challenges and extraterrestrial conditions. This is
understood as part of a process of biological intervention that is oriented toward the maximization of
human capacities.
22. For a discussion of the concept of posthumanism and its relation to technology, see Moraña, “La
cuestión del humanismo en América Latina.”
Chapter 5
The Common, the New Barbarian, and the Multitude: Hardt and
Negri
In Multitude: War and Democracy in the Age of Empire (2004), Michael Hardt
and Antonio Negri emphasize the monster’s prophetic and threatening nature,
which expresses political anxieties: “the monster is not an accident but the ever-
present possibility that can destroy the natural order or authority in all domains,
from the family to the kingdom” (259). Commenting on this passage, Steven De
Caroli and Margaret Grebowicz analyze the influence of John Spencer’s work A
Discourse Concerning Prodigies (1663), in which the author outlines the risks
that emerge when wonder and fear are combined in a critique of the state.
Imagination can become subversive and prefigure possible forms of
transcending the existing structures of domination, thereby inspiring actions
against power. Thus, two elements are necessary for the emergence of political
monstrosity: a natural order and an abnormality that challenges it (De Caroli and
Grebowicz 261). Monstrosity (whether political or otherwise) is on the margins
of what it represents, a phenomenon of belief, because it is a matter of
interpreting the status of the real and the possible that guides monstrosity as it
enters the collective imaginary.
The work of Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677) appears as a central source of
inspiration for the elaboration of the concept of multitude in relation to the
notion of monstrosity, particularly with regard to its ontological, ethical, and
political aspects.1 In both Empire (2000) and Multitude, the idea of the common,
also borrowed from Spinoza, indicates the element that allows the multitude to
cohere in spite of the latter’s natural heterogeneity and inorganic, “savage” role.2
From Spinoza’s concept of multitudo comes the idea of corporeality (physical
power) and passion as constitutive elements of this new, potentially
emancipating concept that can combine and activate the qualities of the body and
of desire as a (super)human (almost sublime, indeed almost monstrous)
overcoming of what is. As Michael Goddard points out: “the most striking
conceptual innovation in Multitude is the elaboration of a corporeal account of
the multitude in terms of the monstrosity of the flesh” (192).
In the configuration of an alternative to what already exists, there is an
impulse to contravene the existing order and a need to exercise a certain
(material or epistemic) violence against the establishment. The monstrous
always includes at the very least the potential for violence, which implies the
transformation of the status quo and is manifested through the
(de)monstration/monstering and display of corporeality. It is because of this
potential material and/or symbolic violence that the monster simultaneously
produces attraction and rejection—and ultimately its own demonization. As
Persephone Braham puts it, “The monster, then, inhabits the unquiet space
between adoration and abjection” (From Amazons to Zombies 13).
In all different historical periods, monstrosity has been likened to an
unacceptable violation of the existing order, the imposition of a symbolic
disruption that affects the very foundations of society, which is threatened not
only in a physical sense but also with regard to its principles and values.
Canguilhem had already noted that what is monstrous in the monster is its
transgression of the law, a line that inspired Foucault’s studies of madness and
institutions of control. For Foucault, the monster is a “juridico-natural complex,”
a “legal labyrinth.”3 For Canguilhem it is a matter of behavior: “Monstrosity was
less a consequence of the contingency of life than of the license of living beings.
… Monstrosity occurred unexpectedly because of lack of discretion […] the
result of an animal’s carnival” (“Monstrosity and the Monstrous” 30-31).
However, within the domain of political philosophy, especially in the post-
Foucauldian era, the monster embodies another promise of the future: the power
to establish alternatives that liberate us from both skepticism and moralization:
By not fitting into the given order of things, by calling into question the
seemingly transparent notion that facts speak for themselves,
monstrous life promises to preserve the power of the imagination to
shape new futures, without transforming these futures into moral laws,
that is, into facts which are already a type of evidence.… Monsters are
those who, in being who they are, place this system of order, be it
scientific or political or religious, in doubt without succumbing to a
rational skepticism that must assume a breach between knowing and
being. (De Caroli and Grebowicz 262)
In “The Political Monster: Power and Naked Life,” engaging with the ideas
of Foucault, Agamben, Esposito, and other theorists of biopolitics, Negri offers a
rich “genealogy of the monster” in which he explores the connections between
sovereign power and the eugenicist project of the control of life.4 In this essay,
he develops aspects of Spinozan thought that now appear as predecessors of the
notion of the monster and then applies them to the concept of multitude he
elaborated with Michael Hardt. From the perspective of political philosophy,
Negri is interested in the foundation of authority in different systems of
domination, as well as in the forms of resistance that power generates. The
monster represents the exteriority of eugenic ontology: the outside of being,
Otherness, that is to say, the element that eugenics seeks to invoke and exclude.
Referring to classical antiquity, Negri points out that
The monster, which is classically associated with calamity and dread and is
considered to be entrenched within the irreducible confines of what is beyond
the human, has been from the beginning of modernity a metaphor of the political
that expresses the ideological energy which encompasses and transcends
individuals and communities. Hobbes’s Leviathan illustrates this process.5
According to Negri, the agglomerated mass of humanity in the body of Power
has a hybrid character, representing the mixture of races, languages, and social
strata that maintain the social order depicted in the figure of the state.
Rather than the Leviathan, what’s monstrous now are the plebs or the
multitude, the anarchy and disorder that they express: upon them and
against them the monster constructs the central sovereign Power—the
untimely event of a necessary epiphany. Leviathan stops being a
monster insofar as he is a “deus ex machina.” (“The Political Monster”
195)
The Leviathan is the machinic apparatus that executes a sovereign order that
legitimizes itself before the swarming multitude that threatens the political and
cultural order by evoking the “state of nature.” This heteroclite group is more
able than the Leviathan itself to demonstrate the latter’s monstrous character
through disorder, disorganized multiplicity, and Babelic confusion: “The
multitude upon which Power must be exercised is “Gothic,” the hybrid product
of barbarian invasions and the mixing of different races, languages, and political
orders” (Negri, “The Political Monster” 195).6
According to Negri, the social philosophy—the “pseudo-science”—of
eugenics (including social Darwinism and “scientific” racism) reappeared in the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries as a cornerstone of extreme nationalisms,
channeling the interests and values of the bourgeois order. Contemporary with
the consolidation of Marxist thought, the monster has gone on to represent the
voracity of capital and the (ir)rationality of its infinite reproduction. If suffering
is “monstrous” in the contexts of fascism and colonialism, then the resistance
inspired by them should likewise be considered monstrous, especially when “we
start seeing history from the point of view of the monster” that represents the
heroic resistance to power.
Negri pursues the “line of the monster,” a figure that progressively comes to
designate the multitude. In this regard, “the monster is not only an event but a
positive event” (Negri, “The Political Monster” 199; emphasis in original), a
form of self-conscious subjectivity capable of producing “monstrous
resistances.” The monster’s activity, its inorganic, discontinuous, and persistent
actions, announce unexpected forms of popular mobilization in which the word
“popular” must be resignified. According to Negri, in postmodernity “the
monster has definitely brought eugenia to a crisis” (205); “We cannot even
circumscribe his sphere of action…. He mingles with us, moves among us: to
catch him in order to hold him up is impossible, there in the midst of that
confusion, those hybridizations. To kill him would be a suicide”; “the monster is
common” (205; emphasis in original); “The monster has become biopolitical”
(206; emphasis in original); “The postmodern monster, resistant because
consistent upon another ontological foundation, is thus already, somehow,
expression of the new genealogy” (216). Reactivating the monster’s prophetic
connotations, which are already implicit in the word itself, the monster-multitude
unfolds an agency that makes it possible to imagine the destabilization of the
status quo and the advent of radical change. From this perspective, as Pierre
Lamarche, Max Rosenkrantz, and David Sherman assert in their introduction to
Reading Negri: Marxism in the Age of Empire, “Monstrosity itself is creative,
imaginative, and productive of being—productive of new bodies through which
passages from capital and Empire may be negotiated” (16).
As a metaphor of the unrepresentable, the monster is opposed to the notion
of the people (and, of course, it also diverges from the ideas of nation, society,
citizenship, and “social body”) because it connotes fragmentarity, inorganicity,
heterogeneity, desegregation, and irrationality. Hence, it is adopted by Hardt and
Negri as the image of the multitude that opens up toward new horizons of
agency and meaning: “It takes new kinds of bodies to make up social flesh”
(Multitude 196).7
The figure of the monster is thus projected from its earliest origins and
resignified up to the present day. In Empire Hardt and Negri recall Nietzsche’s
prophetic suggestion in the The Will to Power: “where are the barbarians of the
twentieth century? Obviously they will come into view and consolidate
themselves only after tremendous socialist crises” (qtd. in Hardt and Negri,
Empire 213). Hardt and Negri interpret the fall of the Berlin Wall as an iconic
moment of this crisis, and they perceive in the waves of migration that followed
it the advent of the nomadic hordes that in “the desertion from ‘socialist
discipline,’ savage mobility and mass migration contributed substantially to the
collapse of the system” (Empire 214). They unite this historical and ideological
development with Benjamin’s proposal to introduce a new and positive notion of
barbarism, which they quote at length:
The new barbarian “sees nothing permanent. But for this very reason
he sees ways everywhere. Where others encounter walls or mountains,
there, too, he sees a way. But because he sees a way everywhere, he
has to clear things from it everywhere.... Because he sees ways
everywhere, he always positions himself at crossroads. No moment can
know what the next will bring. What exists he reduces to rubble, not
for the sake of the rubble, but for that of the way leading through it.”
(Hardt and Negri, Empire 215)
This passage illustrates the place Hardt and Negri assign within the utopian
design of Empire to the Third World, which is referred to in the elaboration of
the concepts of nomadism/miscegenation and the vindication of the local, but it
also exposes the use of a language that accentuates lyrical tones that infuse the
argument with a touch of spirituality (almost sublimity) which is appropriate to
the exhortative and enlightened intentions of the text. In any case, what is of
interest here is the delimitation of an existential territory (a cognitive
configuration saturated with emotional and ideological intensities) that
recognizes the coincidence of the lines of flight from the system (modernity,
capitalism, instrumental reason, grand narratives) in the configuration of new
spaces and forms of political and social action. The main features of this re-
configuration are wandering, hybridity, and the disarticulation of dominant
models. The figure constellated by the monster (perhaps a postcolonial hero?)
metaphorically concentrates many of these condensations of meaning that make
it possible to discern the inorganic, micro/infra-political proposals that avoid
systemic regulation with transgressive dynamics, the dislocation of spaces,
concepts, and values: “Indeed, the postcolonial hero is the one who continually
transgresses territorial and racial boundaries, who destroys particularisms and
points toward a common civilization…. Circulation is a global exodus, or really
nomadism; and it is a corporeal exodus, or really miscegenation” (Hardt and
Negri, Empire 363-64).
In this theoretical scenario, the line of flight is not an escape but rather an
alternative productivity; locality, the means of access to a universality-without-
attributes; deterritorialization, a form of reconfiguring and inhabiting space that
does not entail loss or lack but rather transgression, investigation, recreation; the
monster, a symptom-figure, an aesthetic and ideological dispositif that both
announces and represents a social becoming: “The new world of monsters is
where humanity has to grasp its future” (Hardt and Negri, Multitude 196).
The Werewolf and Political Power:
Agamben and Psychoanalysis
The multiple shadows cast by the figure of the monster extend across the space
of the community, creating a clandestine trafficking of signifiers that traverses
the web of society, intervenes in its operational protocols, and compromises its
teleology. In the thanatic scenario of our time, perspectives like that offered by
Roberto Esposito advocate for an affirmative biopolitics of life (not over life but
rather for life) that reestablishes the integrative bond proposed by Agamben
between bios and zoē. The monster is a critical moment, an ephemeral and
discognizant yet epistemically and emotionally intense embodiment, a punctual
instance of a becoming (animal/human), a materialized break, a rupture, an in-
between-place, an interstice through which primary modalities (forms) of
cognition and existential inclusion reveal themselves.
Torrano has studied the theme of the monster in politics, correctly drawing
attention to the figure of the werewolf deployed by Agamben in Homo Sacer:
Sovereign Power and Bare Life (1995) in his analysis of Hobbesian theory,
particularly his idea that “man is defined as wolf-man,” a concept utilized in
Leviathan as an image that represents the danger of anarchy: the war of “all
against all” (bellum omnimun contra omnes).8 This idea informs his conception
of the state, which is represented in the frontispiece of that essential work of
political philosophy as a sea monster whose hyperbolic presence dominates the
staging of the social body. As mentioned above in the present study, the
sovereign, portrayed as a giant riddled with diminutive human figures who
clamber over his body seeking protection, is the political monster that refers to
absolute power: an icon of totalitarian and totalizing conceptions of the state and
an expression of political “sublimity.” The image, which was reformulated by
Hobbes, dates back to the Bible and supports modern conceptualizations of
political power; however, its conceptual counterpart is the more obscure but no
less traditional figure of the werewolf, who represents the monstering of the
social.
As a domain in which the state of nature (which is not prior but rather
correlative to the state of law) reigns, the modern state emerges as a juridical and
institutional response to the threat of internal war contained in the masses in
which the will to power can always materialize like an animal instinct.
Understood as the latent risk of the rupture of community order, the werewolf is
employed as an element of symbolic energy that allows the idea of “internal
war” to cohere, a notion in which the fear of the Other and his or her possible
belligerence encourages the maintenance of a state strong enough to protect the
community from the permanent dangers of social chaos.
The ideological and philosophical context that recuperates these monstrous
figures and situates them within contemporary political connotations is the
theme of sovereignty and the constitution of the political institutions that govern
civic life. Agamben focuses on the very construction of the polis as the core of
civility where power struggles are staged and where the juridical principles and
practices that regulate the relations between life and politics are consolidated.
The concept of bare life elaborated by Agamben through the ancient Greek
distinction between the notions of zoē (natural life) and bios (individual life) is
essential to defining the transition from sovereign power to modern strategies of
political organization, which Foucault places at the moment of the emergence of
biopower. According to Foucault, the eighteenth century produced the transition
from the conception summarized in the dictum “kill or let live” to “protection or
rejection of life,” which points to new conceptualizations of the political subject
and the state in the modern era. Although the relation between sovereignty and
biopower has always existed as it is inherent to the definition of the political, for
Agamben this connection grows even closer in modernity, in which bare life, a
politicized form of natural life, comes to be the main protagonist of the politico-
ideological scene.
In the relations between nature and culture, animality and humanity, instinct
and reason, Agamben sees the unavoidable articulation of political thought and
the organization of the state. He argues that “the decisive political conflict,
which governs every other conflict, is that between the animality and the
humanity of man. That is to say, in its origin Western politics is also biopolitics”
(The Open 80). In his analysis of the concept of the animal, Giorgi, following
Agamben, underscores the “prácticas divisorias” of biopower, which “traza
líneas de diferenciación y jerarquías entre cuerpos y los inscribe políticamente”
(Formas comunes 22). Between these lines, the monster configures “vidas cuyas
muertes no constituyen delito.” According to this argument, the monster would
be “abandoned life,” “bare life,” that responds to a “political distribution” of the
value of life, which incorporates it as a line of flight.
Supporting his argument with Agamben’s concepts of homo sacer and the
“anthropological machine,” Jiménez-Belmonte refers to the unstable line that
separates humanity and non-humanity, explaining that “[s]egún el filósofo
italiano, hay que entender dicha máquina como el conjunto de mecanismos
simbólicos y materiales encargados de decidir el emplazamiento de la cesura
que, en el hombre, establece incesantemente la separación entre lo humano y lo
animal y produce así, en ciertos momentos histórico-científicos, determinadas
concepciones de ‘hombre’” (Jiménez-Belmonte 378). Although this critic is
primarily concerned with the representation of gypsies and cannibals in Baroque
culture, he also alludes to the figure of the werewolf, whose predatory and
anomalous character is associated with derogatory stereotypes about gypsies,
who supposedly harass communities in order to survive.9 As Jiménez-Belmonte
argues, according to Avramescu, the wolf had for centuries been defined as “the
common protagonist of anthropophagy” (Avramescu 92): “Cruel and sly, the
wolf is more than a beast; it is, to use Jean de la Fontaine's expression, ‘the
common enemy.’ To the wolf is connected not only an amorphous universe of
fear. It is, perhaps more than any other creature apart from man, a social
creature” (Avramescu 9).10
The monster is an apparatus of connection, a link that indissolubly bonds
politics and society, state and population, law and chaos, because it causes us to
think of the human condition itself: its moment of definition and change. The
monster is the place of the intensification of the social, the moment that
produces the inclusion of the Other and tests the system’s limits of tolerance,
experimenting with new strategies for the expulsion or incorporation of alterity.
Giorgi notes that the animal’s existence calls for a reflection on the notion of the
person, which, as Esposito reveals, is eminently relational, which is to say, it is
defined as the inverse of other forms of being and existing in the world, where
human attributes do not hegemonically dominate the field of signifiers. Giorgi
takes up Esposito’s position on the notion of the person as an unequal and
unstable category:
Straddling nature and artifice, the figure of the monster dramatizes the limit
between life and death, between bios and zoē, by tracing the limit, the outside of
the person understood as an ethical and juridical category that, although it seems
to belong to the domain of exteriority, crosses the boundaries of subjectivity and
the intricate webs of the social through processes of radical hybridization, which
puts into question the dominance of the human, its philosophical status, and its
limits. This can be seen in the diverse combinations of the monstrous. As
Torrano argues, for example, referring to the werewolf,
The division of life into vegetal and relational, organic and animal,
animal and human, therefore passes first of all as a mobile border
within living man, and without this intimate caesura the very decision
of what is human and what is not would probably not be possible….
But if this is true, if the caesura between the human and the animal
passes first of all within man, then it is the very question of man—and
of “humanism”—that must be posed in a new way. In our culture, man
has always been thought of as the articulation and conjunction of a
body and a soul, of a living thing and a logos, of a natural (or animal)
element and a supernatural or social or divine element. We must learn
instead to think of man as what results from the incongruity of these
two elements, and investigate not the metaphysical mystery of
conjunction, but rather the practical and political mystery of separation.
What is man, if he is always the place—and, at the same time, the
result—of ceaseless divisions and caesurae? (15-16)
The lycanthrope is thus one of the most powerful examples of the becoming-
animal and its multifaceted relations with the community, which it
simultaneously threatens and fascinates by unfolding its magical power over its
surroundings. It has strong connections to the idea of the simulacrum because
the hunter uses the wolf’s skin to camouflage himself and thus through
contamination obtain the features of the animal he invokes and hunts. According
to Cohen, ideas about the dissemination of wolf-like qualities among human
beings through being bitten are much more recent and emerged as part of the
process through which this figure became a modern signifier. However, the idea
that the individual can become a werewolf (or lobizón in some contexts) forms
part of modern imaginaries and incorporates a magical element into daily life,
condensing the emotional elements of fear, frenzy, desire, and anxiety. The
werewolf concentrates all the characteristics of the modern monster: hybridity,
the ability to spread its attributes through contagion, and its magical
connotations. It represents the uncanny, bringing together the element of
intellectual uncertainty and the emotional charge produced by the
defamiliarization of a corporeality that is simultaneously more and less than the
sum of its parts.
With this symbolic charge, the image of the werewolf deployed by Hobbes
and analyzed by Agamben is integrated as an icon within the discourses of
power in which it plays the role of an ideologeme that connotes both resistance
and anarchy, the latent power of the masses that even without self-knowledge
can unfold an inorganic energy and provoke unforeseeable reactions. The
becoming-wolf of man and the inverse ability of the wolf to appear in the guise
of a civility that has dominated its instincts and its will to power illustrate the
fluid and unstable quality of the social body and the currents that run through it.
The werewolf is event, scandal, spectacle, exceptionality, incomplete element
which negotiates its appearance and makes use of its transformations to provoke
forms of action that intervene in the social, integrating a radical alterity that
destabilizes the status quo. Hence, the figure of this “political monster” is useful
for theorizing the state of exception, which is connected to the themes of
sovereignty and the state as the source of “legitimate violence” (issues analyzed
by Carl Schmitt, Walter Benjamin, Jacques Derrida, Hannah Arendt, and others).
The werewolf’s location is both central (because it is an inhabitant of the
polis) and potentially marginal with regard to power, which exists in a constant
state of internal threat. Although the image of the Leviathan, a monster of
immense proportions and almost cosmic connotations, dominates the scene, the
werewolf lurks throughout the discursive space, as is its nature: it haunts and
harasses, it stalks and hunts down. The werewolf is conceived as pure potential
and is situated in the zone of in-differentiation where men and beasts are mixed
together in civic space. Citizenship is understood as a formless mass that only
the omnipotence of the state can contain and prevent from materializing its
becoming-animal against the stability of the political. For its part, this latter
maintains an unstable equilibrium, while the two parts that compose the human
being’s animal nature are not dissociated and lead to internal war. The werewolf
embodies the classical nature of the monster: it intervenes as event in the
community and announces, even if it is in a latent state, its disruptive capacity,
thus constituting a permanent threat to the social order and civic stability.11
Torrano correctly asserts that
As Torrano also notes, just as the Leviathan is located above the juridical
order, the werewolf is situated underneath it, both prior to the law and its greatest
offender. “El Leviatán y el hombre-lobo son dos figuras que se encuentran […]
‘fuera-de-la-ley,’ es decir, en una tensión entre límite y transgresión” (“El
monstruo político” 97). The werewolf makes the law necessary and transgresses
it, legitimizes the state of law and the sovereign state and threatens them, thereby
confirming the necessity of their existence. The order in which it moves is
eminently emotional, an affective space dominated by the fear of oneself as
constitutive of modern reason. The werewolf is an ideological operator, a shifter,
an assemblage, whose greatest quality is its ability to suspend all certainty and to
situate the cypher of the nature and institutionalization of the political in the
transgressive potential of the multitude.
The figure of wolf-man would come to have particular relevance for
psychoanalysis, reaching a pinnacle with the case of a Russian aristocrat and
patient of Freud named Sergei Konstantinovitch Pankejeff (1886-1979), who,
known as the “Wolf-man,” was treated for delirium and nightmares in which he
was being stalked by white wolves, which Freud interpreted as an expression of
a childhood trauma connected to having witnessed his parents having sex. This
case study—which is polemical, and according to some psychoanalytic critics of
Freud, poorly resolved—was taken up again by Freud’s biographer Ernest Jones
in his essay On the Nightmare (1931), in which the figure of the wolf-man
condenses for psychoanalysis a series of qualities connected to the death drive,
which circumscribes and intensifies its symbolic value. According to Jones,
The most prominent attributes which we may expect to have been used
for the purposes of symbolism are thus swiftness of movement,
insatiable lust for blood, cruelty, a way of attacking characterized by a
combination of boldness and cunning craftiness, and further the
associations with the ideas of night, death and corpse. As is easy to see,
the savage and uncanny features characteristic of the wolf have made
him especially suited to represent the dangerous and immoral side of
nature in general and of human nature in particular. (132)
Jones also found multiple points of contact between the werewolf and the
vampire:
He mentions that the three main qualities that characterize the werewolf and
configure its psychological meaning have to do with the belief in the mutation of
an animal into a human (and vice versa) with a tendency toward cannibalism and
with the creature’s nighttime wanderings. Additionally, the werewolf is
considered a melancholic being who illustrates the conflict of the split
personality and represents the anti-social aspects of the individual and the effects
of the torturous repression of impulses. Carl Jung interprets the werewolf as the
repressed shadow of primary drives that are hidden beneath the mask of
civilization. Its image leads to a reflection on the binary relations of
nature/culture and instinct/reason, and connects our world to an obscure
background in which we are all monsters. Archetype of the subject’s interiority
and of the collective unconscious, the werewolf brings about the confrontation of
the individual with the mystery of being and the darkest depths of the
unconscious. As Gardenour Walter suggests, the modern werewolf connotes
abjection and isolation; its transformation illustrates the alienation of the
individual who exists outside the community he or she inhabits, as “[e]ven in a
pack, we hunt alone” (185). The possibility of a terrifying metamorphosis in
which the human being is bodily transformed into this type of melancholic and
sinister creature has always threatened us.
Jones considers the vampire to be the monster with the richest and most
overdetermined meaning and with the most connections to popular legends,
superstitions, and beliefs related to sexuality. In the chapter of A Thousand
Plateaus titled “1914: One or Several Wolves?” Deleuze and Guattari return to
Freud’s Wolf-Man and consider the case of Pankejeff an example of the “generic
multiplicity” that illustrates the schizoid disarticulation of identity. This
multiplicity, which is proper to packs, incorporates the idea of the rhizome since
in an animal group every element varies and changes the distance that separates
it from the others, creating a dynamic of identity and change, transformation and
permanence, that functions as a libidinal current—“a band of intensity”—that
traverses the interiority of the subject: “Lines of flight or of deterritorialization,
becoming-wolf, becoming-inhuman, deterritorialized intensities: that is what
multiplicity is” (Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus 32).
According to Deleuze and Guattari, through a fixation on a predetermined
sexual interpretation, Freud overlooks crucial elements like the silent call of the
animal conversion (becoming), which is fundamental to the attitude the patient
assumes before multiplicity. Thus, they pose a question: “Which will prevail,
mass territoriality or pack deterritorialization?” (37), an interrogation that
touches on the condition of the monster itself as an assemblage and as a war
machine. The question also addresses the monster’s effectivity as a space of
intensification and différance and interrogates its operativity as a deconstructive
apparatus of power.
That the modern state not only does not eliminate fear from which it is
originally generated but is founded precisely on fear so as to make it
the motor and the guarantee of the state’s proper functioning means
that the epoch that defines itself on the basis of the break with respect
to the origin, namely, modernity, carries within it an indelible imprint
of conflict and violence. (Communitas 25)
The body defeats a poison not by expelling it outside the organism, but
by making it somehow part of the body…the immunitary logic is based
more on a non-negation, on the negation of a negation, than on an
affirmation. The negative not only survives its cure, it constitutes the
condition of effectiveness. It is as if it were doubled into two halves,
one of which is required for the containment of the other: the lesser of
two evils is intended to block the greater evil, but in the same
language. (Esposito, Immunitas 8)
The immunitary process that expels the monster is its other, constitutive half.
The monster reveals the evil in society and generates resistances that ultimately
contribute to the health of the community:
For life to remain as such, it must submit itself to an alien force that, if
not entirely hostile, at least inhibits its development. It must
incorporate a fragment of the nothingness that it seeks to prevent,
simply by deferring it.… In so doing, it retains its objective in the
horizon of meaning of its opposite: it can prolong life but only by
continuously giving it a taste of death. (Esposito, Immunitas 8-9)
This “taste of death” that the monster embodies, like the terror that it
provokes, is unavoidably based in the body. The re-centering effect that
biopolitics has on bodily processes and interactions creates a new semantics of
social relations. In the lectures published in Society Must Be Defended, Foucault
concentrates on the reflection and formulation of more modern developments in
postindustrial society and the consolidation of modernity as an epistemic order.
According to Esposito, the question that haunts this analysis revolves around the
semantics of the social body as the source of the interactions and negotiations of
power.
Contrary to a widespread theory tying the immunitary dynamics of
modernity to a procedure of gradual marginalization or emptying of the
individual and social body, the biopolitical register is actually built
around its renewed centrality. The body is the most immediate terrain
of the relation between politics and life, because only in the body does
life seem protected from what threatens to harm it and from its own
tendency to go beyond itself, to become other than itself.… By placing
the body at the center of politics and the potential for disease at the
center of the body, it makes sickness on the one hand, the outer margin
from which life must continually distance itself, and, on the other, the
internal fold which dialectically brings it back to itself. (Immunitas 14-
15)
Along these same lines, the concept of bioproxemics defines “la dimensión
simbiótica de la relación cuerpo-espacio, donde destacan procesos intensos de
corporeización del espacio y territorialización del cuerpo” (165). According to
Valenzuela, the biopolitical theory that emerged from Foucault and was
expanded by Esposito and other contemporary philosophers is concerned with
sociodemographic themes, as the population as a whole is the object of
biopower. This consideration reaches the human being as such: “no al pueblo
como sujeto colectivo de una nación, ni a los sujetos individuales” (Valenzuela
166). Negri’s work departs from the ancient notion of the monstrous as what is
excluded by society, even though modern reason alienates society and life in its
totality, systematically, through the politics of discipline and control that abuse
individuals’ rights and natures. Hence, monstrosity’s attributes have been
displaced to the point that it is characteristic of the multitude that becomes a
subject and elaborates forms of collective identity and political agency capable
of disobeying the existing “order.” “El monstruo es lo común, es potencia de la
ciudadanía y, en la medida en que el monstruo no es un afuera y encarna en las
luchas de resistencia, nosotros somos el monstruo” (Valenzuela 166).13 The
monster becomes an apparatus of potential bioresistance. However, Valenzuela
states that the monster’s ideological valence is in no way homogeneous or
consistent: it can question and eventually combat the logic of capitalism,
constructing itself as a positive vital or revolutionary force; it can even, through
its rhizomatic political and social recirculation, assume much more contradictory
and heterogeneous positions that do not necessarily solidify as an alternative
biopolitical energy.
For Valenzuela, the heterogeneity and contradictory nature of the social
exceeds the expectations and possibilities Negri discusses:
The body plays the central role in a system of mediations and adaptations, or
bioresistances from biopolitical elements related to sexuality, bourgeois customs,
consumption and so on, constituting itself as an inescapable component of the
relationship between the individual and power, the formation of identities and
institutional processes, individuality and nation, civil society and the state,
discipline and enjoyment. It is the principal basis of the processes of social
recognition and self-recognition. It is a key element for the configuration of the
triad of politics, life, and body through which one can think biocultural and
biopolitical functioning in contemporary society. Valenzuela clarifies that this
triad is being rewritten as being comprised of the concepts of politics, life, and
death due to the politics of criminalization and the strategies of the precarization
of life that are being implemented on a massive level in diverse contexts. The
(bio)political monster embodied in the power of state violence and the dispersed
and emancipatory monstrosity of bioresistance continue to struggle in hybrid and
ethically and politically tense situations. In these perspectives, the meaning of
monstrosity seems to explode in all directions: in the archaic sense of foretelling
future misfortunes or as punishment for sins; in the form of the sublimity that
gives the popular the mission of liberating, romanticizing, and homogenizing the
irreducible complexity of the social; in the identitary torsion that stigmatizes
difference; and in the utopian modality that celebrates the fragmentation and
inorganic energy of the popular in its spectral form of expression: destructured
content, signifier without signified, capable of encouraging new directions in
political thought.
In his essay “Necropolitics” (2003), Achille Mbembe describes the relations
between life, otherness, power, and death that constitute a fundamental aspect of
modernity:
Notes
1. On the influence of Spinoza on Negri’s thought, see Michael Goddard and Caroli and Grebowicz.
2. “Insofar as the multitude is neither an identity (like the people) nor uniform (like the masses), the
internal differences of the multitude must discover the common that allows them to communicate and
act together. The common we share, in fact, is not so much discovered as it is produced” (Hardt and
Negri, Multitude xv).
3. See Andrew Sharpe (32-33).
4. See Casarino and Negri, In Praise of the Common.
5. The biblical interpretations that supported Hobbes’s choice of this figure have long been the object of
debate. According to Timothy Beal, the Leviathan is the image of the “political sublime,” military and
religious authority, “political Body” (the body of the polis). However, in the Bible (specifically in the
Book of Job), the Leviathan appears as a chaotic monster or as the personification of the enemy who
threatens order. In Beal’s estimation, “Leviathan…is the climactic figure of overwhelming and
terrifying divine power against justice. It is an imposition of order without justice that puts the
insubordinate, even subversive questioning of the individual to rest.…the awful and awesome
imposition of peace with or without justice” (96-98).
6. De Caroli and Grebowicz note that the Leviathan was already present during the Renaissance, and they
cite Steadman’s essay “Leviathan in Renaissance Etymology,” which analyzes its predecessors.
7. De Caroli and Grebowicz compare the notion of the people to what they call “social flesh,” indicating
that the concept of multitude entails a “singular multiplicity,” not an organized social body, which is to
say, a social body domesticated by structures of power and control.
8. Torrano gives the following citation regarding the maxim in question: “En la Epístola De Cive (1642),
Hobbes escribe la famosa sentencia That Man to Man is a Kind of God; and that Man to Man is an
arrant Wolfe (Hobbes, 1987: 24), que retoma Bacon Verulamio, donde en el Estado el hombre es para
el hombre un dios: ‘homo homini deus’, mientras que en el estado de naturaleza el hombre es para el
hombre un lobo: ‘homo homini lupus” (“El monstruo en la política” 433).
9. See also Antonio Serrano González on the sociopolitical and literary uses of the wolf in European
Renaissance treatises and literature.
10. As Jiménez-Belmonte opportunely notes, Agamben also takes up the hybrid figure of the werewolf in
order to explain the relation between the homo sacer and the bandit: “What had to remain in the
collective unconscious as a monstrous hybrid of human and animal, divided between the forest and the
city—the were-wolf—is, therefore, in its origin the figure of the man who has been banned from the
city . . . The life of the bandit, like that of the sacred man, is not a piece of animal nature without any
relation to law and the city. It is, rather, a threshold of indistinction and a passage between animal and
man, physys and nomos, exclusion and inclusion: the life of the bandit is the life of the loup garouy the
werewolf, who is precisely neither man nor beast, and who dwells paradoxically within both while
belonging to neither” (Homo Sacer 105).
11. See Derrida, The Beast and the Sovereign.
12. On the role of fear as primal scene, see Esposito, Communitas 20-40.
13. Here, Valenzuela is glossing the concepts elaborated by Negri in “The Political Monster.”
Chapter 6
The texts in this book examine the different stages of a process that ranges
from “the social construction” of the “human monster” (Bogdan), and the
practices of “enfreakment” or monstering to the spectacularization of bodily and
cultural foreignness. The studies collected in Freakery analyze, along with the
discursive use of the symbolic constellation of monstrosity, the interesting
reemergence of the freak show in contemporary cultural phenomena like
bodybuilding, talk shows, medical documentaries, and pop music spectacles,
such as Michael Jackson. As a representative figure of the genre, Jackson
himself illustrated aspects of bodily mutilation, ambiguous identity, and the
theatricalization of difference. As David D. Yuan remarks in “The Celebrity
Freak: Michael Jackson’s ‘Grotesque Glory’”: “The theme running through
Jackson’s music videos, for example, is escape and metamorphosis: Jackson
metamorphoses from man to zombie, from man to animal, from man to cyborg
in an attempt to escape fans, reporters, or cartoon-like villains” (371).
Jackson’s performance, configured around notions of the stereotypical and
cartoonish, combines the representation of the monstrous, particularly in the
zombie dance and his transformation into a werewolf in the “Thriller” video,
with dance techniques including “the robot” and the moonwalk articulating
technological elements and bodily transformations that create a visually striking,
fluid, border, undecidable, countercultural image, especially for young
audiences.2 His thematic, situated in physiological metamorphosis, the occult
forces of society, and Gothic atmospheres, constitutes a hyperbolic
amalgamation of figures connoting abjection and eroticism. These latter are
replete with supernatural, phantasmagoric, or demonic elements that
complement Jackson’s horrifying appearance with the physical, countercultural,
and sexualized attraction that is expressed through his skill as a dancer and his
musical and choreographic abilities. Some representative examples of his music
videos in this genre are, firstly, “Thriller,” which premiered in 1983 and is based
on the title track to his album released the previous year. “Smooth Criminal”
(1988) is an electro-funk track produced by Quincy Jones, and the video presents
Jackson as an enormous robot, or “Dancing Machine.” Ghost (1996), a 39-
minute short film cowritten with Stephen King and directed by Stan Winston,
offers an atmosphere that combines monstrosity and phantasmagoria. These
works thematize the transfiguration and mutation of the human in images like
the living dead, the cyborg, or the ghost, which capture the imagination of vast
audiences around the world. The theme of fear and the appearance of anomalous
characters in groups, “families,” or hordes (ghouls) suggest an instinctive and
amorphous multitude that challenges status quo values, as do the processes of
bodily hybridization and the extreme transfiguration of the image, the treatment
of identity as a simulacrum—particularly race and sexuality as enduring spaces
of power that are deconstructed and interpellated through the parodic excess of
gothic punk. Thus, the theme of ambiguity is brought to new levels in which
biography and fiction, the monstrous and the human, are (con)fused.
In this sense, perhaps the most prominent aspect of Jackson’s teratological
production is the continuity that it establishes between the artist’s life and work.
In fact, in addition to the creative aspects that his audiovisual production
presents, artistic polemics about his public and private lives, combined with the
construction of his Promethean image, make reality and simulacrum
indistinguishable. Some of the elements of this construct include, for example:
his fear of pollution, which was notably expressed through his use of a surgical
mask in public; his fascination with real-life monstrosity; his erratic sexuality;
his use of a hyperbaric chamber (which looked like a coffin) for oxygen therapy;
and his 3000-acre Neverland ranch, located in Los Olivos, California.3 The
name of the residence combines the magical innocence of Peter Pan with the
sordid stories of drug use and child abuse that circulated, illustrating the drives
involved in the composition of this paradoxical, innovative, and malleable
counter-figure in whom many of the contradictions of our time were
concentrated.
The iconic imagery displayed by Jackson’s work refers, in a Janus-faced
way, to his own childhood traumas, to which he made frequent reference, while
it also points toward the market as a great machinery of the (re)production and
consumption of difference and anomaly. Victim and victimizer, human and
monster, childlike and terrifying, white and black, feminized and
homosexualized, sentimental and robotic, libidinous and naïve, Jackson used
pastiche to compose the pop version of the aura which faded away as an
expression of sublimity in late modernity, offering in its place the halo of
indeterminacy, mass-market glamour, and evanescent identity. His work
thematized ruin as a postmodern aesthetic by wagering the residual quality of the
self, which dissolves in a world that does not exist outside the prominence of the
monster. His face gradually disappeared beneath an incessant simulacrum, his
sexuality and his race were exhausted in unreality and an out-of-joint,
contaminated, and murky childishness that refuse to disappear and integrate
itself into a world populated by ghosts. His interminable becomings survive in
his music, and his image is glorified by the unending traffic of commodification
and consumption.
With all his originality, it is important to remember that Jackson’s work is in
some ways based in a genre with a long tradition going back to sixteenth and
seventeenth-century slavery (particularly in Haiti, the origin of the Caribbean
version of the zombie) and connected to popular legends that take up the themes
of exploitation, human trafficking, and the loss of territory as a consequence of
colonialism. These origins are also incorporated in the very etymology of the
word zombie, which, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, derives from
the Congolese words nzambi (god/spirit) and zumbi (fetish). However, the uses
and adaptations of the term zombie/zombi are more complex and reflect the
reincarnations and reterritorializations of this figure in different historical and
geocultural contexts.4
The interesting connection that exists between Jackson’s work and the
racialized theme of the zombie has not been studied as extensively as other
aspects of his artistic output. However, this relation makes it possible to take on
a much more political reading of Jackson’s imagery and the way in which his
own life illustrated racial conflict and the victimization of blacks in the United
States from the colonial period onward. His massively popular work brought the
topic of racial conflict out into the open (with a significant dose of glamour),
connecting his success to the whitening of his skin while obsessively
thematizing the process of his transformation, which always consisted of the
spectacularized (de)monstration/monstering of his own inner conflict. Jackson’s
dermatological condition, vitiligo, involves the loss of pigmentation and
functioned as a kind of prophecy of racial reconversion that affected his public
image, to which Jackson responded with an acceleration of the process, thereby
confusing reality and simulacrum.
Thus, the source of Jackson’s work (or at least his primary worldview) can
be reduced to the irruption of the monster hidden behind the mask of normality:
the terrifying power repressed by public identity, the apparition of vampires,
zombies, ghosts, and other monsters like an event designed to contest the social
and axiological bases of the dominant culture and to destabilize the equilibrium
of the status quo. One could even say that, more than any other theme,
repression is the primary topic Jackson continually revisited in his audiovisual
work: the repression of the black race behind the appearance of whiteness, the
repression of libido under sublimated or vicarious forms of sexuality, the
repression of personal maturity underneath the presentation of an eternal and
stereotypical childhood, and the repression of familial dysfunction and the lack
of social integration through the creation of hordes or gangs of zombies or other
similar characterizations featured in his impressive choreography, proposing
alternative forms of social presence. As we have seen, repression is a
foundational concept in the analysis of fear because it confronts us with aspects
of our personality and experience that we do not wish to face and which have
been relegated to the unconscious and disguised in the symbolic network of daily
life. Hence the combination of attraction and rejection that fear produces in us as
a partial recuperation of the repressed. The emotional and symbolic intensity of
the representation of the repressed in Jackson’s work alters the affective and
social rhythms in the fictional worlds in which those elements are inscribed,
provoking a sensorial and aesthetic impact that facilitates, and at the same time
trivializes, the concentration of this material which ends up being ideologically
coopted by the market.
Zombification and Social Consciousness:
George Romero’s Zombie World
One of the distinctive features of the zombie genre is the way it transfers the
theme of the cosmic monster to Earth, representing a degraded form of humanity
that keeps the narrative focused on this anthropomorphic quality without
appealing to more imaginative forms of hybridity and deformity. The zombie’s
monstrosity resides in its constant evocation of the human that persists in a
grotesquely residual form and in which the wondrous element that causes
attraction and sometimes delight in certain fantastic beings (mermaids, unicorns,
etc.) completely disappears, giving way to horror and disgust. In the zombie,
monstrosity is sustained ambiguity situated in an inescapable and eternal
interstice where death has ceased to exist and is replaced by a corroded and
persistent nature that suggests the possibility of humanity: existence without
consciousness, extreme alienation, the progressive decay of the body, the
decomposition of sociality, the embodiment of evil and its infinite reproduction.
Zombie culture centers on an extreme economy of devices and on the
process of the obsessive repetition of certain predictable and mechanized images
and behaviors. The production of fear is based in the similarity between the
zombie and the human, in their difference in identity. Thomas Fahy refers to the
aspect of repetition as a mechanism proper to the generation of horror and as a
device for the commodification of its products. Following Carroll, he insists on
the genre’s need to tell the same story over and over again but with variations
that make it possible to revive the conventions of the genre, de-automating the
reception and interpretation of the visual or literary narrative. This approach
supports the production of multiple (more or less effective) sequels that,
depending on the case, offer variants that confront the audience with a wide
array of possibilities for introducing difference in repetition.
In its modern form, zombie culture, which came to constitute one of the most
prominent phenomena of the culture industry of the twentieth century, takes as
one of its foundational moments William Seabrook’s novel The Magic Island
(1929), which was adapted for the screen as Victor Halperin’s White Zombie
(1932). Starring Bela Lugosi and Madge Bellamy, this independent low-budget
film maintained a connection to Haitian culture, where the story takes place.5 A
melodramatic and unoriginal production, the film’s principal merit is in having
introduced the theme of the zombie to the entertainment industry in an implicit
association with the theme of vampirism, which the film’s star Lugosi had
portrayed the previous year in his iconic interpretation of Count Dracula. In
addition, the film inscribes the theme of race in relation to colonialist
exploitation and develops a tale of love and violence in an atmosphere marked
by voodoo and supernatural elements and set in a sugar plantation worked by
slaves. The year The Magic Island was published was also the cusp of the Great
Depression, which generated a generalized sense of catastrophe and fear in the
United States—a very appropriate atmosphere for the reception of apocalyptic
narratives that reflected and sublimated collective sentiments. Once again, the
monster more or less implicitly interacts with society’s fears and connects them
to moments of crisis.
In its literary expression, the zombie theme is also connected to the work of
Richard Matheson (1926-2013), particularly his novel I Am Legend (1954), and
the narrative works of H.P. Lovecraft (as we have already mentioned), who is
considered the founder of modern horror fiction. Matheson’s novel, written
along the same thematic lines as Dracula, articulates the elements of war,
pollution, illness, apocalypse, vampirism, and the theme of the last man in an
existential narrative that analyzes survival, the meaning of life, otherness, the
dangers of technology, and so on.6 I Am Legend demonstrates the bond of blood
that exists between vampires and zombies, since in the novel the creatures
consume blood, cannot withstand sunlight, are repelled by garlic, and can be
killed by driving a stake through the heart. The process of the differentiation of
monstrosity is thus based in a series of continuities and innovations (difference
and repetition, in Deleuzean terms) that are registered within the teratological
domain, a space of moveable and porous borders.
Regarding Lovecraft’s work, his preference for representing “cosmic fear” is
particularly evident in “The Call of Cthulu” (1926), a text that presents the
canonical features of monstrosity centered on the figure of the sea god Cthulu,
which emerged out of an accidental meeting of disparate elements carried out
through the experiments of an elderly archaeologist and a young sculptor.
Utilizing the same characteristics of all monsters (hybridity, supernatural
attributes, the representation of evil, an evental, simultaneously unexpected and
prophetic condition), Cthulu constitutes the center of a world beneath the surface
that demonstrates how everyday life hides a terrifying and uncognizable reality.
This demonic creature that lives beneath the sea becomes an object of worship
with many followers, even though it constitutes a threat to humanity.
Some of the notable characteristics of Lovecraft’s work are the cosmic
dimension of monstrosity and the use of elements from science fiction in the
creation of emotionally charged atmospheres where fear and its transcendent
projection occupy a prominent place. His cosmovision, free of religious
connotations but with clear connections to mythology and scientism, contains
significant racist elements that manifest on different levels of his fictitious
world. Lovecraft’s narrative also explores the inside/outside of monstrosity, as
exemplified by his short story “The Outsider” (written in 1921 but published as
part of Weird Tales in 1926). With regard to the theme of the zombie, his novel
Herbert West: The Re-Animator (1922) functions as one of the foundational texts
of the modern phase of the genre. This book returns to the theme of
Frankenstein’s monster in its portrayal of the character Herbert West as the
inventor of a chemical solution that can revive corpses. Nevertheless, the
procedure produces violent tendencies in these beings trapped between life and
death and leads them to terrorize society.7
In 1943, under the direction of Jacques Tourneur, Val Lewton produced
another classic of the genre, I Walked with a Zombie, a film about the
experiences of a Canadian nurse in the sugar plantations of the Caribbean island
of San Sebastian.8 Set in this Dutch possession in the colonial period, the film
tells a story of racism, love, and supernatural forces connected to the practice of
voodoo. The zombie in this story is a woman whose evil condition is of
unknown origin and thus alternately attributed to a mysterious illness or to
“possession” by an Afro-Caribbean cult whose magic, according to many
interpretations, is based on the use of hallucinogenic herbs. Edna Aizenberg
approaches the zombie genre represented by White Zombie and I Walked with a
Zombie through the trope of hybridity and the analysis of the connections
between gender and class (or social condition), observing the implications of the
articulation of sexual desire, ethnic otherness, and colonialism. She correctly
notes that these films make no mention of the U.S. military occupation of Haiti,
which began in 1915 during Woodrow Wilson’s presidency and lasted until
1934, meaning that it was still ongoing during the period when White Zombie
was produced. In this context, the stereotypes of primitive, barbaric,
cannibalistic, and libertine societies in the Caribbean freely circulated as part of
the discourse of legitimizing the occupation and “civilizing mission” that
inspired it (462).9
Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert observes the correlation between aesthetic and
ideological elements in Lewton’s film. Shot in black and white, the film
highlights on one hand the association between the ethnic Afro-Caribbean
element with voodoo and on the other the protagonist’s whiteness “as a symbol
of authority.” The presence of a woman in the world of sensuality, mystery, and
exoticism stands out even more with regard to the film’s setting, a place that
long suffered from colonialist depredation.
The erotic relationship represented in these films and the figure of the
zombie as an alienated, interstitial, instinctive, and out of control identity
crystalizes the image of a hybrid carnality with strong symbolic, aesthetic, and
ideological value that can only be read against the backdrop of colonialist
domination and the “construction” of the otherness of the dominated. As
Aizenberg emphasizes, “Hollywood’s zombie is thoroughly enclosed within a
colonialist discourse that usurps history and identity. Here, hybridity menaces,
unmasking the fear of black and white intermingling, the terror of black (male)
bodies dominating whites” (462).
The politicized atmosphere of the 1960s gave way to a renewal of the
zombie genre, as it had already demonstrated its ability to create innovations that
could assure a certain representational adaptability within the model’s rather
rigid parameters, transposing this specific aspect of narratives of monstrosity to
different venues and diverse political conjunctures that nevertheless share certain
features such as inequality, racialization, and capitalist exploitation. Irven argues
that the zombie constitutes the dream of capitalism because it represents
submission to the master, which is to say, to a force of labor without ideology,
subject to manipulation, in which alienation has turned into a second, dominant
nature that abolishes memory and will. However, it also has the ability to
transform itself into a nomadic war machine, external to the state, and
characterized by a tendency toward anarchy and subversion, as the film Plague
of Zombies (1966), directed by John Gilling, illustrates. Produced in England,
the film makes use of the device of illness and contagion and transfers the figure
of the zombie from its peripheral, “natural” environment while maintaining the
sense of fear provoked by the specter of blackness that threatens the white world
of capitalism.10 It also represents the ideological element of voodoo that
intervenes in the social space of the colonizer, who now fears a reversal of the
history of domination with its predictable economic and political consequences.
This film is regarded as another work that prepared the way for the development
of the genre in subsequent decades.
On the basis of these predecessors, which have been readapted again and
again in new cinematic versions and different commodified forms
(merchandising, comic books, literature, music), the zombie genre acquired its
present form with George Romero’s film Night of the Living Dead (1968/1990)
and its multiple sequels: Dawn of the Dead (1978/2004), Day of the Dead
(1985), Land of the Dead (2005), and Survival of the Dead (2009).11 The mass
commercialization of the zombie began with its deterritorialization, which
effectuated its transfer from Haitian sugar plantations to Hollywood studios. This
process altered the zombie’s symbolic field by causing it to move from the social
space of industrial capitalism to that of contemporary capitalism, in which the
relations between productivity and consumption, and even the relations between
production and capital, have been surpassed by the acceleration and growth of
financial capital and the primacy of immaterial labor. According to Larsen,
These strange beings, at once alive and dead, grotesquely literal and
blatantly artificial, cannot be encompassed by any ordinary logic of
representation. In their compulsive, wavering, deorganicized
movements, the zombies are allegorical and mimetic figures. They are
allegorical in the sense that allegory always implies the loss or death of
its object. An allegory is not a representation, but an overt
materialization of the unbridgeable distance that representation seeks to
cover over and efface […] the “living dead” emerge out of the deathly
distance of allegory; their fictive presence allows Romero to anatomize
and criticize American society, not by portraying it naturalistically, but
by evacuating and eviscerating it. Allegory is then not just a mode of
depiction, but an active means of subversive transformation. (86)
In its paradigmatic form, the zombie film portrays apocalyptic settings beset
with destructive exogenous elements (radiation, epidemics, extraterrestrial
beings). Various social factors predominate in the cosmovision that informs the
zombie genre. The first is the fear of the destructive effects of technology, which
engenders realities that cannot be controlled. The second is the fear of subjects
who have been deterritorialized or alienated from their native environment and
thus constitute a social threat (refugees, political prisoners, people who have
been dispossessed or displaced, the marginal, indigent, and infectiously ill,
undocumented immigrants, exiles, the mentally ill, etc.), lurking in social spaces
and representing a latent challenge to security and the status quo. The third is the
fear awakened by the possibility of forms of existence in which the degree of
alienation bewilders consciousness, prolonging a state of collective, interstitial,
and degraded somnambulism that disseminates and indefinitely expands in time
until it covers the entire social body. Some authors, like Stratton, recognize the
element of racialization that appears in these scenarios as the fear of
miscegenation and the loss of the distinctive qualities of Western civilization.
This theme, associated with the genre’s salvific aspects, has begun to flourish
again recently (particularly since the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks),
indicating the fear of the arrival of exogenous beings that would threaten total
destruction (Stratton, Dendle, Kyle W. Bishop).
As Larsen argues, in Romero’s films, the zombie’s radical alienation is
eloquently expressed in its inability to speak and in the fact that its presence is
not the focus of the plot, nor does it represent the essence of evil: “it is a strange,
tragicomic monster that displaces evil and its concept: the zombie isn’t evil, nor
has it been begot by evil; it is a monstrosity that deflects itself in order to show
that our imagination cannot stop at the monster” (13). Other critics have noted
that Romero’s work brings about a fundamental inversion of the establishment of
monstrosity because, instead of expelling conflict and horror from the
community as an exogenous element, it attacks culture from within. In his films,
the problem is not the zombies but the “heroes”: the police, the military—that is,
the forces that maintain the system of discrimination, social exclusion,
capitalism, and militarization and whose triumph ensures the survival of that
system.
The very simulacral quality of these low-budget films crudely exposes a
fragmented cinematic discursivity as the condition of a world that is
irremediably falling apart and can no longer hide the signs of its degradation.
The “opacity of the zombie,” its “semiotic excess” triumphs in these contexts
due to the inherent weakness of the “order” that is trying to reestablish itself
(Larsen 6). In contrast, as Shaviro observes, in many horror films it is the
monster that is victimized, and this allows the viewer to identify with its
passivity and to become overwhelmed by its anomalous destiny (62). The
monster’s individuality is diluted in the passage to becoming one more element
of the stain of zombification that contains it and in which the zombie is the most
accomplished example of depersonalization.13 The borders between exteriority
and interiority dissolve in the zombie: in it, the agonistic quality of the social has
become flesh, and in turn the zombie replicates its characteristic attributes in the
environment that surrounds it. The forms of combatting the monster are
dangerously similar to the tactics of discrimination, xenophobia, militarization,
systematic violence, and exclusion employed by contemporary society (for
example: the construction of walls to contain the advance of the monster, the use
of military force to combat it, paranoia about its difference, opportunistic
manipulation of fear for the benefit of the system, etc.).14
Romero recognizes the satirical and political aspect of his films, in which the
zombie has the potential to represent any disaster or crisis because its very figure
and meaning illustrate more than anything the idea of catastrophe.15 Dunja
Opatić also emphasizes the fact that in Night of the Living Dead the zombie is
transformed into a common individual that nevertheless (as in I Am Legend) is
affected by the exceptionality of its situation and elevated to a proactive and
heroic position in an apocalyptic environment that resembles certain actual
events of the 1960s (the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert
Kennedy), as well as racist and bellicose attitudes and behaviors. Ten years later,
Dawn of the Dead is set in a shopping mall, making a clear reference to growing
levels of consumption and the reestablishment of power relations in capitalism.
The cannibal-zombie that reproduces itself as a social infection is reincarnated as
the consumer-zombie. Dawn of the Dead illustrates yet another moment of the
process of global saturation of social space because, as the film shows, when
there’s no more room in hell, the dead end up roaming the earth.
For its part, Day of the Dead offers a critique of Reaganism in the final
stages of the Cold War (Opatić 3). Here, the zombie goes from being a
representation of the myth of labor to staging the myth of war, or to propose (as
Opatić suggests, based on a reading of Deleuze and Guattari’s A Thousand
Plateaus) an alliance between the two:
In this way, the figure of the zombie is inseparable from the theme of
capitalism as a system of economic, political, and social exclusion, as a regime
of exploitation and dehumanization, as a form of reification of individuals and
communities, as the alienation of the subject/labor relation, and as the
reproduction of relations of inequality, race and gender discrimination, and the
incessant generation of consumption as a pseudo-participatory form of social
life. The zombie constitutes an iconic image that encompasses the spectrality of
capital and the unconscious presence of what Comaroff and Comaroff call the
“pariahs of the proletariat,” those subjects excluded from the productive system
and territorially displaced who, in the form of the living dead, make visible a
history that would otherwise be absent from the collective imaginary (“Alien-
Nation” 783). As Lauro and Embry argue in their “zombie manifesto,” this
character is naturally anti-cathartic—it offers no resolution, instead embodying
an endlessly prolonged conflict (94).
Land of the Living Dead (2005) is a satirical commentary on capitalism
which sharply inserts itself into the relation between race and class in an
allegorical critique of the global order and its contradictions set in the city of
Pittsburgh. John Lutz has analyzed the film and established a parallelism
between the critique of the system of privilege the film represents and the mode
in which capitalist society is conceptualized in Marx’s writings as a system of
unreconcilable interests and antagonisms. The movie reshapes the zombie’s
impact and symbolic meaning by multiplying its presence, converting it into a
mass—a multitude—of revolutionary potential capable of organizing itself
toward the end of social transformation. The zombie’s instinctive character and
its primal appetites are replaced by collective resistance to oppression
(represented in the film by the character Big Daddy). This character represents
the proletarian capacity to achieve organic forms of social consciousness and to
mobilize more effectively. Big Daddy is opposed to the character Kaufman, who
embodies the bourgeoisie and the oppressive system. The mechanistic
clumsiness of the zombie, individualized as an isolated excrescence of the
system, gives way to its ideological reinforcement, supported by numerical
increase and the qualitative leap to a cognitive and organizational level.
As Lutz argues, based on the codification of the “survival narrative,” the
movie exposes the subhuman conditions of the zombie masses that represent the
working class exploited by capital.16 As other critics (such as Carroll and Tony
Williams, whom Lutz cites) have noted, the film includes, along with a
denunciation of the complicity of the notions of race and class in capitalism, a
critique of consumerism and mass alienation, as well as a representation of the
center/periphery relation in its connection to both the interactions between the
United States and other nations and within the national and global space and in
local contexts. The idea, which the film explores on multiple levels, is that a
society based on exploitation functions as a barely living zombie mass.
Complementing this exposé is the factor of militarization, which, as Lutz notes,
refers to the consequences of the 11 September 2001 attacks and includes
elements of social paranoia like the closing of borders and xenophobia, forms of
collective dehumanization and alienation that confer onto the figure of the
zombie a clear and strongly politicized allegorical meaning. In this way,
McNally’s “dialectic of monstrosity” refers to the process by which the
unfulfilled expectations of the dispossessed create the conditions for the
emergence of a “rebel monster” that seeks to intervene in the social order,
utilizing the approach of “political anatomy” against the dominant system
(which can also be observed in Shelley’s Frankenstein) (70).17 The message of
Romero’s film is obviously not an optimistic one; rather, it is reflexive and
melancholic. What the film represents is the monstrosity of the system and its
dehumanizing legacy, which is to say, the monstrosity inherent to the structure of
capitalism. Nevertheless, the capacity of the masses to achieve forms of social
consciousness that would allow for the renewal of struggle remains latent.
As has been noted by other critics, the attributes of the zombie substantially
vary before and after Romero. However, according to Rosana Díaz-Zambrana,
the theme of alienated will and social control continues to be present.
Connected to the abject, the zombie dissolves the limits between the natural
and the human, between legality and chaos. For this reason, its image is
emblematically maintained as an indicator of a crisis of civilization which is not
only conjunctural but also systematic and which appears to have reached all
levels of social experience.
Notes
1. See Daston and Park, Beal, and Santiesteban Oliva.
2. For more on Michael Jackson, see Randi Taraborreli and David Yuan.
3. Jackson’s interest in real-life monstrosity was most famously expressed in his fascination with the
“Elephant Man”—both David Lynch’s film Elephant Man (1980) and the actual individual on whose
life it was based, Joseph Carey Merrick (1862-1890). Taraborrelli and Yuan confirm Jackson’s interest
in the film, with which he was obsessed, having gone to see it in the theater at least fifteen times. After
reading some books about Merrick and traveling to London to examine his remains, Jackson expressed
interest in acquiring his skeleton, which was in the possession of the London Hospital Medical
College. According to Yuan, the image of Jackson in his glass hyperbaric chamber is similar to that of
the Elephant Man in his glass display cabinet, and moreover, this similarity extends to their shared
condition as examples of anomaly and dis-identity and as object-beings that existed for the public gaze.
Jackson believed that his own struggle against the discoloration of his skin (vitiligo) in some way
constituted a differentiating—monstrous—feature, the effects of which increased through his constant
public exposure (375-77). Jackson’s passion for Merrick’s story also links him to another of rock
music’s greatest figures, David Bowie, who portrayed Merrick in a theatrical production directed by
Jack Ofsiss in the 1980s.
4. Some authors connect the word zombie to the Louisiana Creole word jumbie, which means shadow and
is related to the French term les ombres (shadows) (Rushton and Moreman, “Introduction” 3).
According to Sarah Juliet Lauro and Karen Embry, certain orthographic discrepancies help to mark
differences in the meanings of these terms, as well as in the worldviews from which they emerged.
While the Hatian zombi came from plantations and represents slave revolts, the zombie is related to its
importation to the United States and is connected both to the critique of capitalism and the fear of
communism (as in the film Invasion of the Body Snatchers [1978], directed by Philip Kaufman). The
zombie also represents viral contagion (as in 28 Days Later [2002], directed by Danny Boyle). “In its
passage from zombi to zombie, this figuration that was at first just a somnambulistic slave raised from
the dead became evil, contagious, and plural” (Lauro and Embry 88). George Romero is responsible
for this reincarnation of the zombi as zombie. According to Lauro and Embry, another future form
would be the zombii, a spectral and posthuman version that follows the dictates of mechanization
proposed by Haraway in her work on the cyborg, thus articulating other forms of hybridity that include
nonhuman elements.
5. For more on White Zombie, see Ann Kordas.
6. I Am Legend has been adapted into several films, including The Last Man on Earth (1964), The Omega
Man, (1971), I Am Legend (2007), and I Am Omega (2007). Matheson’s novel also inspired Romero’s
film Night of the Living Dead (1968). On the basis of these works, the theme of the zombie has been
popularized in different genres and continues to invade the market today.
7. Lovecraft’s work was the basis for the Re-Animator series directed by Stuart Gordon, as well as comic
books, video games, and music that uses the typically zombie-oriented theme of “re-animation.”
8. For more on this, see Edna Aizenberg.
9. Aizenberg bases her analysis on Michael Dash’s fundamental work, which examines the forms of
representation of Haitian culture in literature from both Haiti and the United States, starting in the
nineteenth century. Dash addresses the circulation of these stereotypes, which were crystallized in a
mysterious and primitive version of Haiti which persists even today, and examines the processes of the
rewriting of the derogatory image of national culture produced by Haitian literature.
10. On the connection between zombies and anarchy, see Elun Gabriel, in addition to Irven.
11. In Filosofía zombi, Jorge Fernández Gonzalo assesses the first film: “Vemos en este primer film de la
saga algunos de los puntos clave a la hora de manejar el fenómeno zombi. Sensación de agobio,
proximidad creciente de la amenaza, ausencia de razones que nos indiquen cuál es el motivo que ha
desplegado el apocalipsis” (20).
12. See also Larsen 16, where he takes up Žižek’s observation on the sadness of the monster (Žižek,
Looking Awry 22-23).
13. “Mimesis and contagion tend to efface fixed identities and to blur the boundaries between inside and
outside” (Shaviro 53).
14. See Dunja Opatić.
15. For example, see Romero’s statements in Cinema Blend, where he expresses his skepticism about the
new exponents of the genre, such as, for example, World War Z (2013), directed by Marc Forster and
starring Brad Pitt, in which zombies possess an accelerated mobility that contrasts with the traditional
representation of zombies as slow and unsteady. He expresses a similar opinion of the British film 28
Days Later (2002) and its sequel 28 Weeks Later (2007), both directed by Danny Boyle, which
elaborate the theme of contagion and contamination in a typical post-apocalyptic setting.
16. See Tony Williams and John Lutz.
17. McNally refers to this dialectic of monstrosity in the case of Shakespeare, who, through a polyphonic
system combines elements of popular culture, belief, and classical, primarily secular, culture, involving
a broad spectrum of possible forms of social consciousness. In the Shakespearean world, the monstrous
—frequently employed as a description—refers to an excess of individualism, the rupture of the bonds
of reciprocity. “Monstrosity thus takes the form of ruptures in social convention and obligation induced
by unbridled individualism,” an attitude that extends to the relation between the individual and the
body politic, as expressed in the following notion from Coriolanus (1608): “Ingratitude is monstrous;
and for the multitude to be ingrateful, were to make a monster of the multitude” (qtd. in McNally 62-
63).
18. For an exhaustive discussion of these aspects of pop culture in relation to the vampire genre,
particularly to The Hunger (1983) and other films that deal with similar themes, see Latham’s chapter
“Voracious Androgynes,” which uses many of the same references as the present book. Latham
especially pays attention to the theme of youth consumption and its intersections with vampirism in
literary, musical, and performative representations.
19. Rice’s narrative continues in a sequence of ten novels, including The Vampire Lestat (1985), the second
book of the series, which gave rise to musical adaptations and comic books. Rice’s novels elaborate,
among other things, narrative voice, producing clearly framed stories that circulate between different
narrators, including contradictory versions of the same events and other contrasting effects.
20. Joel Schumaker’s The Lost Boys (1987) is another example of the genre that elaborates the theme of
vampirism in a narrative that does not eschew comic elements while also refusing to abandon
predictable thematic and visual clichés.
21. The Bauhaus song, which is more than nine minutes long, was recorded in England in 1979 for the
Small Wonder label. Considered a key work of the gothic genre, its inclusion in The Hunger has
caused it to be forever associated with the redefinition of vampirism. This latter has continued to move
away from its folkloric roots as it becomes a global pop product around which a long-running
subculture has formed. The cover art for Bauhaus’s single includes an image from David Wark
Griffith’s The Sorrows of Satan (1926). These elements demonstrate the degree to which The Hunger
constitutes a concrete project of innovative inscription within the multimedia tradition of vampirism,
establishing a dialogue with key points of reference in different registers.
22. For more on The Vampire Lestat, see Latham 124-37.
23. At the time, the castle was the residence of Jimmy Page, the guitarist of Led Zeppelin and Bowie’s
friend. A similar experience occurred in the home of Glenn Hughes, the bassist of Deep Purple, where
Bowie claimed he “sensed malignant vibrations.” See Spitz and David Buckley.
24. See Anne Friedberg and Don Slater, both cited in Latham 34.
25. See Katherine Kinney and William Calvo-Quirós’s analysis, in which they examine this use of
monstrosity in relation to post-Cold War imaginaries of fear, particularly with regard to increased anti-
immigrant hostility and the demonization of the border zone.
Chapter 7
In the short space of two years, from 1998 to 2000, twenty million
more people fell into poverty, according to the UN Economic
Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean. That brought the
number of impoverished Latin American to 223 million, almost 44 per
cent of the population. Throughout the region, close to half the
population toils in the so-called informal sector, working for meagre
wages without any form of health care, pension-plan or unemployment
insurance. Little surprise, then, that stories of rapacious monsters
hunting for body parts have found a new resonance, particularly
amongst the poorest and the most disenfranchised.…As the health and
people of whole regions of the world are consumed by vampire-capital
from the North, as hunger and destitution haunt the lives of millions, it
is hard to dismiss such fables as fantastic. (McNally 172)
The Machinic Simulacrum
The integration of machinic, cybernetic, electronic, or simply technological
elements into the organic or into the conceptualization and representation of the
human is a long-running tendency which explores possibilities for the expansion
of the natural abilities of living beings. The illusion of being able to augment the
strength and capacities of the individual and, eventually, of the community is not
simply an idea taken from science fiction but rather a constant of human thought,
which is always intrigued by the question of the limit and the possibilities of
transgressing it. As with monstrosity, the machinic has no fixed connotations,
either positive or negative. Such attributes depend on the point of view, but also
on the functions that are assigned to those technological elements within the
semiotic totality in which they come to be embedded.
Asking, “Why are we so fond of monsters?” Dominique Lestel recalls that
the ideas of monstrosity and artificiality are part of the fundamental driving
questions of culture, in which religion and science simultaneously converge and
contend for the pursuit of knowledge. Both angles integrate conjectures about
the origin of the world and the laws that govern it. As Lestel argues, already in
the eighteenth century, David Hume (1711-1776) had established, in his
posthumous work Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (1779), that the world
is actually an artifact, a work of engineering, a machinic object that we only
know through its effects. According to Hume, there are substantial differences
between the living being and the artifact. While the human being has the
potential to produce infinite (even monstrous) worlds on the basis of his or her
own, the artifact is the prisoner of its being, of its facticity and the limits that
define its materiality. Monstrosity is inherent to the human. For his part,
Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646-1716) had already asked if monsters are
themselves a different species marked by anomaly. According to Lestel, the
monster belongs to the human species while also eluding it: “The monster can be
characterized as a singular living being who does not play the species game even
though he is at the root of it.... As humans we are not only monsters, but,
moreover, vectors of monstrosity” (260; emphasis in original).2
In a more modern articulation, the machinic is frequently associated with the
world of work, which is to say, with its status as an instrument for the
augmentation or refinement of material productivity. Even in this obvious
situation, evaluations of the connection between mechani(ci)sm and human
strength, automation and manufacturing production, vary within the same
ideological domain, as with Marxism, which, despite the importance it places on
the element of the machinic in the system of production also warns of the effects
these mixed processes have on social relations linked to worker activity and its
repercussions on the level of collective subjectivity.
In the “Fragment on Machines” in the Grundrisse, Marx argues that the
machine is a means for the production of surplus value, or in other words,
something that is in no way concerned with saving the time and energy of
workers but rather with the maximization of their exploitation. According to
Marx,
By the late twentieth century, our time, a mythic time, we are all
chimeras, theorized and fabricated hybrids of machine and organism;
in short, we are cyborgs. The cyborg is our ontology; it gives us our
politics. The cyborg is a condensed image of both, imagination and
material reality, the two jointed centers structuring any possibility of
historical transformation. (Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women
150)
Like the monster, straddling both history and myth, the cyborg belongs to
both dialectical materialism and psychoanalysis, both cultural anthropology and
marketing studies, communication and the cultural industry. It is also an
(id)entity whose social function is eminently political, which is to say, the
cyborg depends on the relations it establishes with power and its ideological
apparatuses.
In Latin America, the cyborg is above all a cultural metaphor that has
acquired literary, cinematic, and discursive materiality because it captures a
moment of epistemic inflection that, instead of functioning as an atavistic
remainder (as in the case of the monster), represents a line of flight—
psychologically, a flight forward—that gains its full meaning in a world in which
utopian thought has notoriously been weakened. Without the extreme
emotionality of the monstrous, cybernetic construction alters the human
intellectually and suggests the need to explore new forms of rationality or of
accepting the enigma of a world in which reason seems to have been separated
from the human.
One of the earliest examples of the representation of the cyborg is a text by
the Argentine physician, botanist, and geologist Eduardo Ladislao Holmberg
(1852-1937), titled “Horacio Ratibang, o los autómatas” (1879). The story,
which is of an anti-spiritualist orientation and influenced by positivism, is set in
Germany (the author’s country of origin), and explores the themes of artificially
created life and the double, which would receive much greater attention in Latin
American literature in the following century. Holmberg’s work, influenced by
Poe and Hoffman, is nevertheless not designed to produce fear; instead it is
animated by philosophical intentions with regard to nature and the mystery of
life, which already seems to include in its organic processes dynamics associated
with the machinic:
Unlike the hopes of Frankenstein’s monster, the cyborg does not expect
its father to save it through a restoration of the garden; that is, through
the fabrication of a heterosexual mate, through its completion in a
finished whole, a city and cosmos. The cyborg does not dream of
community on the model of the organic family, this time without the
Oedipal project. The cyborg would not recognize the Garden of Eden;
it is not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust. The main
trouble with cyborgs, of course, is that they are the illegitimate
offspring of militarism and patriarchal capitalism, not to mention state
socialism. But illegitimate offsprings are often exceedingly unfaithful
to their origins. Their fathers, after all, are inessential. (Haraway,
Simians, Cyborgs, and Women 151)
Peripheral Vampires
As a figure that expresses a direct contact with individual and collective
corporeality, the vampire is a monster whose classical incarnation is closely
connected to peripheral imaginaries where the integrity and organicity of the
social body constitute a symbolic domain rich in historical and ideological
connotations. As Hardt and Negri point out in analyzing “the monstrosity of the
flesh,” the vampire embodies a specific threat to the institution of the family
insofar as it represents an excessive, insatiable, and unconventional sexuality
that makes no gender distinctions nor has any regard for the norm of biological
reproduction. Vampirism spreads and reproduces through the bite between men
and women, races and individuals from different classes and ethnic backgrounds,
citizens and immigrants, legal or illegal, creating through this physical contact a
new species with an alternative lifestyle that maintains a special relationship
with death, space, and temporality (Hardt and Negri, Multitude 193-94). This
democratic promiscuity changes the rules of the order that governs the stratified
and exclusive condition of modern society. Vampires are outsiders, predisposed
to carnality, unproductive, and hedonistic.
Examining the relations between the concepts of the fantastic, the sublime,
and the popular, James Donald emphasizes how these categories converge and
overlap in the figure of the vampire, representing subjectivity as a space of
fragmentation and instability, a notion in which the consciousness of our time,
overwhelmed by the downfall of modern totalizations of the real, is able to
recognize itself. According to Donald, if many popular representations of the
vampire trivialize the symbolic contents of this classic figure of horror literature,
at the same time a certain sublimity sustains the aesthetics of vampirism as an
attempt to dissolve, or at least to destabilize, the canonical conventions of
bourgeois “good taste.” From this convergence of paradigms and categories that
articulate abjection and sublimity, the popular can be rethought as the social
domain for the expression of uncertainties, fears, and anxiety connected to
dominant social structures. As Todorov has argued, the fantastic is correctly
affirmed in the “fragility of the limits” between life and death, between the
human and the supernatural, the normal and the anomalous, the rational and the
irrational. The melodramatic register constitutes the discursive space most
capable of staging the mise-en-scène of modern sublimity, a category informed
by a nostalgia for totality and saturated by an excess of affect, ambiguity, and
uncertainty. The aesthetics of kitsch is the code most frequently used to express
these elements, illuminating the side of modernity that corresponds to the
popular, the heterogeneous, the hybrid, and the transculturated. Kitsch also
includes the use of mimicry as a representational strategy for adopting models
through simulacrum, irony, and parody.
This alternative perspective has been explored extensively in Latin America
in different aesthetic registers and with many different ideological connotations.
The theme of the vampire makes it possible to infiltrate such varied subjects as
the relation between the state and its citizens, sexuality, identity politics,
capitalism, consumption, esotericism, and scatology. It is connected to both
national contexts and migration, the status of women, social hybridity, and
mestizaje. If vampires are by definition symbolic constructions established in the
articulation of disparate realities and natures (which coexist in the same body
and whose attributes point to the human and the monster, the norm and its
transgression, to high culture and popular legends and beliefs), the adoption of
the trope of the vampire in Latin America reveals both a conjunction of disparate
elements that belie the concept’s European origins and its symbolic relocation in
peripheral contexts marked by the presence of indigenous cultures. In this
process, the classical figure of the vampire broadens its exoticism and redefines
its universality.
Ann Davies has proposed to think the vampire, in Foucauldian terms, as a
heterotopic and heterochronic construct, which is to say, as a spatio-temporal
reinstallation that, while reactivating core attributes of the concept and function
of the vampire such as they have been canonized in the cultures in which they
originated, incorporates elements associated with new contexts where the trope
is re-symbolized. Heterotopia includes the idea of the coexistence or co-
belonging of the disparate in a corporeality that adopts binaries and articulates
them for new purposes. It is a matter of the “collapse of distance” in which
clearly differentiated realities, places, or moments nevertheless converge.
The convergences of time, place, and reality can also be considered with
regard to racial otherness, as the literary examples analyzed above demonstrate,
since vampiric “infiltration” is achieved through cultural borders and ethnic and
gender identities, suggesting the idea that the subject’s position is neither fixed
nor invulnerable but rather unstable and fluid (Davies, “Guillermo Del Toro’s
Monsters” 398).
As part of the processes of the expansion of cultural markets and the
professionalization of the intellectual, from the beginning of the twentieth
century modernist aestheticism integrated into Latin American imaginaries
morbid and esoteric elements that defied conventional rationality, proposing the
exploration of the strange, grotesque, and demonic. These elements are
sometimes portrayed with traces of humor or in melodramatic contexts,
expanding the thematic registers and representational strategies in which Gothic
characteristics can be incorporated.
In line with currents of thought expressed in books like Edouard Schuré’s
Les grands initiés, esqueisse de l’histoire secrete des religions (1899),
modernism explored aspects of the occult, mainly Pythagoreanism, as an
alternative to Christian paradigms, recuperating symbols connected to abjection,
the macabre, and the demonic. In modernism, the figure of the vampire is
frequently utilized to connect regional imaginaries with transnational aesthetic
currents. The quest for totalization is registered on the ideological level and in
the process of composition itself, that is, in redefining the form and function of
literature as a philosophical investigation and not only as an aesthetic construct.
Rubén Darío offered numerous examples of these transcendental concerns and
the representations from which they originated. One example is his story
“Thanatopía” from 1893, in which he develops the themes of the living dead and
feminine vampirism in a Gothic atmosphere. Other authors subsequently
incorporated these topics into their narrative and poetic repertoires in the first
decades of the twentieth century.
The short stories of Juana Manuela Gorriti (1818-1892), an Argentine writer
who was based in Bolivia during the long exile she endured for her anti-Rosista
views, are also representative of the Gothic genre and exemplify the
transformations that the role of the intellectual continued to register as part of the
modernizing process. Her fantastic tales include: “Quien escucha su mal oye”
(1865), in which the author introduces elements of occultism and hypnotism in
elaborating the theme of gender and women’s rights, with the gaze that
constructs the other constituting one of the main axes of the story. Also, “El
guante negro,” “La novia del muerto,” and “El lucero del manantial” are
examples of de-realization in which love stories are articulated with supernatural
elements, specters, lost souls, or cases of dementia, which serve as apparatuses
for the establishment of erotic and sentimental themes and the exploration of the
place of the feminine in modern Latin American imaginaries.
At the turn of the century, the Argentine Atilio Chiáppori (1880-1947), who
was, as Sylvia Molloy puts it, on the edges of the Gothic genre, practiced a
horror literature in which gender, body, and monstrosity were intertwined in dark
and original anecdotes that included the figure of the vampire, sex crimes, and
the construction of sinister settings with even more unsayable and recondite
drives. His main works, Borderland (1907) and La eternal angustia (1908), are
connected through an intertextuality that links their plots and motifs, creating an
occult and passionate world that incorporates the exoticizing imaginaries of
modernism while adding psychological and scientific twists. Their plots
undoubtedly provoked emotional reactions by presenting not just terrifying
situations but also shocking visualizations. However, as Molloy indicates, they
point to a much larger and deeper problematization of the themes they cover,
lending themselves to diverse levels of understanding:
In the Andean region at the beginning of the twentieth century, the work of
Clemente Palma (1872-1946) stands out for its traces of the influence of Poe and
its modernist aesthetics, which are brought together in prose with frequently
esoteric and agnostic contents that broach themes like the grotesque, the abject,
and extrasensory exploration. Some of his most famous works are Cuentos
malévolos (1904) and Historias malignas (1925), collections of short stories that
incorporate demonic elements, vampirism, mythological characters, and
lugubrious and mournful atmospheres. His narrative defies the Christian
tradition, forcing it to compete with the demonic world, an aspect Miguel de
Unamuno criticizes in his preface to the first edition of Cuentos malévolos.
Unamuno expresses here his discomfort with Palma’s heretical irreverence and
with what he considers the Argentine writer’s mistaken approach to Christianity.
But the best explanation of the state of the relations between supernatural and
dominant knowledge is provided by one of Palma’s characters, the doctor who
explains to his patient the place of the occult in relation to modern rationality:
In 2013, the author Borka Sattler added another novel to the Peruvian saga of
Sarah Ellen, offering a new version of the character's appearances and
influences. The vampire clearly functions here as a figurative rhetorical form in
which its image is utilized as an expression of the pathos of romantic love,
imbued with pain and an eroticism oriented toward the consumption of the body
of the beloved. The aggressiveness of feminine sexuality and the anagnorisis
linked to desire in this modernist poem seem to illustrate Agustini’s sensual and
disruptive poetics, appealing here to an already established image in the Western
imaginary as a dark and supernatural symbol of illicit and morbid sexuality. The
vampire’s monstrosity is sublimated and expressed as a metaphor for an
uncontrollable passion in which desire and abjection are inseparable. Her
reference to the vampire’s dark nature and the ambiguity that surrounds it
provokes an emotional torrent of anomalous intensity that compromises the very
identity of poetic speech and which is expressed in the ontological questions at
the poem’s end.
Also in the Uruguayan context, the work of Horacio Quiroga (already
mentioned above) appeals to the subject of feminine vampirism. Quiroga’s work
“El vampiro” (1927), which is marked by emotional excess, drifting rationality,
and the constant presence of death, is situated at the intersection of several
worlds: madness, science, technology, imagination, and paranormal experience.
The story combines the spectral character of a woman extracted from her
original filmic image through a process of photographic manipulation and her
progressive transformation into a vampire. As in other stories by Quiroga, such
as “El espectro” (1921) and “El puritano” (1926), the narration consists of the
descent of rationality into horror (“la fina lluvia del espanto”), which saturates
the story. During this process, the connections between perception and cognition
become unhinged from the real. Permeated with eroticism and defying the limits
of intelligibility, the effect of the ghost is made stronger by the other characters,
as if the sucking of blood were preceded and complemented by the absorption of
all rational ability to deconstruct the phantasmagoric world built by literary
creation. Allusions to madness, post-traumatic stress, nervous breakdowns, and
the agonizing prospect of approaching death tinge the story with the sort of
“hypnotic power” that is also attributed to vampires as a form of seducing and
controlling their victims.12
There is no doubt that, along with its predecessors in previous centuries,
starting with modernism, fantasy literature and the representation of monstrosity
in general went on to constitute a poetic alternative in Latin America that has
constantly remained open although with moments of intensification and different
inflections in diverse historical and cultural contexts. The Antología de literatura
fantástica published by Borges, Bioy Casares, and Silvina Ocampo in 1940,
which assembled texts from world literature, was fundamental to the
establishment of the genre in the Río de la Plata region, as well as throughout the
South American continent.
Updating elements from earlier aesthetics and recuperating aspects of
Nietzschean philosophy and esotericism, modernist decadence emphasized the
macabre, the fantastic, and the uncanny as part of a cognitive and expressive
experimentalism that were later developed in different directions by the avant
gardes. The Surrealists vindicated the monstrous as an oblique form of the
beautiful that is not subject to any organicity or coherent aesthetic pattern unified
by earlier tendencies. In contrast to Romanticism, symbolism, realism, and so
on, Surrealism’s appeal to monstrosity constitutes a celebration of the disparate
and incongruent in constructions that do not shy from either sensationalism or
irrationalism in its effort to express a disruptive and innovative aesthetics. The
monstrous illustrates the return of the repressed, the artificial world induced by
hallucinogens, the levels of perception and imagination displaced or
domesticated by dominant rationality and bourgeois morality. In this sense, the
monstrous is part of the search for a more authentic and direct form of
expressing the impulses, feelings, and desires that symbolically manifest in
aesthetically and ideologically coded messages with malleable contents that give
shape to the non-conventional, the unclassifiable, and the countercultural.
The notorious imagery displayed in Surrealist painting through the
incorporation of elements that are traditionally excluded from intellectual
constructions is guided by a memetic rationalism that valorizes the faithful
reproduction of “the real.” Refuting this category, Surrealism opened the gates
through which “anomalous,” dreamlike, alchemical, and archetypical content
could be implemented, thereby emphasizing the mutations and reemergence of
levels buried by the principles of a formal, harmonious, and even conceptual
order. Works by the Spanish-Mexican writer Remedios Varo (1908-1963) and
the English painter Leonora Carrington (1917-2011), who also worked in
Mexico, her adopted home, illuminate these alternative domains from a
perspective that vindicates women’s knowledge as connection between the
spaces of cognitive and affective experience that the patriarchal order had
ejected from bourgeois cultural dominance. The monstrous opened the way for
these compositions (as well as for the photography of Kati Horna (1912-2000),
who worked in Mexico as well, and the literary production of the French writer
Anne Bachelier), heralding a transformation in the imaginaries and in the
interpretation and representation of the real that was definitively influenced by
two World Wars, Nazism, and the Spanish Civil War. As a point of reference in
this register the Surrealist sensibility of Invention of the Monsters (1937),
painted by Salvador Dalí (1904-1989), could not be more eloquent. Dalí himself
suggested that the painting expressed a prophetic portrayal of the monstrous that
foresees or announces major catastrophes after the Spanish Civil War.13
The element of monstrosity incorporates a strong performative and
aestheticizing charge through a gallery of images, concepts, and terms that form
part of the decorativism of the cultural symbology and atmosphere of the 1930s
and 1940s. Monstrosity integrates the literary and artistic repertoire that
accompanies new forms of economic, political, and cultural transnationalization.
Aesthetic representations had already been marked since the turn of the century
by U.S. hegemony and the cycle of unequal modernization that began in the
Latin American periphery with the transformation of the relations of economic
dependence. Mestizaje, on all cultural and social levels, transculturality, the
hybridity of themes and formal devices, and aesthetic experimentation
configured the basis of a poetics in which excess and anomaly convey the
unbelief in and disillusionment with modernity. The new aesthetics also
channeled countercultural impulses, and the philosophical search for a new
meaning of the social and the political. Art represents heterogeneity as an
exposé of not only the richness of the real but also of the limitations of reason’s
ability to undertake the classification and domestication of the products of the
intellect and imagination that exceed existing models of representation and
interpretation. Monstrosity, anomaly, irrationality, and instinct; the unconscious,
the mythical, the occult, the primitive, and the atavistic all find their place in the
avant-garde cult through cognitive exploration and the strange and unusual
products that it manifests to the senses. The dense and magical world of Miguel
Ángel Asturias and the effervescent narrative of Mario de Andrade (Macunaima,
1928) represent two aspects of this prolific convergence of disparate elements
that, carnivalizing and emphasizing the deep ethnic backgrounds of Latin
America, explore modes of integrating the vernacular and the foreign, the
unconscious and the conscious, the primitive and the modern, the “anomalous”
and that which is regulated by bourgeois normality. Many of these directions
were subsequently updated and reshaped in the grotesque and monstrous figures
of the neo-Baroque. The Boom also appealed to these aesthetics, sometimes
incorporating it into magical realist works as a hyperbolic device that
destabilizes the conventions of realism.
The work of Julio Cortázar (1914-1984), which abounds with extraordinary
and monstrous characters contain many references to magic, Gothic settings, and
canonical horror authors like Stoker, Poe, Lovecraft, and others. His early short
story “El hijo del vampiro” (1937), which circulated in a limited way for
decades, features as its protagonist Duggu Van, a vampire who died in 1060 and
who later falls in love with one of his victims, Lady Vanda, raping her and then
drinking her blood. The woman’s body transforms until it becomes that of the
child conceived during the vampiric embrace, revealing the kind of mutation that
is proper to monsters and that is described within the aesthetic register of the
grotesque. Gruesome, but not without traces of irony and parody, the story
shows the influence of Stoker, Poe, Anne Rice, and other practitioners of the
Gothic genre, both in literature and in film. Along those lines, Cortázar
establishes a poetic dialogue between Dracula and Ligeia in the “Soneto gótico”
included in the volume Salvo el crepúsculo (1984):
In the Andean region, the Shining Path’s acts of terrorism and the violence of
the Peruvian state have given rise to multiple representations in which
monstrosity assumes the form of predatory and sinister creatures already present
in popular imaginaries in which pre-Hispanic myths are reworked in
combination with contemporary conflicts. The zombie is combined with the
vernacular figure of the condenado, or the condemned soul, incorporating
mythical elements that announce crises or cataclysms with devastating effects
for the communities in which they occur. The Andean condenado incarnates sins
that have not been paid for, behavioral deviations that have left open a moral
debt worthy of punishment. Its supernatural force requires that its capture must
be a collective effort, demonstrating how this figure’s social character
concentrates a charge of negative energy that must be transformed into mass
action. La leyenda del condenado (dir. Melitón Eusebio, 2000) portrays the story
of a condenado within the conventions of horror cinema, thus giving form to a
belief that has little to do with clear descriptions of the real aspects of these
beings who have returned from the dead to expiate their sins. In La cholita
condenada (dir. Jaime and Walter Machaca Paye, 2012), a murdered woman
returns to avenge her own death. Jhonn Guerra Banda analyzes these films,
underscoring the mode in which the cinematographic reconstruction of deeply
rooted popular myths in cultural spaces ruled by orality manipulates and deforms
the original stories, which are otherwise ambiguous, variable, and unstable
because they are subject to multiple versions that continue to be transmitted from
generation to generation in non-dominant languages such as Quechua or
Aymara.20
The above-mentioned book Mostrología del cine mexicano provides an
account of a series of categories represented in Mexican national film
production, defining an aspect that clearly differentiates itself within the
canonical cinema of that country.21 Addressed to a mass audience, this
“mostrology” is defined on the basis of aesthetic propositions aligned with
alternative forms of camp, a modality defined by Susan Sontag (“Notes on
Camp,” 1964) through the concepts of artificiality, frivolity (which can include a
certain arrogance or condescension toward lower classes), naiveté, and excess.
The experiences of Camp are based on the great discovery that the
sensibility of high culture has no monopoly upon refinement. Camp
asserts that good taste is not simply good taste; that there exists,
indeed, a good taste of bad taste.… The discovery of the good taste of
bad taste can be very liberating. The man who insists on high and
serious pleasures is depriving himself of pleasure; he continually
restricts what he can enjoy; in the constant exercise of his good taste he
will eventually price himself out of the market, so to speak. Here Camp
taste supervenes upon good taste as a daring and witty hedonism. It
makes the man of good taste cheerful, where before he ran the risk of
being chronically frustrated. It is good for the digestion. (Sontag,
“Notes on Camp” 291)
In this sense, according to Sánchez-Prado, Del Toro articulates not only the
predictable anxiety caused by U.S. capitalism but rather, more precisely, the
sense of uneasiness that comes from the fact that “todos los lenguajes culturales
disponibles para dar sentido a la modernización neoliberal son
fundamentalmente anacrónicos” (Sánchez-Prado 54). For Fernández L’Hoeste,
Cronos instead sets up a fundamental tension between the search for eternal life
(the film’s central character is named Jesús, and not in vain) and accelerated
modernization.24
Jesús Gris, the film’s protagonist, is transformed into a vampire when his
blood is sucked from his body by a metal scarab that he discovers hidden in a
colonial statue of an angel that had belonged to the Viceroyalty of New Spain.
His humanity is transformed and at the same time perpetuated under the effect of
the monstrous, which promises Jesús eternal youth in exchange for his
assimilation into the world of vampires through the addictive consumption of
blood, which Kantaris calls “the biomedical paradigm” (56) proper to the
representation of the vampire. The connotations that derive from the main
character’s name, his occupation as an antiquarian, his advanced age, all confer
on this character a stateliness that amplifies the degradation that the practice of
vampirism imposes on him. According to Braham,
From the past but relocated in the modern era, the mechanical scarab in
Cronos is a materialization of the symbology of cannibalism and functions as a
metaphor of time and death, articulating the ideas of capital, blood, and
temporality, antiquity and the future, survival and perishing, vulnerability and
resistance. It is a mysterious object that hides its sinister power until the moment
when it is activated and it embeds its metallic legs into its victims’ flesh to suck
their blood like a vampire, converting its prey into a member of its species. The
combination of vampire and machine introduces the idea of the cyborg, thus
problematizing the concept of the body as well as the separation between the
human, the mechanical, and the monstrous. According to Ann Davies, faithful to
its name, the apparatus that is given the name “Cronos” makes time run
backward, causing Jesús Gris to become younger and to acquire more sexualized
attitudes. This heterochronic quality associated with the scarab demonstrates its
capacity to transgress the borders of the body and to penetrate it in multiple
ways, not only through sucking blood but also through the rejuvenating effects
of vampirism that affect both the body and the spirit, both space and time. Some
other characters in the film, who are from the United States, attempt to recover
the scarab and embody monstrous qualities that threaten the protagonist’s
humanity, as even in the process of his vampirization he retains positive
attributes toward life and love of family. Toward the end of the movie, the
destruction of the vampiric artifact provokes, as Davies notes, the dismantling of
the heterotopic body and facilitates the reestablishment of social equilibrium
represented in the restoration of the family relation.
As other critics have indicated, this film insists on the continuity between
humanity and monstrosity particular to the trope of vampirism, not in a
dichotomy between the concepts. Additionally, as Braham argues, “Cronos not
only refuses to observe the dichotomies that justify definitions such as
monstrosity and humanity, but insists on the legitimacy—even the sanctity—of
the vampire hero,” who ends up sacrificing himself and destroying the scarab
that had promised him eternal youth (From Amazons to Zombies 174-75). For
Kraniauskas, the religious elements Del Toro intentionally includes in the film
emphasize colonial transculturation, reinscribing it in the space of the everyday
and in the nature of a common individual, a demystified, “Grey” Jesus [Jesús
“Gris”]. In this sense, Cronos “operates a kind of double abstraction away from
both social context and generic convention, and in doing so, displaces the
cultural experiences of capitalism and ‘real’ and ‘symbolic’ cannibalism into the
reluctant everyday vampirism of Jesús” (Kraniauskas, “Cronos and the Political
Economy of Vampirism” 154-55; emphasis in original).
Focusing specifically on horror cinema in the line of inquiry opened up by
Robin Wood and Tania Modleski, Tierney has underscored the transnational
character of Del Toro’s work, which makes up part of the currents that bring
together film production in the United States, Spain, and Latin America, forming
a network of material and symbolic exchange. Tierney emphasizes Del Toro’s
use in Cronos of a series of tropes established by Hollywood vampire movies in
combination with “reterritorialized” Latin American myths, like that of the
pishtaco, which, while providing implicit references to pre-Hispanic cultures,
also connects vampirism to U.S. exploitation of Latin American resources as
part of the practice of imperialism. That said, Del Toro’s Mexican-Spanish
production is also transnationalized within Latin America, expanding its
references toward the Andean region, where the myth of the pishtaco originates
and has been most fully developed, as well as toward the Southern Cone, with
Federico Lupi’s performance and multiple references to tango as a cultural frame
for the melodramatic actions that take place in the film.
According to Jorge González del Pozo, “los fantasmas en los filmes góticos
contemporáneos reaparecen para acercar hechos alejados en el tiempo [y] llamar
la atención sobre realidades olvidadas” (65). The emphasis González del Pozo
places on the transnationalization of the film El espinazo del diablo (dir.
Guillermo del Toro, 2001), a coproduction that combines the Mexican director’s
talents with the production efforts of the Almodóvar brothers, makes it possible
to recall the relation (or at least the parallelism) between this commercial and
cultural link and the past colonial relation between Spain and New
Spain/Mexico. In this case, however, the social and political catastrophe linked
to the supernatural is not colonialism but rather the Franco dictatorship.
The mysterious environment portrayed in El espinazo del diablo is set in a
Spanish orphanage that has been attacked by Franco’s forces. Orphaned children,
living and dead, a bomb about to explode, the presence of a ghost, and in general
a landscape occupied by the latent threat of death, all create an atmosphere of
diffuse, virtually monstrous terror where spectrality reveals the dark side of the
human more than its antagonistic double. At the beginning of the film, the
question “What is a ghost?”—appealing to the core theme of repetition, which is
proper to the performance of the monster: a ghost is a tragedy condemned to
repeat itself—perhaps constitutes only a moment of panic that can never be
erased. In any case, as Freud asserts, it is a matter of something familiar that
suddenly becomes unfamiliar, something dead that seems alive, or vice versa. It
is an uncertainty that makes it impossible to decide what is what, an emotion that
suddenly remains frozen in time, immobile, held in suspense, as if it were a
photograph or an insect trapped in amber. The definition encapsulates not only
the nature of the spectral but also the very experience of terror that paralyzes
time in a quiet instant that eternalizes emotion.
For Ann Davies, El espinazo del diablo allegorically portrays gender
identities through the relation between masculinity, represented by right-wing
political forces in the Spanish Civil War and personified in the character of
Jacinto (Eduardo Noriega), and the threat represented by the monstrous and the
abject, expressed through the ghost child, Santi, whose incessantly bleeding head
wound reinforces his association with femininity and leftist resistance. As
Davies suggests, in what at times seems to be an over-reading of filmic subtexts,
Del Toro symbolically presents the horror provoked by the threat of
masculinity’s denaturalization in the face of the abjection that observes it.
González del Pozo’s interpretation focuses instead on political and social issues:
the ghost encapsulates the spectrality of the victims—it is the residual meaning
of history.25 It is in this sense that the film has also been framed in terms of the
“discourse of memory” (in which the Spanish film El espíritu de la colmena [dir.
Víctor Erice, 1973] is an obligatory reference) as a reflection on the past of the
Spanish Civil War and its social cost.26 The monstrous (the cinematic
representation of Frankenstein’s monster in the case of El espíritu de la
colmena), is the element that organizes a reflection on life and death that is
inevitably a meditation on history and politics. In El espinazo del diablo, in a
world predominantly consisting of children, Santi’s ghost announces an end that,
in the very dynamic of the narratives that stage the supernatural, is also a
beginning. In both representations, “order” is destabilized, the implicit pacts that
govern precarious forms of socialization are dissolved, and the anomalous body
precipitates the transformation of the social body, behind the cataclysm of which
the ideological strata that compose it seek to re-accommodate themselves. The
unrepresentable therefore takes on sublimated forms: horror is the mode in
which the imperative of memory and the necessity of forgetting are vicariously
articulated.
As a transnationalized cinematic experience that is also linked to local
political references in both Spain and Latin America, Pan’s Labyrinth
(Guillermo del Toro, 2006) makes use of horror (mixed with elements of fantasy,
magic, and myth) as an apparatus for establishing connections between the real
(history and the discourses it registers, the narratives of memory) and its
symbolic forms of visual representation.27 The fantastic operates here like a
Freudian illustration, as the symbolic network that visualizes the repressed and
represents the unrepresentable. Dreams de-actualize a reality that has already
exceeded the limits of its verisimilitude and whose comprehension obliges the
exploration of other registers and languages. The censored, the repressed, the
illusory, the delirious, and the ideological (in the sense of false consciousness),
all encounter a space where symbolic codification provides a pact of reading that
permits the circulation of signifiers, or at least of the indexes through which their
decodifcation can be attempted. In this ambiguous, open, unfinished,
atmosphere, the damned express their persistent and tormented presence in a
story that refuses to include them.
The film KM 31 (dir. Rigoberto Castañeda) premiered in 2007 in Mexico,
and includes such elements as telepathy, ghosts, and characters from Mexican
mostrology, like La Llorona. The themes of trauma, death, and mourning are
interwoven in a story that combines well-known features of the genre with
elements of national folklore and in which the monstrous functions as an
articulating element of a series of sub-plots that, according to some critics, give
the film a derivative, anecdotally saturated character. The film constitutes
another contribution to the exploration of intermediate zones between life and
death to the emotional world that permeates these zones and the beings that
inhabit them.
The zombie’s interstitial position between life and death is also connected to
two other important aspects of the construction of the monstrous as a symbolic
bridge between contingency and transcendence, between locality and
universalism. The first has to do with the fact that the dissolution of the borders
between life and death, staged in the figure of the zombie, cancels the possibility
of mourning and thereby perpetuates melancholia. Incomplete death impedes the
rituals that define the end of the cycle of life and incorporate it into the
experience of the individual and the community, and therefore it annuls any form
of purification that would permit the recuperation of the normality of life,
transforming this latter into an agonic, contaminated, and sinister form loaded
with negativity and bad omens. Secondly, on the political and philosophical
level, the figure of the zombie is related to the theme of the master and the slave
elaborated by Hegel in his project to comprehend universal history through the
dialectical method, providing an image that allegorizes the effects of domination
and its prolongation as coloniality in the modern era. The constellation of
political, historical, and ideological signifiers that articulate the figure of the
zombie function as a war machine that is both external and internal to the
system, that destabilizes it from within, that consumes it from its own territory in
the signifier’s sinister errancy throughout the extensive and alien space of
modernity.
In this way, the figure of the zombie, perhaps more than any other peripheral
monster, articulates the theme of domination, particularly the relation between
exploitation and subjectivity, body and soul, capital, labor, and sociality. A
biopolitical image of the control of the means of production and its devastating
effects on the social body, the atemporalized and transhuman dynamic of the
zombie consolidates itself as one of the prismatic faces of universal history: like
the face of capital that has existed for centuries without being conscious of itself,
dismantling the world, an inexhaustible and useless testimony to the alienation
of the individual and the ruin of civilization, a reminder of a slavery that was
never completely abolished and which changes form and takes on different
names throughout history.
According to Kette Thomas, the zombie causes us to reflect on the existence
of beings who possess an illusory, phantom-like subjectivity. The myth of the
zombie begins by undermining the notion that human subjectivity is
invulnerable, consistent, and unified. For Thomas, this beginning exceeds the
interpretation of the zombie as a denunciation of imperialism, because the
deconstruction of subjectivity surpasses the political and touches the very heart
of modernity, especially in peripheral regions. Reading the theme of the zombie
in relation to the story of Lazarus, Thomas suggests that what the zombie myth
focuses on is the notion of the subject itself and the meaning of rebirth.
Particularly in the case of Haiti, the figure of the zombie is constructed in
opposition to the biblical idea of resurrection as an act that demonstrates the
power of God, affirming instead an incomplete and degraded return to life as a
debased and dehumanizing experience. While Lazarus’s name confers
individuality and thus localizes representation, the anonymity of the zombie is
lost in an amorphous collectivity. In addition, the zombie’s lack of language
constitutes an undeniable fact in this process of degradation and radical
precarity.43
Many critics have emphasized the importance of the transnational flows of
symbolic capital that have connected centers and peripheries, in many cases
contributing to the production of versions and visions that are generally
subalternized by dominant knowledge. The theme of the zombie has made
possible the emergence of imaginaries that dispute this centrality and develop
new perspectives on the historical experiences of colonial and modern
domination: “fictions and myths like the zombie have contributed in a very real
manner to an alternative strategy of colonial and postcolonial resistance: the
counteroccupation of mythical space” (Lauro, The Transatlantic Zombie 25).
According to Larsen, as a subaltern figure subjected to social and mental
death, the zombie is situated at an epistemic limit that resets the biopolitical
relations between life and death, transforming it into a form of domination that
goes beyond the limits of the human: “the zombie considered as a subaltern born
of colonial encounters is a figure that has arisen then out of a new relationship to
death: not the fear of zombie apocalypse, as in the movies, but the fear of
becoming one—the fear of losing control, of becoming a slave” (Larsen,
“Zombies of Immaterial Labor” 8).
In Hegel, Haiti, and Universal History (2009), Susan Buck-Morss analyzes
the relation between the Eurocentric construction of this universal history and
the Haitian Revolution, specifically, the mode in which Hegel incorporates (or
displaces) historical knowledge in the construction of his immense theoretical
edifice on the nature of Being and the possibilities of knowledge.44
Buck-Morss’s analysis focuses specifically on the Jena period (1803-1806),
which encompasses Hegel’s thought prior to the Phenomenology of Spirit
(1807). She argues that “there is no doubt that Hegel and Haiti belong together”
(20), a paradoxical conjunction of immense political and philosophical
significance, particularly if we take into account the antithetical relation between
slavery as a system of domination and radical exploitation and the ideological
context of the Enlightenment, which constituted the ideological atmosphere of
the era and was articulated around the “discourse of liberty.” The main point
Buck-Morss emphasizes is the fact that, although the topics of liberty and,
ultimately, slavery theoretically concerned the first stage of the ideological
debates of the Enlightenment, reflection on actual slavery and colonial struggles
against these European structures of domination was re/suppressed in the
political and philosophical consciousness of the time.45
The peculiarities of this view of history, which strips the Haitian people
of any possibility of self-determination, are underscored by Hadriana’s
own escape from zombification, which implies that Hadriana, like
Madeleine in White Zombie, being white, beautiful, and rich, can
quickly recover her will, whereas the Haitian people, because they are
black, gullible, and poor, are trapped in zombiedom forever. This
depiction of the Haitian people as zombies negates any possibility of
their transcending a history of colonialism, slavery, postcolonial
poverty, and political regression because, as zombies, they are
incapable of rebellion. (Paravisini-Gebert 49)51
Other Caribbean authors have also explored the figure of the zombie in
relation to patriarchal society in stories inscribed within the paradigmatic themes
established by the works of Rhys and Depestre. Thus, for example, Ana Lydia
Vega portrays the zombie theme in El baúl de Miss Florence (1991), bringing
together the notions of slavery and the dependence and submission of women,
their civil “disappearance,” and the madness that always emerges as a line of
flight from inapprehensible and disturbing realities.
The Cuban author Mayra Montero also deals with voudou subject matter in
many of her works, from her first novel La trenza de la hermosa luna (1987) to
later texts like La última noche que pasé contigo (1991) and Del rojo de su
sombra (1992), which focus on the experience of Haitian immigration to the
Dominican Republic and the practice of Gagá by workers in the sugar cane
industry.52 Tú, la oscuridad (1995) portrays a hunt for wandering zombies who
have fled to the hills, recalling the escape of slaves from their masters. This hunt,
during which Thierry’s father is killed by a zombie (Romaine la Prophetesse),
indicates today the dramatic conflict between modernity and primitivism, a
formula that expresses the clash of cultures and the structures of capitalist
domination based on the control, and eventually the extermination, of life. The
disappearance of animal species, people, etc., is constant throughout the text, and
the zombies are a persistent sign of the death drive that traverses Caribbean
culture and society. Additionally, in the story “Corinne, muchacha amable,”
Montero portrays the zombification of the main character on the eve of her
wedding, a theme frequently linked to the idea of marriage as a structure of the
repression and social domination of women.53
Undoubtedly, the figure of the zombie is connected not only to the historico-
political settings of colonialism and slavery but also to modern imperialism and
globalism, in which the zombie portrays the errancy of an alienated but
widespread social consciousness and bodies display a potential for coherence
and resistance that threatens the spaces of power and their epistemic foundations.
A decayed corporeality on which death has left its mark but stopped halfway
through becomes a spectacle and a warning of the precariousness of life,
allegorizing in itself the futility of capital and the vulnerability of the social body
that has been submitted to processes of corrosion that alter its systemic and
organic qualities. As a biopolitical metaphor, the zombie cannot help but also
refer to the concepts of decolonization and the need to read history against the
grain, from the perspective of its victims, the excluded, the dispossessed, for
which lack and social inequality are elements that denounce the social cost of
capitalism and its unkept promises. Along these same lines, the figure of the
zombie represents the topic of communication (language as an absent attribute
that does not guide the transmission of feelings or knowledge but rather inhibits
it, leaving in its place a silence that implies resistance but also the repression and
suppression of subjectivity). The zombie is a survivor who, unable to recuperate
the totality of life and left with only its vestiges, is the ruins that testifies to lost
totality and a precarious, pathetic form of partial survival that prevents forgetting
and constantly reactivates historical guilt and the impossibility of mourning.
In the Caribbean, the symbolic domain of zombitude retains the primary
features of the monstrous: it stages and expresses historical catastrophe, it warns
of future inequalities, it gives form to an otherwise unrepresentable reality whose
definition exceeds the limits of normality. It proposes categories that dilute
biopolitical dualisms (life/death, consciousness/alienation,
hegemony/subalternity, homeland/exile, civilization/barbarism) and the cultural
borders between languages, races, classes, and territories. In the space of
zombitude, the experience of fear has more to do with the deleterious effects of a
life without the possibility of death. The zombie re-presents the prolongation of
exploitation, marginalization, dispossession—that is, the coloniality that infects
the utopias of modernization, order, and progress.
In the context of violent attacks against the lives and safety of documented
and undocumented immigrants, the chupacabras story concentrates both fears
and forms of symbolic resistance that, without shying away from irony,
constitute a critique of both the US’s cruel and exploitative system and the
discourse of otherness on which it is founded.
In Tracking the Chupacabra: The Vampire Beast in Fact, Fiction and
Folklore (2011), Benjamin Radford, who investigated official reports on
sightings of the chupacabras and witness statements, considers the possibility
that the science fiction film series Species, directed by Roger Donaldson,
constitutes the source of inspiration for both popular ideas and descriptions of
the chupacabras.55 Radford also believes that both conspiracy theories and anti-
American sentiments nurtured the belief in this monster that supposedly wanders
the outskirts of cities and attacks animals in rural villages and communities,
damaging the economy and the morale of the people.56
For its part, the jarjacha (from the Quechua qarqacha, an onomatopoeic
name that refers to the cry or call of this creature) belongs to popular Andean
mythology, particularly in the region of Ayacucho. An anthropomorphic
monster, with a body that generally has one or more human heads, the jarjacha
specifically incarnates the punishment of incest and the social exclusion that
results from it. This latter sanction was in practice during the colonial period as a
punishment for monks who, having broken their vows of chastity, engaged in
sexual relations condemned by the Church. The jarjacha has all the
characteristics of the monstrous: hybridity, physical anomaly, mutation,
aggressiveness, cannibalism, warning of evils, and disseminating fear. It is said
to appear only at night, to change its primarily human constitution, and to harass
communities in search of victims whom it punishes by sucking out their brains
or the fat from their bodies. In the form of a “survival guide in case of a jarjacha
attack,” Daniel Contreras writes, summarizing the terms of the Ayacuchan
legend:
Fowks asserts that this “cinema of resistance” carries out the task of
decentralizing information about the armed conflict and the interpretation of the
facts that constituted the internal war in Peru, offering a regional alternative that
can be counterpoised to the official versions that generally monopolize
elaborations on such themes. In many of its representations, the jarjacha
symbolizes killer instinct, gratuitous death, the fear of societal dangers,
repression, civil insecurity, forces that eschew reason, the defenselessness of the
population, terrorism, and systematic violence.
Following the studies of Juan Ansión on Andean mythical thinking, Cano
López has pointed out that the figure of the jarjacha also refers to the theme of
fertility, because the notion of incest entails a “sexualidad trastocada,
distorsionada, degenerada” (195). Additionally, the representation of the
jarjacha as a hybrid with the deformed body of a llama demonstrates the
continued demonization of incest because the llama, which appears in monstrous
form as the jarjacha, is in the Andean region traditionally associated with
procreative fecundity.
Topics like organ theft and the extraction of blood are almost naturally
connected to the history of colonialist exploitation and modern imperialism,
establishing a symbolic chain that is condensed in certain iconic figures who
capture the socioeconomic conflict and the forms of agency that develop on the
level of the community as resistance to the practices of power. The relation
between body and commodity, life and wealth, exploitation and cannibalism is
connected to biopolitical elements that have deep roots in the period of conquest
and colonization and which articulate race, class, and gender around problems
related to social control, the authority of religious, political, and economic
institutions, and the forms these practices take in modernity.
Authors like Steve Stern, Juan Ansión, Efraín Morote Best, Peter Gose,
Mary Weismantel, and others trace the origins of pishtacos, or kharisiris, back to
the practices of Spanish soldiers who would use body fat from Indians to treat
their battle wounds during the period of conquest. This same material is also said
to have been used by Bethlehemite monks in their medical work throughout the
colonies. Rosario de Prybil, Ansión, Eudosio Sifuentes, and Juan Granda Oré
have researched reports of vampiric activity in colonial texts dating back to the
sixteenth century, referring in particular (like Wachtel) to Cristóbal Molina’s
work, Relación de las fábulas y ritos de los Incas, which was probably written
between 1575 and 1576.62
In the seventeenth century, the myth of the pishtaco appeared to be
associated with the Bethlehemite religious order, as Ricardo Palma (1833-1919)
reported in a text dedicated to “Los barbones” (1889) in the seventh installment
of his Tradiciones peruanas, where he writes:
A los indios del Cuzco les hizo creer algún bellaco que los belethmitas
degollaban a los enfermos para sacarles las enjundias y hacer manteca
para las boticas de Su Majestad. Así, cuando encontraban en la calle a
un belethmita, le gritaban ¡Naca! ¡Naca! (degolladores o verdugos), lo
colmaban de injurias, le tiraban piedras, y aun sucedió que por
equivocación mataran a un religioso de otra orden. (64-65)
Specifically, there are references to the fact that the founder of this order,
Pedro de San José de Betancur, had adopted the habit of licking the wounds of
the sick in an act of humility and mortification that was probably interpreted as a
form of “medical cannibalism” (De Prybil 131), or simply as vampirism.63 The
pishtacos’ behavior has been portrayed ever since then with a wide variety of
variations both with regard to its actions and its habits as well as its physical
characteristics.64
According to Gose,
Body-part rumors are thus not just metaphors or symbols; they also add
a modern inflection to the Peruvian pishtaco stories (still current in the
Andes), according to which ladinos kidnapped Indians and extracted
grease from their bodies, sometimes for medicinal purposes but also to
grease guns or sugar mills or machines. In this story, what is interesting
is not the abstraction of surplus value from labor but the use of the
body to keep conquest and industry going. As one researcher has
observed in modern versions of the story, the grease is always exported
and even is rumored to have been used in space rockets. Nor are such
stories confined to Latin America—although in the United States body
exploitation is most often attributed to visitors from outer space.
(“Globalization and the Popular” 217)
In the pishtaco, the grease makes the colonial and the capitalist
machine function and requires the death of the donor. But the body-
parts rumors and the Andean stories demonstrate the local within the
global. The body is no longer for reproduction within the family
structure but rather a tradable commodity that can be exported to keep
the global elite going. (“Globalization and the Popular” 217)
The sketch provided by McNally is even more detailed, bringing together the
radicalized political spectrum of the 1980s, foreign debt, and the financial
circuits of global capitalism that form the basis for the mise-en-scène of Andean
vampirism.
The loss of control of the individual body and the social body is concentrated
in the figure of the pishtaco, as it constitutes a fertile space for the convergence
of elements from diverse origins. These latter stage the socioeconomic conflict
of the Andean region, particularly the way in which the popular is debated
before the exploitation of local elites and the transnationalized forces of capital.
The pishtaco discourse thus constitutes an anti-imperialist interrogation that
denounces class collaboration, the game of economic and political interests, and
the ethnic and racial prejudices that have been rife in the region since the
colonial era and which survive as coloniality in modernity. As Franco notes, it
demonstrates the downfall of Enlightenment discourse: the inability of
rationality and, even more, of instrumental reason to take notice of an excessive,
overflowing, demonized, and radically dysfunctional reality.
Themes such as sacrifice, tribute, retribution, and punishment, which are
articulated in the construction of localized forms of monstrosity, particularly in
rural contexts, as is the case of the pishtaco, illustrate aspects of social self-
recognition of different ethnic groups and indigenous communities. Additionally,
these constructs are symbolic apparatuses of social cohesion in segments of
society that have been historically victimized and demonized by power in its
regional, national, and international manifestations. In fact, the figure of the
pishtaco, strongly connected to the regional conception of the sacred (both in
popular perceptions of the issues of social injustice and inequality, exploitation,
foreign investment, etc.), thematizes an ecologically potent and multifaceted
continuity that forms the background against which the region’s politico-
economic problematic is outlined. The figure and activity of the pishtaco is
closely related to nature, the animal and human world, belief and social
organization, the body and technology, organic cycles and the machinic function
of the state and modernity as domains that are differentiated from but
inextricably linked to domination and the dismantling of indigenous society.
The becomings that take place among these diverse levels give the
indigenous world a fluidity and instability that turn out to be disturbing and even
incomprehensible to Western perspectives. However, they are also connected to
the cycle of life, the presence of the dead, and a relationship with the earth, all
notions which form part of indigenous cosmovisions. The movement between
one species and another, as well as mutations of form and meaning within the
same species, is related to the unstable and precarious constitution of the
monstrous, a category that is condemned to intermediacy for its incomplete,
transitional, and polysemic character. It equally suggests modes of circulation
that are radically different from but also convergent with capitalist modes which
recombine through sacrificial dynamics, as Gose notes, in an indissoluble fusion
between the region’s essential organic fertility and mineral wealth. Finally, it is
the regional dimension of global structures that stem from the concept of
sacrificial tribute (redefined in modern terms as foreign debt), effectuated by
local economies at the altar of capitalism.
The pishtaco’s existence and characteristics have been interpreted in some
cases as a derivative and monstered form of the sacrificial rites through which
pre-Hispanic communities carried out offerings to the apus or Andean deities
considered instrumental to bountiful harvests and the fertility of the lands. These
ritualistic practices, based in the idea of retribution, supported a cycle of
exchange that has been compared to capitalist commodity exchange with regard
to the circulation of value, the relation between offerings and gifts, and the
fetishization of elements considered to be central to symbolic transaction. This
latter relates the level of the human to the level of the divine, taking into
consideration the intermediate instance of the natural in which the first two are
articulated (Gose 297-98). As Gose has pointed out, although they are originally
the gods of the mountains, the apus can also be portrayed through animal images
(condor, hawk, puma, etc.). When they take human form, they are generally
blonde men with blue eyes dressed in elegant clothing and riding boots, like the
old hacendados. The phenotypical traits of power are attributed to the apu, a
polysemic figure in which the divine unites with social privilege, refers to
national and international types associated with wealth, in clear contrast to the
characterizations of the peasant masses who are subjected to and victimized by a
power that (con)fuses nature with divinity.
The subject of fat is portrayed in the symbolic context of the pishtaco with
the same centrality and importance that is concentrated in the element of blood
in vampirism: it constitutes the vital substance that articulates signifiers in which
bodily organicity has its counterpart in conformity with the social body, creating
a biopolitical parallelism that reaches its most significant points in the ideas of
exploitation, circulation, exchange, and accumulation. Canessa correctly
suggests that more than an element symbolizing life, fat should be seen as a
trope that articulates and mobilizes signifiers at different levels.
In Bellier and Hocquenghem’s analysis of the pishtaco, they offer the
following characterization:
For his part, Ansión argues in his study of the demonic elements of Andean
culture that
This becomes even more evident, as Kapsoli explains, in cases in which the
pishtaco is represented as a hacendado whose physical characteristics and
behavior condense local problematics related to the exploitation of indigenous
populations. In other cases, the pishtaco is portrayed as an old woman in rags or
as a North American professional. Nevertheless, the idea that established powers
support and even require the pishtaco’s activity underlies most popular stories
about the phenomenon. Kapsoli refers to Arguedas’s anthropological studies,
mentioned above, in which he recorded the popular belief that the Peruvian
government was directly implicated in the use of human fat for the lubrication of
railroad equipment:
In this way, economics and belief constitute the ideological axes of the
pishtaco construct. What stands out in the order of machinic thought associated
with this phenomenon is the idea that the spirits of the mountains possess
subterranean machines that transform, through some kind of alchemical
operation, the tributes of indigenous religious practice into gold and silver, riches
that would remain preserved beneath the surface of the earth, protected by locks
and gates (Gose 301; Quispe 34-37). The connections studied by these authors
reinforce the idea of a close relationship between nature, technology, violence,
and capital, obviously linked to the mineral extraction that has taken place in the
region since the colonial era. Furthermore, the association of the practices of
expropriation of the region’s resources with the exploitative use of labor power,
sometimes even to the point of death itself, is evident on both the individual as
well as the community level. As with other monsters, the violence that emerges
from an anomalous corporeality that has been transformed into an apparatus of
annihilation and a metaphor of organic consumption is related to politico-
economic situations that are difficult to assimilate from dominant epistemic
categories. In non-Western cultures subjected to marginalization and
(neo)colonialist depredation—in many cases speakers of non-dominant
languages imbued with syncretic thought and a frequently belligerent social
consciousness—belief in phenomena like the pishtaco provides an alternative
matrix for interpreting social reality and conflicts related to criollo domination.
With its own iconography, its own history, and its own symbolic texture, these
other narratives allow for the expression and symbolic representation of
common feelings, which these stories help to share on a collective level. They
not only lend support to an autonomous interpretation of social reality but also
permit the circulation of meaning, the socialization of experience, and the
strengthening of community bonds, as well as the development of strategies of
defense and cultural resistance.
The resurgence of pishtacos and their evolution into the myth of the sacaojos
occurred (as many authors have discussed) during the end of the 1980s, when the
internal war in Peru intensified and the level of violence increased in both cities
and the countryside, leading to a crisis of the state and a profound break within
social and political structures. Carlos Iván Degregori refers to the device of myth
as a mode of expressing the terror of a situation in which social recognition and
public safety have been substantially altered.70 According to Degregori, the
inhabitants of the zones most severely affected by military confrontations and
the terrorism of armed groups retain atavistic beliefs that channel popular
uncertainty and fear: “Acorralados, hechos añicos hasta sus más sutiles
mecanismos ‘racionales’ de defensa, las explicaciones míticas, por cierto
siempre presentes, saltan a primer plano” (111).
This interesting prolongation of the notions of power and depredation from
the politico-economic field to the sociocultural realm alerts us to the degree of
popular consciousness about the complicity between different “comfortable”
segments of society uniting against the dispossessed. The establishment of
structures of domination that dismantle indigenous society and annihilate the
individual bodies of groups subalternized by colonialism and modernity has its
counterpart in the imposition of epistemic and interpretative models that
denaturalize the popular. In Stipmson’s words, “during the economic crisis of the
1980s, when rural residents immigrated to urban centers, the pishtaco reappeared
as the sacaojos, white medical technicians in dark suits who steal and
dismember children. From time to time, male anthropologists have been
associated with the pishtaco” (xiii).
The reaction against the anthropologists implies a radical and to a large
extent conscious rejection of the forms of epistemic invasion and representation
of the dominated through disciplinary discourses elaborated “from outside and
from above,” which is to say, from positions that construct their object of study
according to preconceived paradigms and values. As a constellation of
meanings, the pishtaco represents, appropriately, these various levels of popular
exploitation and alienation.
In Sacaojos, crisis social y fantasmas coloniales (1991), Gonzalo
Portocarrero Maisch and Isidro Valentín Soraya Irigoyen recover the social and
political context that surrounds these reappearances, as well as the “mental
landscape” and the atmosphere of “collective psychosis” that accompanies this
supernatural threat, which seems to encompass all the collective fears of the
systemic crisis and processes of the internal war in Peru in the 1980s. At the
same time that they trace the sacaojos’s colonial genealogy, Portocarrero and
Soraya reveal testimonies from multiple informants who describe this figure’s
features and behavior along with its effects on the level of the community. As
these sociologists’ analysis shows, in a world where the dominant culture
imposes a desacralized, rational, and instrumentalist vision of reality, particularly
in times of crisis, alternative forms of knowledge open up new approaches to a
system of relations that threatens and alienates representatives of dominated
cultures and vulnerable and marginal segments of society. The sacaojos, like the
figure of the pishtaco, articulates magical thinking and medical discourse,
creating a biopolitical constellation in which power and the body are connected
in dynamics charged with emotionality. In the narrative of the sacaojos, political
discourse, moral principles, and juridical regulation intersect, creating tensions,
associations, and epistemic antagonisms with substantial ideological
significance. The continuity between pishtacos and the sacaojos lends
verisimilitude to the latter since “El sacaojos es el pishtaco transfigurado y
estilizado. Ambos son seres malignos, agresivos y perversos” (Portocarrero and
Soraya 17).
As these authors note, the phenomenon of the sacaojos functions on the basis
of “una actitud ambigua y conflictiva frente a la modernidad” (20) on the part of
the affected community members, which can be perceived, for example, in the
discrediting and demonization of the figure of the doctor, who is considered
capable of taking advantage of their patients’ bodies, particularly with regard to
children. This idea has racial and class-based connotations that can be traced
back to the era of conquest and colonization because “los médicos eran
identificados como blancos. La ciencia y la modernidad asociadas al hecho
colonial” (20-21). The presence of the sacaojos, “emisarios de la frustración y la
muerte” (Portocarrero and Soraya 21), especially intensified in Peru in 1988 in
the midst of a climate created by the conjunction of a national economic crisis,
the paralysis of the government, scarcity, labor strikes, and the suspension of
public service, in which the country ground to a halt.71 Another twist that
characterizes the sacaojos phenomenon is some versions’ inclusion of the
monster leaving a large sum of money to the family of the victim for the eyes it
has taken, thus attributing a reparative behavior to the sacaojos (Portocarrero
and Soraya 48) that also relates to the economic crisis and the conjunction of
sentiments about corruption, necessity, and guilt that this situation created on the
popular level. The figure of the sacaojos expresses the mistrust of the other
conceived in racial terms (Portocarrero and Soraya 44), directed toward
professionals from urban centers, generally from Lima (such as anthropologists
and doctors), and foreigners, who are thought to have the intention of penetrating
(individual and community) bodies and are perceived as invasive and predatory.
Ansión has referred to the transition of the pishtaco into the sacaojos in the
following terms:
Sex and race exceed and exacerbate the alienation produced by class,
resulting in a still more extreme alterity, which ultimately alienates us
not only from others but from our own bodies as well. This state of
utter estrangement is embodied in the ñakaq, who looks at the bodies
of his fellow humans and perceives only a stock of raw materials to be
turned into a profit. (263)
Both thanatic and interstitial like the zombie, the condenado is portrayed as
an individual figure, never in groups, which confers on it a sense of desolation.
Apart from obvious specific features, it shares physical characteristics, habits,
and effects with similar monsters: it is interstitial, it lives in a space of intensified
emotionality, and it transgresses the corporeality of others. However, in contrast
to zombies and vampires, it has only captured regional popular imaginaries. It
produces fear not only through attacks carried out against communities but also
through the danger that exists for anyone of the possibility of being subject to a
“bad death,” thus prolonging the expiation of guilt among the living through a
torturous, interminable desire that consumes it like fire. Like other monsters, the
condenado is situated in a spatial and temporal conjuncture, an in-between place
and an in-between time that keeps it a prisoner of its skeletal essence. It has lost
its flesh but maintains desire; it can make use of reason and language but only to
grasp its disgrace and manifest its rage. It is an image whose typical attire
inscribes it within a cultural and even regional locality, although its bones
connect it to the universal human condition—to its ruin. It desperately wants to
incorporate the Other but loses it with every mouthful, unavoidably wasting
corporeality. Affective intensification invades it and exceeds it, but the terror it
generates prohibits empathy, also causing its emotionality to get lost, leaving it
to its solitary and erratic trajectory.
Notes
1. The debate on the nature of the Indian and the legitimacy of the Conquest reached one of its pinnacles in
the papal bull Sublimis Deus (1573), issued by Paul III, which recognized the human condition of the
Indians and their right to convert to Christianity (which, it insists, should happen peacefully). At the
Valladolid debates of 1550-1551, several aspects of the right to and theological justification of the
Conquest and its methods of domination and conversion were presented. The main positions on the
topic were represented by Bartolomé de las Casas, in defense of the rights of the indigenous, and Juan
Ginés de Sepúlveda, advocating the right of the Spanish to imperial domination.
2. On the topic of monsters in Leibniz and Locke, see Look.
3. In this regard, see Beatriz Sarlo and Andrew Brown, Test Tube Envy. For his part, César Aira analyzes
expressionism and the figure of the monster in Arlt: “Arlt propone una conciencia estancada, en la que
no hay unidad alguna que pueda tomar la iniciativa de un movimiento, sino una multiplicidad que se
quiere amorfa, una acumulación de Monstruos.… Todas las aporías arltianas, la de la sinceridad, la
ingenuidad, la calidad de la prosa, se explican en este dispositivo de la conciencia que pretende asis- tir
a su propio espectáculo, el lenguaje que quiere hablarse a sí mismo, en una palabra, el Monstruo. Ese
dispositivo mismo es el Monstruo” (61). Aira reads monstrosity in Arlt as an expressionist search for a
world populated by poetic and abominable forms and characters where the corporeal and the social are
based in a synthesis of exceptional emotional intensity.
4. Cyberpunk is a form of symbolic representation derived from science fiction that articulates aspects
related to social decadence with elements of advanced technology. According to Lawrence Person,
“Cyberpunk characters frequently seek to topple or exploit corrupt social orders. Postcyberpunk
characters tend to seek ways to live in, or even strengthen, an existing social order, or help construct a
better one. In cyberpunk, technology facilitates alienation from society. In post-cyberpunk, technology
is society.… Classic cyberpunk characters were marginalized, alienated loners who lived on the edge
of society in generally dystopic futures where daily life was impacted by rapid technological change,
an ubiquitous datasphere of computerized information, and invasive modification of the human body.”
Additionally, this subgenre has mutated into “post-cyberpunk”: “Cyberpunk tended to be cold,
detached and alienated. Postcyberpunk tends to be warm, involved, and connected.” Examples of
cyberpunk film include Blade Runner (1982) and The Matrix (1999).
5. J. Andrew Brown has studied a corpus of “technological identities” in which the representation of the
human body complemented with prostheses or artificial organs is a metaphor for the social body
devastated by dictatorships and the effects of neoliberalism. The representation of torture or its effects
introduces the image of the body dominated by instruments that, violently penetrating the individual,
traumatically transform the latter’s emotional system and modes of socialization. In such cases, Brown
argues, the Father who tortures, far from being “inessential, as Haraway writes in the previous citation,
becomes a memory that the victims obsessively revisit.” The texts Brown analyzes include Piglia’s
Respiración artificial (1980) and Ciudad ausente (1992), Alicia Borinsky’s Cine continuado (1997),
Carmen Boullosa’s Cielos de la tierra (1997), Eugenio Prado’s Lóbulo (1998), Rafael Courtoisie’s
Tajos (2000), Edmundo Paz Soldán’s El delirio de Turing (2003), Carlos Gamerro’s Las islas (1998),
Alberto Fuget’s Por favor, rebobinar (1996), and Rodrigo Fresán’s Mantra (2001), among others. In
these texts, the theme of the posthuman is combined with questions relating to gender, memory,
politics, mass media, and urban violence, resulting in narratives that invite reflection on the topic of
subjectivity in times in which the paradigms of modernity have given way to globalized forms of
human relations and symbolic circulation.
6. My thanks to Sergio R. Franco, who provided me with material on Andean culture.
7. According to Honores, this information comes from Valentí Ferrán, “El origen etimológico del vampiro
moderno” 92-93.
8. Many of the texts collected in this anthology address the theme of the woman in relation to vampirism, a
subject that has been represented in Latin America, often by women writers, in a diverse array of
styles. The Peruvian anthology mentioned here includes stories by María Consuelo Villarán, Cynthia
Zegarra, and Leyla Bartet.
9. For example, Honores emphasizes the fact that La novia de Corinto (The Bride of Corinth) establishes a
connection to Goethe’s 1797 poem of the same name, in which he critiques Catholicism. The vampire
is the connecting element in both contexts, the Christian and the profane, as well as between the classic
version of the myth and its peripheral expressions.
10. With regard to La novia de Corinto, see the commentary on Calderón Fajardo in “Esta boca es mía.”
11. For more on this novel, see Calderón Fajardo’s “Doble de vampiro: delirio gótico y delicioso juego
filosófico.”
12. Braham mentions the influence of cinema on Quiroga, who considered this technology to be a process
capable of creating a “pure art” in which life could be faithfully reproduced. This fascination
influenced his own narrative techniques. See Braham, From Amazons to Zombies 139-41.
13. It is interesting to note the transnational dimension of these artists who converged around their shared
interest in the perspective of genre and teratological tendencies, which would be continued by, among
other artists, Guillermo del Toro in his cinematic work, which also operates on a trans-Atlantic level.
This director’s aesthetics in many ways recalls the tones and compositions of Varo and Carrington, as
well as the narrative perspectives from which the represented universe is illuminated. For more on this
subject in the case of Frida Kahlo, see Adriana López-Labourdette, “Mis cuerpos y mis monstruos.”
14. With regard to the way the novel addresses the body, Eugenia Brito has written: “Los cuerpos de El
Obsceno son cuerpos que sufren importantes mutaciones, por pérdida de órganos y facultades
(Humberto) o por adquisición de otras (Inés). Ortopedia que abre o cierra posibilidades del
conocimiento en un gesto no exento de poder. Pero este poder es un poder oprimido, un poder
generado ante la oposición y tiranía del dominante que impide todo movimiento, salida, o desarrollo,
generando un sistema de prisiones, muros a los que es preciso socavar o contrarrestar a cualquier
precio. Aunque sea la sangre” (76).
15. For more on Donoso’s work, see Isis Quinteros.
16. See Honores, “El zombi en la nueva narrativa latinoamericana” and “Zombis en Lima.”
17. Braham examines the influence of cinema on the work of Bioy Casares, for example, in La invención
de Morel (1940), where the relation between original and copy is explored along Benjaminian lines,
showing cinema’s problematic reproductive capacity to be one of its most salient features (From
Amazons to Zombies 142-43).
18. The main characters of these horror films make up part of the process of the “social production of fear”
that authors like Rossana Reguillo have studied from different communicational registers.
19. For more on this, see Maribel Cedeño Rojas and Miharu Miyasaca in their essay in Terra Zombi, edited
by Rosario Díaz-Zambrana.
20. For more on this, see Honores, “Monstruos de papel.” Countries like Argentina, Chile, and Colombia
have also produced examples of this kind of film in which apocalyptic or dystopian plots allegorize
national situations, political crises, themes of public safety, and more generally, social situations
wracked with fear, hopelessness, or mourning.
21. My thanks go to Ignacio Sánchez-Prado for bringing this text to my attention.
22. Sontag says of camp: “It is not a natural mode of sensibility, if there be any such. Indeed, the essence of
Camp is its love of the unnatural: of artifice and exaggeration. And Camp is esoteric—something of a
private code, a badge of identity even, among small urban cliques.…Camp is the consistently aesthetic
experience of the world. It incarnates a victory of ‘style’ over ‘content,’ ‘aesthetics’ over ‘morality,’ of
irony over tragedy” (“Notes on Camp” 275, 287).
23. This tradition of vampire films includes, for example, El fantasma del convento (directed by Fernando
de Fuentes, 1934), and El vampiro (1957) and El ataúd del vampiro (1959), both directed by Fernando
Méndez.
24. According to Fernández L’Hoeste, “La contradicción latente es la si- guiente: si lo ansiado es la
eternidad, y la eternidad contiene, en sí, la anulación del tiempo, y por ende, de una fe en el progreso,
en el desarrollo cronológico de las cosas, ¿cómo es posible conciliar la vida eterna con el
entendimiento de la modernidad? Para Del Toro, la solución al acertijo reside en invertir el paradigma:
frente a la eternidad, la modernidad no se convierte en una entelequia progresista, sino en un deterioro
acelerado” (41).
25. For more on this, see the essays collected in The Transnational Fantasies of Guillermo del Toro, edited
by Ann Davies, Deborah Shaw, and Dolores Tierney.
26. See Tierney and Antonio Lázaro-Reboll.
27. See in particular Paul Julian Smith’s review of the film.
28. Sheller cites bell hooks, who argues: “the commodification of difference promotes paradigms of
consumption wherein whatever difference the Other inhabits is eradicated, via exchange, by a
consumer cannibalism that not only displaces the Other but denies the significance of the Other’s
history through a process of decontextualization” (144).
29. For more on Jean Zombi, see Sheller 36 and passim.
30. While it comes from an entirely different cultural domain, the mummy is a predecessor of the figure of
the zombie. In spite of their similarities (both species are a type of living dead), their performances are
different. According to some, the zombie is “a mummy in street clothes,” although one fundamental
difference is the fact that the zombie generally acts in a group and in many cases practices cannibalism.
31. See Gilroy, Black Atlantic, particularly the first chapter, “Black Atlantic as a Counterculture of
Modernity.”
32. It is thought that in the case of Puerto Rico the belief in zombies is strengthened by the island’s
relationship to the United States, which is characterized by a history of exploitation and the “suction”
of resources (at first, humans but also coffee, sugar, tobacco, and livestock) by its powerful neighbor to
the north. Additionally, it has been noted that Puerto Rico was in the midst of a full-fledged AIDS
epidemic when a widespread fear of the chupacabras took hold of the island in the 1990s. Finally, the
influence of evangelical churches has introduced or intensified existing fears of the devil and other
maleficent beings. See Radford, 33-36.
33. See also Braham, “Problemas de género.”
34. Se Jáuregui 472.
35. The treatment of the theme of the zombie is inscribed within the broader field of voudou or vodou—a
system of belief primarily practiced in rural Haiti and Jamaica—notoriously stereotyped,
sensationalized, and racialized in what has been called “Voodoo,” which signals the reduction of the
concept to its most vulgarized and marketable modalities within the domain of popular culture and the
entertainment industry. The element of Hoodoo is prominent in the notion of Voodoo, referring to
magic of African origin that was sometimes combined with Native American elements, for example in
Louisiana, where transculturated forms of these practices continue to be developed and refined by
Haitian immigrants. Thus, it is a highly syncretic, alternative symbolic field to other, more Occidental
discourses, beliefs, and ideologies like Christianity. Defined by orality and the transmission of
transculturated legends, myths, and stories, voudou integrates collective imaginaries, affirming itself as
a biopolitical narrative whose spiritual components are closely related to bodily practices, social
behaviors, linguistic uses, values, and conceptions of family, community, sexuality, life/death, power,
etc. Configuring a cosmovision with a wide reach throughout society, voudou has also been
characterized by its interpellative ability, functioning as an anti-colonial, anti-slavery, and anti-
imperialist political discourse and more generally as a war machine external to the state and the
regulated and dominant forms of socialization and community organization. For more on Voudou,
spiritualism, and other Caribbean religions, see Marguerite Fernández Olmos and Lizbeth Paravasini-
Gerbert. One of the classic books on the theme of the Caribbean zombie is Tell My Horse: Voodoo and
Life in Haiti and Jamaica (1938), by the African American anthropologist and novelist Zora Neale
Hurston (1891-1960), a hybrid text that analyzes the relations between race, class, and gender in
connection with the theme of the zombie and labor. For more on this, see Rita Keresztesi.
36. Davis’s work is fundamental to the field of study concerned with zombification and particularly with
the procedures and substances used in the induction of this prolonged somnambulist state associated
with zombies. According to Davis, tetrodotoxin is one of the key elements responsible for the
production of these effects and the primary substance in the composition of the zombie dust that
induces zombification, specifically the initial “death,” as the process of “resurrection” is attributed to
other procedures. This hypothesis has been widely debated and discredited by other anthropologists
who specialize in herbology and medical ethnography.
37. As David Inglis has remarked, “The victims are those individuals who have transgressed certain
community norms—such as getting rich at the expense of one’s family and neighbors—which the
secret societies monitor and police in the interests of social stability in rural Haiti” (43). As Inglis also
emphasizes that in Haiti fear of zombies does not exist; what exists is the fear of being turned into a
zombie.
38. According to Inglis, the polemics surrounding Davis have their basis in the fact that he dealt with the
theme of the zombie in an ontological way (as if the zombie effectively existed) and not only as a
representational problem that broke with certain academic and disciplinary protocols.
39. Dash also criticizes Davis’s lack of self-consciousness about his anthropological othering, his reductive
attitudes, and the ahistoricity of his constructions.
40. As Braham notes, the Tontons macoutes, Duvalier’s secret police, were commonly thought of as a
repressive zombie (that is, monstrous) force devoid of all sensitivity and empathy.
41. Farmer, a legendary doctor who worked for many years on the AIDS epidemic in the Haitian
countryside, published his work under the title of The Uses of Haiti, with an introduction by Noam
Chomsky.
42. On the subject of errancy in Glissant, see Dash, “Exile and Errancy” 152-62 and Glissant.
43. Along with the themes of Lazarus and resurrection, Thomas elaborates on the concepts of illness and
purity, which add an air of importance to the interpretation of subjectivity in the zombie’s construction.
44. Buck-Morss’s ideas on Hegel first appeared in an issue of Critical Inquiry in 2000 in an essay
considered to be an intellectual event, constituting a sign at the end of the millennium of a fundamental
revision of historiographical protocols in general and of Hegelian criticism in particular. However,
Buck-Morss’s proposed critique yielded a series of reactions and criticisms that specifically attacked
her positions on the topics of universal history and dialectics, as well as her adherence to the concept of
a Western modernity that foretold the possibility of alternative or peripheral modernities that diverged
from dominant modernizing models with a Eurocentric orientation and origin. She was also criticized
for a certain romanticizing tendency in her analysis and her questioning of disciplinary problems in
history and philosophy that prohibit understanding of the contradictions and paradoxes that affect the
process of historical interpretation. For more, see Nick Nesbitt, Philip Cunliffe, and Alyssa Goldstein
Spinwall.
45. See, for example, Buck-Morss’s considerations of Rousseau and Diderot’s thoughts on slavery and of
the racism that explains their silence about the concrete effects of colonialism.
46. See Lauro, The Transatlantic Zombie, specifically the first chapter, “Slavery and Slave Rebellion: The
(Pre) History of the Zombi/e,” 27-63.
47. According to Buck-Morss, “voudou practice was pushed to the margins, an embarrassment for
‘modern’ Haitian elites, yet it has remained a way of manipulating the poor peasantry, hence a source
of power for political oppositions of every persuasion” (Hegel, Haiti, and Universal History 138).
Buck-Morss studies the convergence of voudou and freemasonry both in regard to the operation of
each practice (their religious and symbolic aspects) and their character as secret societies. See Hegel,
Haiti, and Universal History 119-33.
48. As Buck-Morss argues, this notion is based in the ideas of Walter Benjamin, for whom “allegory was
the mode of perception peculiar to a time of social disruption and protracted war, when human
suffering and material ruin were the stuff and substance of historial experience” (Hegel, Haiti, and
Universal History 127).
49. Achille Mbembe argues in “Necropolitics” that “Slave life, in many ways, is a form of death-in-life. As
Susan Buck-Morss has suggested, the slave condition produces a contradiction between freedom of
property and freedom of person. An unequal relationship is established along with the inequality of the
power over life. This power over the life of another takes the form of commerce: a person’s humanity
is dissolved to the point where it becomes possible to say that the slave’s life is possessed by the
master. Because the slave’s life is like a ‘thing,’ possessed by another person, the slave existence
appears as a perfect figure of a shadow” (Mbembe 21-22).
50. The “petit bon ange” refers to the shadow of a person’s body that must be set free so that this
individual, once dead, will not remain trapped in the world of the living. According to Fernández-
Omos and Paravisini-Gerbert, “Zombification continues to be perceived as a magical process by which
the sorcerer seizes the victim’s ti bon ange—the component of the soul where personality, character,
and volition reside—leaving behind an empty vessel subject to the commands of the bokor” (129). In
the petit bon ange reside the elements that make up one’s personality and thoughts. Without a
relationship with the loa (a saint or lesser divinity in voudou religion), the petit bon ange loses its roots
and is left to wander, running the risk of being appropriated by a sorcerer and transformed into a
zombie. The gros bon ange, on the other hand, is the vital energy that all humans share, which enters
the body at birth and abandons it at death, when it reunites with the other vital energies in the grand
universal source of life. For more, see Joan Dayan.
51. As a counterpoint to Depestre’s novel, Paravisini-Gebert highlights Pierre Clitandre’s work, In la
Catédrale du Mois D’Août (1982), which attempts, through a grotesque representation of the social
body, to portray the struggle to recuperate history and the regenerative aspects of voudou (53-56).
52. Originating in Haiti under the name of rará, these festivities take place during Holy Week and began in
voudou temples from which they spread throughout the population as celebrations of syncretic beliefs
accompanied by sensual and satirical dances and songs. These rituals have been assimilated in the
Dominican Republic, where they are known as Gagá (a word indicating mental illness), providing an
example of peripheral transculturation in which body and spirit are submitted to the effects of
emotional breakdown. For more on rará and Gagá, see Antonio Benítez Rojo, José Francisco Alegría-
Pons. On Montero’s work, see Fernández-Olmos, “Trans-Caribbean Identity.”
53. This story is included in Cuentos para ahuyentar al turismo, edited by Vitalina Alfonso and Emilio
Jorge Rodríguez. On “Corinne, muchacha amable,” see Paravisini-Gebert, “Women Possessed” 51-52.
54. According to Calvo-Quirós, the chupacabras can be considered the result of the economic policies that
“suction off life” on a global level, exemplified in the case of Mexico with the NAFTA treaty and in
the case of the US with attacks on the “welfare state” and anti-immigrant policies (212-13). In the
context of the situation of immigrants in some states, like California, the emergence of the
chupacabras uses this telluric symbol to express the movement of populations to hostile urban
environments.
55. With a female protagonist named Sil, the movie combines elements of traditional monstrosity with
sexual themes, questions about identity, and aspects related to genetic manipulation. Commenting on
the series in the context of other science fiction movies of the same era, Susan George argues, for
example, that the character of Sil can be considered a kind of feminine Frankenstein’s monster because
of her intensely sexualized orientation toward procreation.
56. Radford’s book has been criticized for disqualifying popular belief in the chupacabras. His analysis
begins from a perspective that is ideologically distanced from the phenomenon in question and
informed by a condescending attitude toward the popular classes who believe in it. This tendency
manifests, for example, when he cites the arguments of folklorist Thomas Bullard, an expert in UFOs
who compares Aztec human sacrifice to the belief in vampires, chupacabras, and other similar
monsters without sufficiently contextualizing (as Calvo-Quirós argues) the cultural differences,
religious meanings, and historical specificities of each phenomenon. In fact, Radford does not hide his
skepticism about the testimonies he examines and about the actual existence of the chupacabras, which
he treats as a popular superstition that demonstrates an “epistemic deficiency” in the communities
where it takes hold. According to Calvo-Quirós, “In Radford’s case, the Chupacabras are utilized as a
mirror, and as a synonym for immaturity and irrationality, and ultimately as a tool to perpetuate racial
oppression through the manipulation of discourses around reason, progress, modernity, and to
maximize productivity and to justify racial-based land dispossession” (224). Although Radford’s
condescending attitude is evident, some of his observations (which Calvo-Quirós also criticizes—for
example, the anti-American sentiment that is embedded in the belief in chupacabras as well as in the
belief in pishtacos) are undeniable in the cases he analyzes, in which anti-imperialism (the reaction to
what is seen as cultural invasion and the exploitation of resources by transnational companies) forms
part of Latin American history and social consciousness on different levels. I believe that it is evident
that this well-founded perception of reality is one of the elements that the pishtacos and chupacabras
narratives elaborate and metaphorically represent, not due to a lack of understanding of reality on the
part of oppressed segments of society but rather precisely because of these communities’ profound
grasp of the forces that are active in every situation.
57. José Carlos Cano López gives other explanations for the jarjacha’s inability to see itself reflected in
mirrors: “La incapacidad de poder verse reflejado en un espejo responde a dos ideas claves: el
desdoblamiento y la ausencia de alma en el caso de un condenado a muerte. La idea del
desdoblamiento nos indica que la persona ya no es la misma, más bien ahora en su cuerpo se albergan
dos nuevas personalidades. El espejo que típicamente refleja a quien se mira en él, en este caso no
refleja a nadie en particular. En el caso de la condena a muerte la interpretación es que un quarqacha es
un muerto en vida, ha perdido su alma, impidiéndole verse reflejado en un espejo. Este hecho molesta
al quarqacha porque le recuerda su condición de muerto viviente” (185). Cano López also connects the
figure of the jarjacha to the image of the Shining Path, especially with regard to the guerilla’s inability
to establish a productive link with society, and consequently to the exercise of violence as the erratic
search for public action as a “means that justifies the ends,” since the mission of the jarjacha is
supposedly to punish those who have committed incestuous crimes. See Ansión, Desde el rincón de los
muertos, and Cano López 189-90.
58. Other authors refer to the pishtaco as “slaughterer” or “Indian-killer.” Radford also mentions the
Andean belief in the “white ogre,” which is related to or interchangeable with the myth of the pishtaco.
59. See Moraña, Arguedas/Vargas Llosa for an analysis of a series of critical positions related to the ideas
of hegemony and modernization in the Andean region.
60. In this novel, Vargas Llosa incorporates cannibalism and figures like pishtacos, mukis, and apus, thus
combining magico-religious elements into the political background and promoting (according to some
critics) an irrationalist vision of Quechua culture, a perspective that reveals the writer’s outsider status
in relation to Andean highland society and his predilection for an archaism of which he was otherwise
critical, particularly with regard to Arguedas’s work. In Vargas Llosa, the monstrous, the ghostly, and
the atavistic are associated with barbarism, that is, the telluric forces that oppose modernity. See
Moraña, Arguedas/Vargas Llosa, particularly the chapter “Archaism as Floating Signifier.”
61. On the representation of the pishtaco in Vargas Llosa’s work, see, in addition to Bortoluzzi, Jeremías
Gamboa Cárdenas.
62. Juan Granda Oré points to this same text by Cristóbal de Molina as the first account of the activities of
the ñakaq in the Parinacochas province, known today as Ayacucho (Ansión 116). Ansión and
Sifuentes’s article is more exhaustive, examining “La imagen popular de la violencia a través de los
relatos de degolladores,” going back to Inca Garcilaso and other literate colonial figures who reported
on ritual sacrifice and extraction of fat, blood, and human flesh in the Inca Empire.
63. The Bethlehemites were members of the first religious order formed in the Americas, the Order of the
Brothers of Our Lady of Bethlehem, founded in Guatemala in 1656 by the Spanish missionary Pedro
de San José de Betancur. The Bethlehemites’ mission was to administer medical aid to the indigenous
population and to alleviate poverty. It was suppressed in 1821, by which point the Order had founded
numerous hospitals and medical aid centers in different regions of the colonial world. On the medical
aspects of the pishtaco myth, see Rosario De Prybil, who connects it to pre-Hispanic methods of
treatment, the theme of sacrifice, and European traditions.
64. Ansión, Carlos Iván Degregori, Efraíni Morote Best, and Mary Weismantel (among others) all refer to
contemporary sightings and testimonies about pishtacos.
65. This passage from Gose is slightly different from the gloss Weismantel provides: “The ñakaq is no
more a representation of the evils of capitalism than are the apus, but like them makes the amoral
assertion that production, power and riches demand organic tribute, the transcendental assimilation of
the ruled. I would suggest that the ñakaq articulates an erotico-religious desire for transcendence in the
face of power more than an economic analysis of it, or an ideology or political resistance to it. Why
else would the fact that capital has so little interest in directly exploiting the Andean peasantry only
heighten its imaginary need for their grease?” (309). Gose’s conclusion here regarding the search for
transcendence in relation to the theme of sacrifice is less convincing, in my opinion, than his analysis
of the pishtaco phenomenon itself.
66. On the therapeutic and pharmacological uses of fat, see De Prybil 131-32.
67. The Amazonian variations of the pishtaco myth add elements that are useful for the reconstruction of
the historical references the figure channels. According to Bellier and Hocquenghem, “La máquina que
extrae la grasa gota a gota en la Amazonía recuerda el procedimiento de extracción del caucho por los
seringueiros, y por la vía del símbolo evoca una de las explotaciones más mortíferas de los indios por
los blancos, en esta región de la Amazonía (Hardenburg). Los Mai huna cuentan que en esa época
(1890-1920) los ‘patrones’ se divertían suspendiendo los cuerpos por las manos para balancearlos en el
vacío con la punta del machete... Estas imágenes como tantas otras, aún vivas en las memorias indias
muestran claramente de qué manera los indios se representan las conductas de los blancos” (55).
68. As Gose notes, the same detail about machines from the US was also reported by Jan Szeminski and
Ansión in their study “Dioses y hombres de Huamanga.”
69. De Prybil also claims that some places associate the pishtaco with popular festivals and with the
Christian calendar, particularly the feast of Saint Bartholomew, 24 August, also known in some areas
as “día del pishtaco” (126).
70. There exist numerous references to the fact that in the context of the violence of both the Shining Path
and the state, the former often disguised themselves in Peruvian military uniforms, thus making their
position in the conflict unrecognizable. This put indigenous and peasant populations into a state of
confusion that changed their decisions with respect to what kind of attitude they would take toward the
conflicting groups. The pishtaco’s mutation and mimeticism, which allows it to take the shape of a man
or a woman, change ethnic characteristics, etc. is comparable to the indefiniteness of social and
political identities during the period in question and allegorizes the lack of certainty and elements of
judgment from which social experience can be addressed. See Gonzalo Portocarrero, Degregori,
Gastón Zapata, and Ansión.
71. According to Portorcarrero and Soraya, “los sacaojos son la transfiguración de un rumor que parece
haber circulado por toda América Latina. En México en 1986, en Brasil en 1988, [lo cual] apunta a una
matriz histórica compartida, a una sensibilidad común: la de sentirse víctima de las metrópolis” (35).
They associate this sentiment with the theses of dependency theory which affirm a causal relation
between wealth and poverty as well as between developed nations and dependent nations. See also
Portocarrero, “Los fantasmas de la clase media.”
72. On the figure of the condenado, see Luis Millones.
Chapter 8
Coda
Interpreted through the Benjaminian idea of the constellation, the figure of the
monster presents itself as a bundle of meanings that radiate in multiple
disciplinary directions, traversing very different fields of knowledge and social
experience. Maintaining its individuality while being strengthened by the totality
in which it is inscribed, the monster catalyzes reactions and transgresses borders,
displacing itself throughout the social space that its mere nomadic existence
symbolically disarms and rearticulates. Because of its eminently fragmentary
character, the monster challenges the stability of the semantic, semiotic, and
ideological systems in which it is inscribed. An aesthetic and ideological
apparatus, the monster deconstructs paradigms of gender, race, and class,
challenges traditional notions of heroism, progress, community and,
paradoxically, confirms them by driving their resignification and purpose in
different contexts.
As a result, two concepts become essential for any approach to the monster’s
polysemy: vulnerability and negotiation. The first refers not simply to the
monster’s Other, to its prey, to its victim, or to its observer, to whomever sees in
its arrival the object of an excessive and out-of-place desire, to whomever sees it
as a threat to the space of identity and the realm of existence. Vulnerability also
has to do with the monster’s nature itself, with its displaced and anomalous
being that provokes terror, shame, curiosity, harmful anxieties, and unsayable
desires. The monster inspires the positivity of an alternative, which, by revealing
itself to be in opposition to the status quo, allows us to see its calumnies and
contradictions and to strengthen the ideas of resistance and social change. This is
why the monster is vulnerable: because it constitutes an experimental, unfinished
construct, a precarious and ephemeral theatricalization of the forces in conflict
on the unstable ground of the social and the political. According to this
multiplicity of directions and ideological connotations, the monster (and its
Other) should be neither idealized nor essentialized, neither celebrated nor
condemned, since its meaning depends on the place that we ourselves occupy
and the form that the monster assumes in determinate historical moments,
geocultural spaces, and specific instances in the development of social
consciousness. This does not mean that the monster lives in the world of pure
relativism but rather that its meanings are not fixed and that its representational
strategies are ungraspable and unpredictable. The monster is vulnerable because
it elaborates its difference as a conspicuous, shameful, and compensatory pathos
that sublimates unresolved conflicts through erratic and automated behaviors.
Thus, in its own way, as a marginal being, condemned to itself, the monster is an
invalid, deficient, and defenseless being that exists in the uncertain space of
ambiguity and paradox.
Secondly, the semantic sphere of monstrosity negotiates multiple signifiers
with disparate origins. Every monster is a bundle of meanings; it occupies a
border space for the transmission of messages and the organization of emotional,
intellectual, and political reactions. Frustration, rage, anger, and humiliation all
become symbolic capital through being transformed into fear, an emotion that
factors the human element into the equations of capitalism. Although the
immediate effects of fear are paralyzing and erode the affective system, the limit
experience of monstrosity activates the will to survive and contributes to the
tightening of community bonds, driving reflection and perhaps organizing new
forms of social knowledge. This is why it has been claimed that monstrosity is a
shifter, a device for opening and closing the doors of meaning. The monstrous
negotiates negativity by staging it, by converting social struggle into
performance, exhibiting the intense emotionality of ideology and the complex
subjectivity of the political. However, the negotiation implied by monstrosity
does not stop there but instead extends to all its constitutive aspects, to its
semiotic structure, to its languages, and to its political and ideological revision.
From a cultural point of view, the monster is a product of both high and
popular culture and is always saturated with connotations that connect it to both
the sacred and the profane, to superstition, art, and folklore. However, since the
middle of the twentieth century, its relationship to the market has turned it into a
multifaceted apparatus, a kind of artifact that incessantly produces and
disseminates fear within its Other, the other who resides either outside or within
the Same. In this sense, the horror industry continues to explore new thresholds
of tolerance and new syntheses in which the monstrous is promiscuously allied
with sexuality, consumption, chaos, and technology, expressing a mistrust of any
kind of political or social totalization. The figure of the monster is also
recuperated in utopian discourses in which it comes to represent a possible
horizon of popular convergence, a rejection of the status quo, and an
investigation of alternative scenarios that from within the system can only be
conceived of as uncertain and anomalous.
An essentially syncretic phenomenon, although one with a long local and
global history that is both contingent and transcendent, the monster is inscribed
in postmodern imaginaries as a presence that combines the primitive and the
modern, transnational and intercultural elements, contradicting the notion of
linear time, progress, evolution, and teleology. In spite of the fact that the
modern and postmodern monster participates in the universal logic of the
grotesque and maintains clear links with the most conspicuous representatives in
the canon of Western monstrosity, its particularism is expressed through regional
variants that concretely articulate the background and conflicts of its
surroundings.
In a text entitled “Deconstructing Monsters,” Stephen Asma considers the
topic of monsters within the frame of postmodernity, which harbors (among
other theoretical tendencies) the critical mode known as social constructionism,
which he defines as “a loose confederation of ideas about the artificial nature of
human knowledge and, by extension, the constructed nature of reality itself”
(252). According to Asma, this orientation of thought questions categories like
race, species, and gender on the basis that these latter are founded on forms of
epistemological privilege that exclude a number of aspects of the real which,
consequently, end up being conceived as the darker realms of our culture. In this
way, imbued with a radical form of relativism, and in its enthusiasm for
questioning the Enlightenment concept of reason and dismantling “grand
narratives,” postmodernity has disrupted any objective notion of reality.1 This
critique of the Enlightenment, modernity, and so on tends to de-authorize the
normative frontiers of the post-Enlightenment social order, in which the models
of nation, modernity, and progress reign, knocking down the notion of fixed
identity in favor of fluid and unstable processes of social (self-)recognition. In
such conditions of the production and analysis of knowledge, “it is a good time
to be a monster” (252), since, according to Asma, this construct is an additional
subspecies of the Other. The monsterology of our time would need to be based
on a relativism in which monsters are no longer recognizable, thereby making
any classification of something as monstrous a form of derogatory cultural
oppression.
Explicitly aligning himself with the critics he identifies as “neo-
Enlightenment liberals” (253), Asma does not hide his discomfort with
postmodern skepticism and the criticism of dominant Western epistemic models.
Nevertheless, he recognizes the monster’s deconstructive capacity to escape the
ideological crystallization of this critical tendency:
the sex and bestial savagery of vampires has now been tamed into a
disturbing and disruptive cultural difference, fear transformed into a
romantic frisson, within a cultural pluralist multiculturalism. The fear
of zombies is now not so much about death as of those excluded from
western societies who seem to be threatening civilization as we know it
in the West. (269)
Thus, if on the one hand, the spectacle industry ends up bestowing neutral
connotations on the monster as another form of mass entertainment, postmodern
social theory re-signifies it as a symbol of popular resistance. In this latter case,
there is the risk of what Hegel called “monochromatic formalism,” a procedure
built on binaries (identity/otherness, us/them) that fossilize contexts and
trivialize ethically and politically complex situations (McNally 11). On the other
hand, as many critics have observed, the reduction of all monstrous qualities to
their revolutionary and redemptive potential is useful from certain perspectives
connected to particular agendas, but at the same time, this cancels any possible
conceptualization of the negative aspects of monstrosity.5 Put differently,
although in determinate emancipatory discursive contexts, the monster acquires
a positive charge as the representation of countercultural rebellion and resistance
to and subversion of the status quo, monstrosity’s connotations as an expression
of perversity, devastation, abuse, and anti-humanism should be retained so that
the meaning of the monster does not fall into a utopian essentialism that would
trivialize evil by considering it to be enlightening and liberating. It would seem
that the monster’s nature presupposes conflict: embodying ambiguity, fluctuating
and polyvalent, leaving to the Other the task of disentangling the significance of
its mutations and attending to the particularities of each context.
It is impossible not to see in the monster’s irreducible anomaly the other side
of modern subjectivity, which ultimately exhibits its cracks and contradictions
through its deformed and absurd allegorical figure. Isolated by a difference that
cannot be productively assimilated to the dominant projects of colonialism and
the bourgeois republic, Western civilization exposes its epistemic nature: the
ideological, fragmented, out-of-joint body of a still incomplete utopian project
that is the object of social and political inquiries. If, as various contemporary
critics have proposed, the monstrous constitutes the dark side of the subject, the
negative of the presence of being, its spectrality and lines of flight, the monster’s
countercultural and counterhegemonic aspects also serve as an expression and
spectacularization of the subversive capacity of the margin that occasionally
threatens and destabilizes the centers of power and their principles of order.
The activity of the market has impacted the rhetorical and ideological figure
of monstrosity and, due to its unstoppable reproduction of commodities, has in
large measure exhausted the value of the occult as an anti-model of the dominant
paradigms guided by instrumental reason and a faith in progress and its
democratizing effects, reducing and in many cases trivializing and cheapening
the genre’s critical implications. Already in 1927, referring to the ground-
breaking The Castle of Otranto, H.P. Lovecraft, proponent of the Gothic’s more
transcendent dimensions, criticized Walpole’s novel for its stereotypical use of
what were by then seen as commonplaces of the genre. In his critique, Lovecraft
focuses on the fossilized quality of its main devices:
Among the aspects related to the processes of negotiation that take place in
the semantic field of monstrosity, it is worth mentioning once again the
mediations between the lettered [letrado] domain and orality. This latter asserts
the authority of primary materials like legends, myths, beliefs, and superstitions,
and in particular it is connected to cultural spaces for the proliferation of
alternative epistemologies which understand the real through cognitive and
interpretative premises that are not part of the dominant models. Thus, to orality
belongs the oral transmission of experiences of monstrosity: testimonies, stories,
descriptions, and exegeses that are later integrated into visual discourses or into
written narratives, achieving permanence and broad circulation. Orality is also
related to many of monstrosity’s representational devices—for example,
ritualization and the repetition of behaviors that allow the story to become fixed
in order to survive in collective imaginaries. In contrast, lettered discourse is the
source of multiple transmissions that overlook orality, infinitely reproducing
horror stories in which the literary monster continues to grow and change, as if
by word of mouth, like an urban legend. This traffic of signifiers marks both
representational registers—the oral and the written—and causes them to
contaminate one another, creating symbolic products with a broad aesthetic and
ideological richness.
The monster is also a conspicuous, persistent, and paradoxical mediator
between the local and the global. Studies such as those by Jean and John
Comaroff have shown, for example in the peripheral context of South Africa,
that the monstrous is both a sign of the local and a globalized symbology that
appeals to universality. The same could be said of the Latin American context. If
it is true that Satanism operates as a globalized discourse that covers different
registers of the social and is expanded by geocultural locations with very
disparate characteristics, it is also undeniable that every society and every social
level—indeed, every individual—has its own hell that is expressed through
countercultural images, concepts, and situations that give form to excess, horror,
and desire. The monster thus circulates between the particularity of the local and
the contingency of the broad and foreign space of transnationality. Notions such
as belonging, territoriality, and identity tend to become diluted and transform
into symbolic commodities that are exchanged in transactions that progressively
domesticate the occult, thereby stimulating the development of new strategies
and stratagems of survival, seduction, and collective action.
Certain social, economic, and political conditions nonetheless seem to be a
breeding ground for the proliferation of monstrosity, which is expressed both in
concrete fears such as the desperation of being trapped, or the disconcerting
awareness of horizons that open up a landscape of disorienting freedom that
manifests as a foreign, ghostly place. According to the Comaroffs, we are now in
“the Age of Futilitarianism”—that is, an era in which all hope is thought to be
vain and all effort is considered futile:
Notes
1. Asma’s critical example of this tendency of postmodern thought is Haraway’s influential work Simians,
Cyborgs, and Women, in which monsters have the positive function of destabilizing patriarchal
paradigms (Asma 329).
2. See Asma 330.
3. See Carroll, “Horror Today,” in The Philosophy of Horror 206-14.
4. For more on this, see Patricia Ferrer-Medina.
5. As I have previously noted, José Manuel Valenzuela made similar observations in his critique of Negri’s
use of the concept of political monstrosity.
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