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Love and Revolution
in the Twentieth-Century
Colonial and
Postcolonial World
Perspectives from South Asia
and Southern Africa
Edited by
G. Arunima · Patricia Hayes · Premesh Lalu
Palgrave Studies in the History of Social
Movements

Series Editors
Stefan Berger
Institute for Social Movements
Ruhr University Bochum
Bochum, Germany

Holger Nehring
Contemporary European History
University of Stirling
Stirling, UK
Around the world, social movements have become legitimate, yet con-
tested, actors in local, national and global politics and civil society, yet we
still know relatively little about their longer histories and the trajectories of
their development. This series seeks to promote innovative historical
research on the history of social movements in the modern period since
around 1750. We bring together conceptually-informed studies that anal-
yse labour movements, new social movements and other forms of protest
from early modernity to the present. We conceive of ‘social movements’ in
the broadest possible sense, encompassing social formations that lie
between formal organisations and mere protest events. We also offer a
home for studies that systematically explore the political, social, economic
and cultural conditions in which social movements can emerge. We are
especially interested in transnational and global perspectives on the history
of social movements, and in studies that engage critically and creatively
with political, social and sociological theories in order to make historically
grounded arguments about social movements. This new series seeks to
offer innovative historical work on social movements, while also helping to
historicise the concept of ‘social movement’. It hopes to revitalise the con-
versation between historians and historical sociologists in analysing what
Charles Tilly has called the ‘dynamics of contention’.

Editorial Board:
John Chalcraft, London School of Economics, UK
Andreas Eckert, Humboldt-University, Germany
Susan Eckstein, Boston University, USA
Felicia Kornbluh, University of Vermont, USA
Jie-Hyun Lim, Research Institute for Comparative History,
Hanyang University Seoul, South Korea
Marcel van der Linden, International Institute of Social History,
The Netherlands
Rochona Majumdar, University of Chicago, USA
Sean Raymond Scalmer, University of Melbourne, Australia
Alexander Sedlmaier, Bangor University, UK

More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14580
 G. Arunima • Patricia Hayes
Premesh Lalu
Editors

Love and Revolution

in the Twentieth-­
Century Colonial and
Postcolonial World
Perspectives from South Asia and Southern Africa
Editors
G. Arunima Patricia Hayes
Centre for Women’s Studies Centre for Humanities Research
Jawaharlal Nehru University University of the Western Cape
New Delhi, India Cape Town, South Africa

Premesh Lalu
Centre for Humanities Research
University of the Western Cape
Cape Town, South Africa

ISSN 2634-6559     ISSN 2634-6567 (electronic)

Palgrave Studies in the History of Social Movements
ISBN 978-3-030-79579-5    ISBN 978-3-030-79580-1 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-79580-1

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 Preface

Around the world, social movements have become legitimate, yet con-
tested, actors in local, national, and global politics and civil society, yet we
still know relatively little about their longer histories and the trajectories of
their development. Our series reacts to what can be described as a recent
boom in the history of social movements. We can observe a development
from the crisis of labour history in the 1980s to the boom in research on
social movements in the 2000s. The rise of historical interests in the devel-
opment of civil society and the role of strong civil societies as well as non-­
governmental organisations in stabilising democratically constituted
polities has strengthened the interest in social movements as a constituent
element of civil societies.
In different parts of the world, social movements continue to have a
strong influence on contemporary politics. In Latin America, trade
unions, labour parties, and various left-of-centre civil society organisa-
tions have succeeded in supporting left-of-centre governments. In
Europe, peace movements, ecological movements, and alliances intent
on campaigning against poverty and racial discrimination and discrimina-
tion on the basis of gender and sexual orientation have been able to set
important political agendas for decades. In other parts of the world,
including Africa, India, and South East Asia, social movements have
played a significant role in various forms of community building and
community politics. The contemporary political relevance of social
movements has undoubtedly contributed to a growing historical interest
in the topic.

v
vi PREFACE

Contemporary historians are not only beginning to historicise these

relatively recent political developments; they are also trying to relate them
to a longer history of social movements, including traditional labour
organisations, such as working-class parties and trade unions. In the
longue durée, we recognise that social movements are by no means a
recent phenomenon and are not even an exclusively modern phenome-
non, although we realise that the onset of modernity emanating from
Europe and North America across the wider world from the eighteenth
century onwards marks an important departure point for the development
of civil societies and social movements.
In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the dominance of national
history over all other forms of history writing led to a thorough nationali-
sation of the historical sciences. Hence social movements have been exam-
ined traditionally within the framework of the nation state. Only during
the last two decades have historians begun to question the validity of such
methodological nationalism and to explore the development of social
movements in comparative, connective, and transnational perspective
taking into account processes of transfer, reception, and adaptation.
While our book series does not preclude work that is still being carried out
within national frameworks (for, clearly, there is a place for such studies,
given the historical importance of the nation state in history), it hopes to
encourage comparative and transnational histories on social movements.
At the same time as historians have begun to research the history of
those movements, a range of social theorists, from Jürgen Habermas to
Pierre Bourdieu and from Slavoj Žižek to Alain Badiou as well as Ernesto
Laclau and Chantal Mouffe to Miguel Abensour, to name but a few, have
attempted to provide philosophical-cum-theoretical frameworks in which
to place and contextualise the development of social movements. History
has arguably been the most empirical of all the social and human sciences,
but it will be necessary for historians to explore further to what extent
these social theories can be helpful in guiding and framing the empirical
work of the historian in making sense of the historical development of
social movements. Hence, the current series is also hoping to make a con-
tribution to the ongoing dialogue between social theory and the history
of social movements.
This series seeks to promote innovative historical research on the his-
tory of social movements in the modern period since around 1750. We
bring together conceptually informed studies that analyse labour move-
ments, new social movements, and other forms of protest from early
 PREFACE vii

modernity to the present. With this series, we seek to revive, within the
context of historiographical developments since the 1970s, a conversation
between historians on the one hand and sociologists, anthropologists, and
political scientists on the other.
Unlike most of the concepts and theories developed by social scientists,
we do not see social movements as directly linked, a priori, to processes of
social and cultural change and therefore do not adhere to a view that dis-
tinguishes between old (labour) and new (middle-class) social movements.
Instead, we want to establish the concept of ‘social movement’ as a heuris-
tic device that allows historians of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries
to investigate social and political protests in novel settings. Our aim is to
historicise notions of social and political activism in order to highlight dif-
ferent notions of political and social protest on both left and right.
Hence, we conceive of ‘social movements’ in the broadest possible
sense, encompassing social formations that lie between formal organisa-
tions and mere protest events. But we also include processes of social and
cultural change more generally in our understanding of social movements:
this goes back to nineteenth-century understandings of ‘social movement’
as processes of social and cultural change more generally. We also offer a
home for studies that systematically explore the political, social, economic,
and cultural conditions in which social movements can emerge. We are
especially interested in transnational and global perspectives on the history
of social movements, and in studies that engage critically and creatively
with political, social, and sociological theories in order to make historically
grounded arguments about social movements. In short, this series seeks to
offer innovative historical work on social movements, while also helping to
historicise the concept of ‘social movement’. It also hopes to revitalise the
conversation between historians and historical sociologists in analysing
what Charles Tilly has called the ‘dynamics of contention’.
The present collection of articles entitled Love and Revolution in the
Twentieth-Century Colonial and Postcolonial World, edited by G. Arunima,
Patricia Hayes, and Premesh Lalu, unites two of the most romantic con-
cepts of the nineteenth century, ‘love’ and ‘revolution’. While revolutions
have been studied in a variety of different contexts, the affective turn in
historical writing has not reached this topic in a major way as yet. The cur-
rent volume takes a step towards this incorporation of the history of revo-
lutions into the history of emotions: it focuses on the anti-colonial and
anti-capitalist revolutions of the twentieth century in many parts of the
colonial and post-colonial worlds, with special emphasis on India and
viii PREFACE

Africa. Some of the contributions here discuss this relationship between

love and revolution in specific texts while others look at political move-
ments, missionary activity, and legal or political discourses, but all are
united in their endeavour to disentangle the relationship between the
work of love and the work of revolution. Many of the contributions on the
subsequent pages also deal with the impact of the state and its legal frame-
work on repressing and accommodating revolutionary sentiments. The
language of the law in post-colonial India, for example, did not only show
remarkable continuities to colonial times, it also was a means to protect
the colonial and postcolonial state against forms of ‘dis-affection’.
As the editors point out, struggle, desire, and hope are all phenomena
and emotions connected to both love and revolution. Revolution could be
the object of love and love could spur actors on to revolutions, while revo-
lutions raised the question of what they did to love. Most revolutions that
are discussed in this volume have remained incomplete, in the sense that
their utopias have often turned into nightmares. Liberation was at best
partial and the ambitions for transformation left many who questioned
their realisation. The Dalit movement in India, for example, speaks power-
fully to the disenchantment with the Gandhian and nationalist revolution
that led to an independent India.
Another important theme that runs through the following pages is that
of liberalism’s complicity with capitalism and colonialism in the colonial
and postcolonial spaces. This raises the question for whom its universalism
expressed ‘love’ in concrete situations. And what, the volume proceeds to
ask, about its challengers, nationalism on the one hand and Marxism on
the other? How did they position themselves vis-à-vis the complex ques-
tions surrounding issue of love and revolution? Several authors in this
collection relate the lead theme to questions of time that have been dis-
cussed so intensely in the theory of history of late. In particular, the ques-
tion of the loss of messianic time connected to revolutions and its meaning
for its affective sides is repeatedly discussed here. There is, of course, no
shortage of testimony, when it comes to the love and passion felt by revo-
lutionaries for their cause. And there is no shortage of evidence also for the
love and passion felt by nationalists for the national cause, or, indeed, by
Marxists for their class cause. Liberals were perhaps most reluctant to
invoke passions in the pursuit of their cause pointing instead to an inher-
ent rationality in the ideas of the rule of law and of liberty and freedom.
However, in practice the struggle for those values as for the idea of human
rights has also been full of passions and love.
 PREFACE ix

The contributions in this volume speak eloquently about poets invok-

ing love in their partisanship for revolutionary causes. They render the
story visible of the revolutionary who performs his own sacrifice for the
cause in being sentenced to death in such a way that it creates lasting mar-
tyrdom that in turn becomes the object of more revolutionary love. They
also speak of nostalgia and melancholia, feelings often related to love or
better disappointed love and how these sentiments can either render the
revolutionary subject speechless or give this subject a voice from which to
recover a vision for a different future. And they account for the role of love
in the making of revolutionaries – the emotional encounter with rituals or
objects or performances which lead to the decision to become a revolu-
tionary. The constructions of love and revolution were always highly gen-
dered and the volume’s essays also pay due attention to this gender
dimension in the relationship between love and revolution. Male camara-
derie and gendered familial traditions feature prominently in some of the
chapters in this book.
Making good use of a wide range of thinkers from Antonio Negri to
Giorgio Agamben, the contributors to this volume reveal how passion and
mobilisation have often gone hand in hand. They have produced multiple
scenarios of often contradictory and fuzzy interrelationships that have
unsettled traditional understandings of time and are crucial for a deeper
understanding of the fate of revolutions in the colonial and post-colonial
worlds of the twentieth century.

Bochum, Germany Stefan Berger

Stirling, UK  Holger Nehring
 Acknowledgements

This book arises from affinities, encounters, and the times we have been
through in the last decade. Love and Revolution initially emerged in the
site of post-apartheid under- and postgraduate teaching at the University
of the Western Cape (UWC). The potential of a conjoined Love and
Revolution thematic to speak to multiple concerns in parts of the former
colonial world prompted the organisation of a formal workshop in Cape
Town in 2010. This inaugural workshop drew on existing networks across
diverse collaborations, bringing together colleagues from the Middle East,
South Asia, and southern Africa, as well as scholars located elsewhere and
working on these regions. The sense of certain commonalities and prob-
lematics around revolutionary and liberation movements led to the organ-
isation of further workshops to explore these questions at different sites of
historic debate. This effectively relocated Love and Revolution into plural
settings with their own scholarly communities and critical concerns. After
the first conference in Cape Town in October 2010, the second took place
at the University of Minnesota in March–April 2011 on the theme of
‘Considering the Limits and Possibilities of Nationalist and Postcolonial
Thinking’. While the Cape Town meeting positioned politics and affect in
very productive ways especially for African scholars working on national-
ism and radicalism, the Minnesota meeting ventured out in several theo-
retical directions, especially in terms of neoliberalism and the revolutionary
present in the Middle East. The Delhi workshop of 20–22 January 2012
had the rare felicity of clarifying a number of these questions and posing
new ones, demonstrating the advantages of a cumulative process of

xi
xii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

workshopping a core set of issues over time and bringing together scholars
in different spaces. A fourth and final workshop held in Cape Town from
11–13 October 2012 on ‘Affective Revolutions’ concluded the series.
Only a fraction of the voices and conversations from the four work-
shops are represented in this book, but every chapter bears the imprint of
many sustained critical and collective inputs. The Love and Revolution
workshops would have been impossible without the unstinting help and
support of many friends and institutions. We wish to thank all those who
came forward and helped with different organisational aspects, managing
logistics and contributing their lively presence as workshop participants,
chairpersons, and discussants. For all this and more, we thank Ajay Skaria,
Ashraf Jamal, Asli Ikizoglu, Baidik Bhattacharya, Behrooz Ghamari,
Bianca van Laun, Brian Raftopoulos, Cesare Casarino, Charles Kabwete
Mulinda, Christian Williams, Dawn Rae Davis, Desiree Lewis, Dianna
Shandy, Divya Dwivedi, Drew Thompson, Fernando Arenas, Gary
Minkley, Giacomo Loperfido, Giovanna Trento, Hamit Bozarslan, Heidi
Grunebaum, Helena Pohlandt-McKormick, Iona Gilburt, Isabelle de
Rezende, Isabel Hofmeyr, Janaki Nair, Jean Allman, John Mowitt, Joya
John, Karen Brown, Kavita Panjabi, Lameez Lalkhen, Leslie Witz, Mahesh
Rangarajan, Malathi de Alwis, Maurits van Bever Donker, Martina Rieker,
Annachiara Forte, Michael Neocosmos, Mohinder Singh, Ngonidzashe
Marongwe, Nicky Rousseau, Noeleen Murray, Okechukwu Nwafor,
Phindi Mnyaka, Prathama Banerjee, Quynh Pham, Rajarshi Dasgupta,
Ross Truscott, Ruchi Chaturvedi, Sanil V, Sayres Rudy, Shaden Tageldin,
Shefali Chandra, Sian Butcher, Sipokazi Sambumbu, Steve Akoth, Suren
Pillay, Svea Josephy, Tanya Petrovic, Teresa Barnes, Thembinkosi Goniwe,
Udaya Kumar, Uma Duphelia-Mesthrie, Virgil Slade, and Zen Marie.
A great deal of additional partnership, training, and collaborative activi-
ties took place around the workshop series. Pre-conference postgraduate
workshops were held on the theme of ‘Show Us Your Archive’ in Cape
Town in 2010 and 2012, enabling senior international scholars to respond
to research-in-progress. Reading groups were organised in preparation for
workshops, and we thank Simona Sawhney for leading the discussion on
Jean-Luc Nancy, Gary Minkley on Povinelli, and Maurits van Bever
Donker on Spinoza. In 2012, Karen Brown offered a grant-writing work-
shop, while Gary Weidemann of the University of Minnesota Press held a
publishing workshop in Cape Town. Also part of the final workshop pro-
gramme, the Handspring Puppet Company performed ‘I Love You When
You’re Breathing’ at the South African National Gallery and Hamit
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS xiii

Borzaslan delivered a public lecture on the Arab Revolutions at the District

Six Museum.
The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation funded the partnership between
the Centre for Humanities Research (CHR) at UWC, the University of
Fort Hare, and the Interdisciplinary Center for the Study of Global
Change (ICGC) at the University of Minnesota, all very active participants
in the workshop series. For logistical, organisational, and funding support
in Cape Town in 2010 and 2012, we thank the Centre for Humanities
Research (CHR) at UWC. The ICGC in Minneapolis kindly hosted the
second workshop. In New Delhi, the Director of the Nehru Memorial
Museum and Library (NMML) Mahesh Rangarajan extended the support
and hospitality of the institution and attended to the special visa needs of
the international participants. This workshop was held in collaboration
with the Centre for Women’s Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New
Delhi. Besides the Mellon Foundation, the editors wish to acknowledge
the conference support of the NMML in New Delhi, supplementary part-
nership funding through the DST/NRF SARChI Chair in Social Change
(Unique Grant 70782) at the University of Fort Hare, and the DST/NRF
SARChI Chair in Visual History & Theory (Unique Grant 98911) at
UWC for covering later research costs involved in preparing this book.
The editors also wish to thank all those archivists who have assisted with
materials and permissions, photographers and artists who have allowed
their work to be used, and the editors and publishers at Palgrave for engag-
ing with this book project.
 Contents

1 Love & Revolution: An Introduction  1

G. Arunima, Patricia Hayes, and Premesh Lalu

Part I Intensities: Writing/Aesthetic/Cinematic  31

2 “Everything Built on Moonshine”: Love and Revolution

in Iqbal’s Islamic Modernist Poetry and Faiz’s Socialist
Verse 33
Javed Majeed

3 Sadness, as such… 59
Premesh Lalu

4 Mapiko: Fragments of Revolutionary Time 89

Paolo Israel

Part II Depletions: Family/Party/Intimacy 119

5 Caste, Intimacy and Family: The Experiences of the Slave

Castes in Kerala121
Padikaparampil Sanal Mohan

xv
xvi Contents

6 Making and Challenging a Biographic Order: National

Longing, Political Belonging and the Politics of Affect in
a South African Liberation Movement147
Ciraj Rassool

7 The Family Romance of the South African Revolution175

Jon Soske

8 The Romantic Manifesto: Gender and “Outlaw”

Emotions in the Naxalbari Movement203
Mallarika Sinha Roy

Part III Love/Sacrifice/Law 231

9 Bhagat Singh: Sacrifice, Suffering, and the Tradition of

the Oppressed233
Simona Sawhney

10 “Love is Stronger in Prison than Outside”: The Intimate

Politics of Independence in the Congo263
Pedro Monaville

11 Political Funerals in South Africa: Photography, History,

and the Refusal of Light (1960s–80s)291
Patricia Hayes

12 The Love Commandment: Affect in the Time of Dissent

and Democracy327
G. Arunima

Full List of Participants353

Index361
 Notes on Contributors

G. Arunima is Professor at the Centre for Women’s Studies, Jawaharlal

Nehru University, India, and is presently on deputation as the Director of the
Kerala Council for Historical Research, Trivandrum. She has researched and
published on both historical and modern contexts in India, focusing particu-
larly on cultural, visual, and material texts, and rethinking the politics of
the contemporary. She is the author of There Comes Papa: Colonialism and the
Transformation of Matriliny in Kerala, Malabar, ca 1850–1940 (Orient
Longman, 2003), and has recently translated Rosy Thomas’s biography of her
husband, the iconic playwright CJ Thomas, from Malayalam to English (He,
My Beloved CJ, Women Unlimited, 2018).
Patricia Hayes is the National Research Foundation (NRF) SARChI
Chair in Visual History and Theory at the Centre for Humanities Research,
University of the Western Cape. She has published on southern African
history and its colonial and documentary photographic archives. She is
co-editor of Ambivalent: Photography and Visibility in African History
(2019) with Gary Minkley, and co-author of Bush of Ghosts: Life & War in
Namibia (2010) with photographer John Liebenberg. She teaches in
African history, gender, and visual theory.
Paolo Israel is Associate Professor and Chairperson of the Department
of History at the University of the Western Cape. Trained in philosophy,
Israel’s doctorate at EHESS (Paris) addressed the anthropology of art and
performance. His book, In Step with the Times: Mapiko Masquerades of
Mozambique, was published by Ohio University Press in 2014.

xvii
xviii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Premesh Lalu is Convenor of the Communicating the Humanities

Project with funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, at the
Centre for Humanities Research at the University of the Western Cape in
South Africa. As founding Director, Prof Lalu has built the Centre for
Humanities Research through extensive fund-raising and programme
development, lifting the profile of the Humanities both in the university
and nationally. He is an Advisory Board member of the Consortium of
Humanities Centres and Institutes. His publications address colonial
archives, violence, and, more recently, aesthetics and the technical becom-
ing of the human. His forthcoming book is entitled Sensing Post-apartheid
Freedom.
Javed Majeed is Professor of English and Comparative Literature at
King’s College London. His book publications include Ungoverned
Imaginings. James Mill’s The History of British India and Orientalism
(1992); Autobiography, Travel and Postnational Identity. Gandhi, Nehru
and Iqbal (2007); Muhammad Iqbal: Islam, Aesthetics and Postcolonialism
(2009); Nation and Region in Grierson’s Linguistic Survey of India (2019);
Colonialism and Knowledge in Grierson’s Linguistic Survey of India
(2019); with Christopher Shackle, a translation and critical edition of
Hali’s Musaddas: The Flow and Ebb of Islam (1997); and with Isabel
Hofmeyr, the edited collection India and South Africa (2016).
Padikaparampil Sanal Mohan has been Director of the Kerala Council
for Historical Research, India. He has been Professor (Retired) in the
School of Social Sciences at Mahatma Gandhi University in Kerala and
also held numerous visiting fellowships across the world. His research
focus is on lower caste histories in Kerala, India.
Pedro Monaville is Assistant Professor of history at New York University
Abu Dhabi. His research interests include the history of decolonization,
political imagination, youth movements, higher education, and state vio-
lence, as well as the study of memory work and postcolonial history writ-
ing. His current book project focuses on the role of student activism in the
Democratic Republic of Congo.
Ciraj Rassool is Senior Professor of History at the University of the
Western Cape. He has published widely on political biography, museums,
histories of race in South Africa, cultural restitution, and the postcolonial
transfer of human remains in the decolonising museum nexus. His
 NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xix

teaching includes African history, biography and liberation movements,

museum studies, curatorship, and urban studies.
Mallarika Sinha Roy is Assistant Professor at the Centre for Women’s
Studies in Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. Her research mono-
graph is titled Gender and Radical Politics in India: Magic Moments of
Naxalbari (1967–1975) (London: Routledge, 2011) and she has co-­
edited Displacement and Citizenship: Histories and Memories of Exclusion
(Delhi: Tulika Books, 2020). Her research interests include social move-
ment studies, ethnography and oral history, gender and political violence,
gender and theatre, and history and politics of South Asia.
Simona Sawhney teaches at the Department of Humanities and Social
Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi, and is a senior co-­
editor of the journal Cultural Critique. Her book The Modernity of
Sanskrit appeared in 2009 (University of Minnesota Press and Permanent
Black). Her current work is on Bhagat Singh and modern Indian political
thought and literature.
Jon Soske is at the Center for Health and Justice, Lifespan Transitions
Clinic, Providence, RI, USA. He is the author of Internal Frontiers: The
Indian Diaspora and African Nationalism in Twentieth Century South
Africa and the co-editor of Ties the Bind: Race and the Politics of Friendship
in South Africa, Apartheid Israel: the Politics of an Analogy, and One
Hundred Years of the ANC: Debating Liberations Histories Today.
 List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 B. R. Ambedkar in 1950, Wikimedia.commons.  10

Fig. 1.2 ‘Vive le 30 Juin Zaïre Indépendent.’ Lumumba and King
Baudouin; Lumumba giving speech, Nationaal Museum
van Wereldculturen, Leiden. Painting by Tshibumba Kanda
Matulu, 1973 13
Fig. 3.1 George Milwa Mnyaluza Pemba, Funeral Procession,
watercolour on paper (1930) 68
Fig. 3.2 George Milwa Mnyaluza Pemba, Professor D.D.T. Jabavu,
oil on canvas, Collection of the Centre for Cultural Studies,
University of Fort Hare (1951) 70
Fig. 3.3 George Milwa Mnyaluza Pemba, Nongqawuse (The Girl Who
Killed To Save), oil on canvas board, 38.5 by 73 cm (1976) 72
Fig. 4.1 Samora Machel performs a nshakasha, Nampanya group at a
dance festival, Mwambula, Rui Assubuji, 2009 93
Fig. 4.2 Mapico moderno group at the First Festival of Popular Dance,
ARPAC, Maputo 97
Fig. 4.3 A sketch of mapiko by Jacques Depelchin, lead researcher of
the History Brigades in Mueda in 1981, from his field notes 100
Fig. 4.4 Nantova’s skull mask, Massacre de Mueda group performing
in Cape Town, Rui Assubuji, 2011 111
Fig. 7.1 In possession of the author 185
Fig. 7.2 Special Issue of the Lenasia Indicator, 8–15 February 1989 187
Fig. 7.3 Sowetan, 31 January 1989 192
Fig. 10.1 “Self-portrait,” © Photo Jean Depara/Estate of Depara—
Courtesy Revue Noire 268

xxi
xxii List of Figures

Fig. 10.2 Female student activists on the day of their pardon by

President Mobutu (Alice Kuseke is the second student from
the left), photographer unknown, October 1969. (Courtesy
of the author) 275
Fig. 10.3 Sapin Makengele, “Bolingo ya cachot, eleki bolingo ya
libanda,” painting, oil on canvas, 2010. (Courtesy of the
author)281
Fig. 11.1 Burials after Sharpeville shootings, 1960. UWC-Robben
Island Museum-Mayibuye Archives 293
Fig. 11.2 Funeral of Ida Mntwana, West Native township, 1960.
UWC-Robben Island Museum-Mayibuye Archives, Eli
Weinberg295
Fig. 11.3 Funeral of Steve Biko in King Williamstown, 1977. UWC-
Robben Island Museum-Mayibuye Archives 296
Fig. 11.4 Matthew Goniwe at the funeral of Tamasanque Steven,
Grahamstown, 1985. UCT Libraries Special Collections,
Julian Cobbing 297
Fig. 11.5 Congress of South African Students (COSAS) banner in
Regina Mundi Church, Soweto. South African History
Archive, Gille de Vlieg 298
Fig. 11.6 Muslim leader Moulana Faried Essack tries to stop police
removing ANC flag from the coffin of Ashley Kriel,
Bonteheuwel, Cape Town, July 1987. UCT Libraries Special
Collections, Roger Meintjes 300
Fig. 11.7 Reburial of Norman Pieterson a.k.a. “Billy Holiday” through
the offices of the Missing Persons Task Team, Paarl, August
2016. Paul Grendon 301
Fig. 11.8 Port Elizabeth. Funeral of police victims, Uitenhage, 1985.
UWC-­Robben Island Museum-Mayibuye Archives 309
Fig. 11.9 Police teargas at Crossroads funeral, Cape Town, 1986. UCT
Libraries Special Collections, Guy Tillim 311
Fig. 11.10 Funeral. Santu Mofokeng (1956–2020). ©Santu Mofokeng
Foundation. Image courtesy Lunetta Bartz, MAKER,
Johannesburg313
Fig. 11.11 Michael Miranda, Trojan Horse killings, Cape Town, 1985.
UCT Libraries Special Collections, Paul Grendon 315
 CHAPTER 1

Love & Revolution: An Introduction

G. Arunima, Patricia Hayes, and Premesh Lalu

Overture
What has love to do with revolution, or for that matter, revolution with
love? Is love, as in romantic love, always in relation to the second person,
or can it be for the third person, as in love for the people? If so, what
elided imaginaries lie behind histories of liberation?
These are some of the questions that have arisen in relation to the pro-
ductive but fractious pairing of the terms love and revolution.1 This book
is a continuation of the working out of many questions raised during four
meetings in South Africa, India and the USA between 2010 and 2012.
Many of us in the ‘global south’ or the ‘postcolony’ together recognise
our concerns: colonial pasts, shared radical libraries and dramatic
postcolonial political convulsions with acute specificities and rich cultural
texts that mark us out as distinct from each other and from the major

G. Arunima
Centre for Women’s Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India
P. Hayes (*) • P. Lalu
Centre for Humanities Research, University of the Western Cape,
Cape Town, South Africa
e-mail: phayes@uwc.ac.za

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2021
G. Arunima et al. (eds.), Love and Revolution in the
Twentieth-Century Colonial and Postcolonial World,
Palgrave Studies in the History of Social Movements,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-79580-1_1
2 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

Euro-­American narratives. When our Love and Revolution workshops

commenced, the ‘Arab spring’—of which perhaps the Egyptian revolution
was the most emblematic and caught the imagination of a world audi-
ence—had not yet begun. When we ended it was almost over. We found
ourselves with the beginnings of a script that was radically overtaken until
we are now in the residues of lapsed passions, reinforced repressions and
new crises that have rippled across our different geographies. As the ‘Love
and Revolution’ series travelled and grew, we carried with us a core of
scholars who were constantly engaged in this discussion, and others who
came in as interlocutors for part of the journey.2 This volume brings
together conversations, discussions and debates that are rich with possi-
bilities, and constitutes an unusual journey of mutually intersecting intel-
lectual and political concerns. As we bring together the political and the
affective, it has enabled us to think about both love and revolution not
only as conceptual categories or sites of thought, but as a means of engag-
ing the formidable problems that have been critical to our own particular
locations both at the time and as we prepared this book.
The coupling of ‘Love and Revolution’ that we invoke here has
appeared in many forums, guises and publications in recent years.3 This is
remarkably serendipitous. In our case, as a motivation behind the organ-
isation of the first workshop, it emerged from very specific circumstances.
Love and revolution was a formulation that surfaced in exchanges with
undergraduates studying anti-colonial struggles in African history in a
South African university after apartheid. The experience was marked by
the need to address a growing set of severe disconnections. First, despite
considerable scholarly engagement ‘Africa’ itself was virtually absent in the
South African school curriculum until the end of apartheid, and there was
a perceived need to impart the new national historiographies and postco-
lonial crises of expectation. When music, literature and poetry were intro-
duced into the space of the history lecture, one listened anew to the
regional chimurenga music with a young generation who were usually
hearing it for the first time. It then dawned overwhelmingly, even damn-
ingly, that what had seemed to be unproblematically connected in this era
may not have been, namely, the narratives of national liberation and the
popular aesthetics of the time. At the most obvious level, many sang of
love while nationalist leaders lectured on revolution. If nationalist histori-
ographies were doing one thing and burgeoning popular culture was
doing another, they were both producing new subjectivities and in some
kind of relation. But what exactly was this relation?
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 3

The question becomes more urgent in the postcolony and post-­

apartheid as new nations failed to carry the more profound sensibilities
that had marked the movements that had ushered in change. While it may
be too much to say that revolution becomes separated from the senses, the
emphasis is certainly on state formation and the new nation.4 The prob-
lematic posed by the aesthetic was and is happening all around those
caught up in these politics, literally bombarding them. But with the tech-
nocratic direction of developmentalism, nationalism and also socialism,
something drops out and is attenuated. Why is it necessary to put love
back into the equation? This is because it has effects and affects for the
history of revolution. Certainly the coupling of love and revolution is
around globally—but we did not embark on this series of dialogues in
order to simply follow a new turn to affect theory, or to make an aesthetic
turn tout court. We made this turn because these are literally some of the
last remaining resources when nationalism turns ugly. Thus this ‘Love and
Revolution’ came literally from the ground upon which we stand.
From the very first gathering in Cape Town however it struck us forci-
bly that this task would be far less intuitive, and hence more challenging
and productive than anything we had imagined. The themes chosen by
presenters did not speak directly to what may be thought of as predictable
ways of addressing either love or revolution, yet each managed—through
a skilful unpacking of the dense material they were engaging—to open up
ways of continually interrogating the concepts themselves. This was even
as we thought about the pairing, and the “and” in love and revolution. As
the papers navigated their own particular cultural and historical contexts,
the questions posed helped to not only refine the conceptual categories
that we had started with but also to rethink where we wished to take this
conversation.
For instance, were we speaking of love in purely personal contexts of
intimacy, or was there a larger spectrum of affective states and modes that
enabled us to think of politics? What meaning did revolution have in his-
tories that were dominated by narratives or ‘allegories’ of national libera-
tion? Where could we plot the story of the individual when revolutionary
politics demanded a certain kind of collective consciousness, let alone
action? What kinds of cartographies of love, or affect, would reveal revo-
lutionary political subjectivities? Was there a place for fatigue, sadness or
despair within these imaginations of love? What was the place of the atypi-
cal in thinking of projects that aspired to have a more universalist dimen-
sion? This is a tiny spectrum of the issues that became increasingly apparent
as we grappled with this rich and difficult ground.
4 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

This book, therefore, is preoccupied with such tensions. Love and revo-
lution is revealed as conceptually productive when the anti-colonial and
anti-capitalist struggles of the twentieth century in Asia and Africa are
perceived as threaded through with their slippery couplings. In his chapter
in this volume, Pedro Monaville calls this the ‘diverging and converging
paths of love and liberation’. The main tension may be succinctly expressed
as follows: the more we attempt to understand the twentieth century as a
relationship in which the affect of love was related to the conduct of revo-
lution as mutually reinforcing and constitutive terms, the more their
sequence brushes up against the problem of a refusal of a neat dialectic.
The thematic arrangement of the essays in this volume speak to the ways
in which the effects produced by this difficult pairing are worked out in
such diverse sites as cultural texts, political movements, legal dicta, politi-
cal treatises or missionary records. The terms love and revolution here are
served by a copular because each refuses any easy process of cross-­
referencing and resists the efforts to compel their mutuality. Yet by placing
these terms in relation to each other, the book seeks to explore the ways
in which the twentieth century was stitched, unstitched and at times re-­
stitched to produce the very limits and possibilities of a postcolonial world.
We now turn to a number of identifiable sites of these ‘stitchings’.

Site 1: Love and Revolution—The ‘Problem Space’

Is revolution an answer, a strategy, a political task, a promise or a longing?
The word brings images to mind—of struggle, desires, hopes. How may
one address this word-image that seems to elide meaning even as it eludes
definition? In keeping with David Scott’s discussion of the anti- and post-
colonial conditions, would it be more productive to think of it as a
‘problem space’? For Scott, the postcolonial/postapartheid nations’ con-
temporary is a tragic present. As he says, ‘…consequently, almost every-
where, the anti-colonial utopias have gradually withered into postcolonial
nightmares’.5 As part of this exercise, he reads C.L.R. James’s Black
Jacobins in order to get at the conditions of its writing, and to unravel the
political and intellectual stakes involved in asking certain kinds of ques-
tions of history. He suggests that it is the difference between the questions
that animate different temporalities or ‘presents’ that is relevant and not
the answers that may have been proposed. He conceptualises this as a
‘problem space’—‘…an ensemble of questions and answers around which
a horizon of identifiable stakes (conceptual as well as ideological-political
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 5

stakes) hangs’.6 The ‘problem space’ is bound to particular temporalities

as each political present produces its own sets of questions, which are inti-
mately bound up with new stakes.
What therefore are the stakes involved in asking questions of histories
of revolution, anti-colonial struggles and their desires in the post-socialist
world? What is it about the political present that challenges readings of
these pasts in ways that do not permit easy resolutions? For the most part,
the present speaks of revolutions that did not make one free, struggles that
provided only incomplete citizenship, and domains of life, and selfhood,
that are still marked by inequality and injustice in the domain of the social,
despite the dreams stemming from the desire for transformatory revolu-
tionary subjectivity. The political present is the ‘post’ of revolutions that
often did not deliver promises; both Scott and Hamit Borzaslan speak to
this eloquently.7 Scott argues against what he sees as the teleology of the
narrative of ‘revolutionary romance’, where anti-colonial struggle’s struc-
ture as a story of emancipation is narrated as a triumphal overcoming of its
history of domination, via a variety of trials and tribulations, ending in an
epiphanic finale of freedom. This he reads as always already present within
the structure of the narrative, where the realisation of a revolutionary
future is predicated within a particular representation of the past. It is the
dissatisfaction with such a narrative romance that provokes Scott’s ‘prob-
lem space’.
How might such a problematic be productive for thinking of the cou-
pling of love and revolution? In thinking along with Scott, it could be
argued that the locus of the questions that animate this volume is located
in the ‘post’—be it socialist, colonial or apartheid—of struggles and revo-
lutions. Yet that alone does not address what the stakes in these explora-
tions might be, diverse as they are, that touch on the impossibility of love,
social life or emancipatory futures for so many.
In keeping with Njabulo Ndebele’s efforts to link love and politics,8
how may one speak of the pasts of caste violence in India for instance, and
the revolution that never happened? Ambedkar’s trenchant critique of the
Gandhian inspired national movement in India was not simply about what
he saw to be its flawed political strategies, but that the politics of anti-­
colonialism did not address the domain of the social, which is always the
site of discrimination and exclusion. What kind of love—in its most capa-
cious sense—of being human could the slave have, having been con-
demned to bare life? This is the question that Sanal Mohan asks in his
powerful discussion on the desires of a slave caste, the Pulaya, in
6 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

nineteenth-­century Kerala, in southwestern India. For those denied the

right to dignity or any form of social existence, the desire is to overcome
the impossibility, which may hold the hope of becoming human, of
becoming the subject of one’s own history. In more recent times, many
Dalit activists and theorists in India have made a polemical argument for
the value of colonialism for ‘untouchable’ pasts,9 as at least the Christian
missionaries, unlike upper caste Hindu society, made conditions available
to them that held the potential for acquiring some sense of equality.
The domain of the social complicates the ways in which one may ask
questions of revolutions. If the task that revolutions set themselves is the
transformation of human consciousness, enabling liberation and freedom,
and the making of a new modern political subject, namely, the citizen (of
which we shall say more below), then one may find, repeatedly, that these
fall short of achieving this in its fullest sense. What then is the domain of
freedom, or justice, that are embedded within histories of discrimination
and exclusion that lie beyond the imagination of the political? Or if we
pose the question in another way, what’s love got to do with it?
In different ways, both Roland Barthes and Alain Badiou address the
many meanings of love, including what may be called its eventness, its
invocation, its experience and the idioms that make available to us the
grammar of such intimacy—or the discourse of love.10 For Barthes, in
Fragments, the language and experience of love is semiotic—made avail-
able to us through signs—which alert us to the existence of love, though
it is not love in itself. ‘A truly revolutionary moment is like love; it is a
crack in the world, in the usual running of things, in the dust that is lay-
ered all over in order to prevent anything New.’11 The suggestion is that
both love, and revolution, are premised on, and made possible by, dyna-
mism and the desire to reinvent. When this stops and the revolution no
longer challenges its own ‘presuppositions’, then one ends up in ‘regres-
sion’.12 So the question here is whether a sign of love, in revolution, is
indeed love. Badiou, like Arendt, warns us against collapsing love and
political passions. For Badiou, love is about a universal truth, it ‘suggests
a new experience of truth about what it is to be two and not one’.13 It is
declarative, in that it is intrinsic to the ‘structure of the event’ that is love.
And in that declaration lies the paradox of how something that is based on
chance, the encounter, can become, as he says, the ‘fulcrum for the con-
struction of truth’.14 So the question that he asks is whether politics is like
love, in that it is founded on ‘events, declarations and fidelities’?15 Badiou’s
reservation about reading politics as displaying structural similarities with
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 7

love is that it ‘confronts…the control of hatred, not of love’. In other

words, it is about overcoming the enemy, and destroying the ‘conse-
quences of hatred’.16
With this in mind, and returning to the problem of love and revolution,
we are reminded of the structural differences between the two which an
affective gloss may sometimes obscure. In fact, the intersection, the con-
junctive ‘and’ that provides an entry into reconceptualising love and revo-
lution as a ‘problem space’, is one that leaves room for the non-revolutionary
and the unloved.

Site 2: Law and the State

The ‘post’ or our differing political presents constantly bring us up against
the workings of the modern state, with revolutionary or anti-colonial pasts
being reconfigured for purposes of legitimation within the logic of the
new state apparatus. In other instances, efforts are made to contain ongo-
ing struggles and insurrectionary moments by an exercise of state author-
ity, which more often than not takes the form of legal repression. Politics
and law are deeply enmeshed and come together in complex ways. As an
instrument of governance, laws frame the ways in which society must con-
duct itself, and the ways in which the relationship between citizens and the
state is defined. Law, in that sense, is also a ‘means by which government
organizes itself’,17 and is, thereby, constitutive of politics. Colonial and
postcolonial histories bear testimony to the ways in which states claim
powers in the name of the ‘rule of law’, even as people’s movements, of
different kinds, push back, invoking the democratic rights of citizens (or
subjects) to justice. Many like Gandhi and Mandela began their political
education through an introduction to legal studies. In a world where
democracy is understood to be the political default for modern nations,
and is invested by governments and citizens, variously, with different
properties and meanings, law becomes a site that is marked by different
inscriptions. In other words, the ‘rule of law’ that states invoke to justify
their claims to law-making is precisely that which is critiqued by people’s
movements as depriving citizens of their rights and liberty.
In his profound meditation on violence, Walter Benjamin reads the
relationship between law and justice as one that is deeply implicated in its
relationship to violence. Here he makes two moves. First, he reads vio-
lence as a means for law-making, through which it is perpetuated. Second,
domination (the violence of power) signifies the end of law. ‘Law-­making
8 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

is power-making, assumption of power, and to that extent an immediate

manifestation of violence.’18 The struggle over ‘law-making’ then is always
already embedded in the relationship between the state and its subjects/
citizens, where the boundaries of rights, liberties and freedoms are con-
stantly being crafted, and renegotiated. It is unsurprising then that in
many postcolonial/postapartheid contexts, like in India or South Africa,
the constitution acquires the status of that which enshrines people’s aspi-
rations, while ensuring them their fundamental rights, through well-
defined political principles.
Despite this, postcolonial contexts reveal great excesses by states, where
the language of protection of citizens and their rights is often turned on
its head to defend the powers of the state. In her argument about the man-
ner in which an antiquated colonial law of sedition is reinserted into the
postcolonial Indian Penal Code (the infamous section 124 A), G. Arunima
argues that this retention is part of a spectrum of laws created by the post-
colonial Indian state to ‘protect’ itself ‘against the successful rebel’.19 The
genealogy of such ‘protective’ laws for the state can be traced back to the
colonial period when a distinction was made between ordinary and politi-
cal crimes, and thus by extension, the need to institute ‘extraordinary’
laws for these was given legitimacy. At the heart of this was the intent to
crush political dissent, as these were seen as crimes against the state, which
the colonial government explicitly, and the postcolonial implicitly, consid-
ered to be ‘heinous and formidable’.20 Laws like the Unlawful Activities
(Prevention) Action (1967, amended in 2004) and the Armed Forces
Special Powers Act (in place since 1958, though amended over the years
so that more territories that were declared ‘disturbed’ could be brought
within its ambit) have been used successfully in curbing resistance move-
ments, any number of other activities conveniently brought under the
umbrella category of ‘terrorism’, and permitted preventive detention.
It is in this context that the language of law becomes significant. The
Indian law against sedition (124 A IPC) that mandates life imprisonment
for words or acts that can ‘excite disaffection’ against the state is a telling
example of not only the ways in which laws define the political, but also
the ways in which it could limit the rights (in this instance, of speech) that
were guaranteed to citizens. Moreover the language of the laws against
‘disaffection’ is also a command by the state to its citizens to love
the nation.
Yet, many resistance movements, especially those engaged in strug-
gles for civil liberties and democratic rights (often clubbed together
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 9

under the broad umbrella category of human rights activism) have for-
mulated political alternatives by actively engaging, challenging and
attempting to reformulate laws. Here, Indian legal theorist Upendra
Baxi’s important distinction between the politics for human rights versus
the politics of human rights is extremely relevant. He makes a powerful
argument for the ways in which the civil society organisations use
‘transformative’/‘redemptive’ imagery in ways that reflect the ‘power of
utterance of the political truths of the suffering peoples and communi-
ties in resistance’.21 In other words, such resistance ruptures not only the
attempts by the state’s hegemonic claims but also its ‘totalizing narrative
of official authorial voice’. This is what he argues makes politics for
human rights the ‘best narrative sense for the uncertain promise of
human rights futures’.22
Ambedkar’s was one of the earliest and most inventive ways of using
claims to social justice as the grounds from which to rethink law, and by
extension, political subjectivity, in India. Working within a liberal demo-
cratic framework he produced new ways of thinking of ‘untouchables’ as a
political minority.23 He argued that Dalit castes would find no justice
through political means, given the structural violence of caste Hindu soci-
ety. ‘Ambedkar’s signal transformation of the political consists, then, in
investing the state with the protection of its minorities by using law to
reveal state complicity in the extension of caste power.’24 Though his earli-
est intervention, that of demanding separate seats for the ‘Depressed
Classes’. was renounced in the Poona Pact of 24 September 1932 signed
by Gandhi and Ambedkar,25 the Indian Constitution, of whose Drafting
Committee Ambedkar was the Chairman and perhaps the moving force,
ensured several safeguards for Dalits and other social minorities (Fig. 1.1).
It is Ambedkar’s extraordinary legal intervention that anticipates Baxi’s
distinction between the politics for and of human rights. The availability of
laws, however inadequately implemented, has provided grounds on which
ideas of justice have been imagined afresh in many ongoing people’s resis-
tance movements in India.26 Read from the point of view of justice claims,
law ceases to be simply part of a repressive state apparatus, but has the
potential for enabling emancipatory ideas, and new notions of political
subjectivity. Demands for a just world from the historically marginalised
and oppressed exceeded the limits of liberal reason and a narrow ‘rights
discourse’. It was not simply about existing structures of power, but also a
call to revolutionaries, and those fighting for national liberation, to rei-
magine afresh their own ideas of freedom and emancipation.
10 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

Fig. 1.1 B. R. Ambedkar in 1950, Wikimedia.commons.

Site 3: Depleted Love and the Liberal Problem

In Tensions of Empire, Fred Cooper and Ann Stoler reflect on the ways in
which liberalism arrives in the colonial world with its self-justification
stretched to the limit.27 One explanation for this overworked rationality
relates to the co-incidental emergence of liberalism with the institutions of
slavery and capitalism and the efforts to transplant the tenets of liberalism
into the larger frame of colonial and imperial domination.28
From the perspective of anti-colonial nationalism, the colonial world
received a form of liberalism depleted of the passion of love—love for
truth, love of ‘Man’, love of freedom—that was at the very core of its self-­
proclaimed sense of entitlement to define moral codes and name political
subjectivity. Liberalism’s appeal to ‘Man’ as a universal subject always and
necessarily translated into a form of paternalism and aggression, with
which liberalism is indelibly marked in the colonial and postcolonial
world.29 What happened to the aura of love when the discourse of
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 11

liberalism arrives in the colonial world? What, we might ask in particular,

of the slave or the Dalit? Who loved them, and whom or what could they
love? It begs the question of whose revolution or emancipation this is
anyway, constituting an ongoing aporia.
What the chapters gathered in this volume suggest is that the sem-
blance of love that formed the basis of liberal discourse was usurped in
early nationalist anti-colonialism in fraught and productive ways to medi-
ate its critique of Empire. In the process, early forms of nationalism com-
pel liberalism to confront the limits of the solutions it proposed to the
formulation of the ‘native question’. This question, as formulated and
exported to different colonies and at times overdetermined by the rise of
racial science, sought the transformation of the colonised subject into
industrial worker, political subject of Empire and marker of civilisational
difference. Liberalism encounters its limit here in the ‘native question’,
through which it sought to produce a subject of law and capital, of moder-
nity and custom. It was through ‘custom’ in particular that a policy of
Indirect Rule was devised and rationalised for the administration of colo-
nial populations in many parts of the British Empire.30
Several chapters in this volume invite us to cross the threshold of the
limit posited by liberal reason, to ascertain what nationalism and Marxism
imagined on the other side of liberal paternalism. One response points to
the ruins of the promise of messianic time, which the idea of revolution
constituted in opposition to the homogenous empty time of liberalism
and capitalism. This is the time-space where love and revolution co-­
convened in an effort to redeem a future potentially shorn of the paternal-
istic rationality of liberalism. The echoes of Benjamin’s Angel of History
are particularly evident in the ways in which ideas of revolution in the first
part of the twentieth century produced anticipations and anxieties about a
rupture within its specifically racialised predicament that would set the
course of history on an altogether different trajectory towards a possi-
ble future.
What forestalled such movement was perhaps an irresolution that pre-
sented itself in a debate about nationalism and Marxism, exemplified in
the exchange between the Indian communist M.N. Roy and V.I. Lenin in
the 1920s. Roy cautioned against a wholesale abdication of the pro-
gramme of the communist movement to attend to the anti-colonial strug-
gle, which he believed would needlessly surrender worker and peasant
mobilisation in the colonial world to the terms of elite nationalism. Roy
had Gandhi in his sights as he argued against Lenin’s view of the colonial
12 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

question. Those in the South African Communist Party had nationalists

like John Langalibalele Dube, and his enthusiasm for the apparent reform-
ism of Booker T. Washington, in view. For both, the national question
appeared as a source of controversy and irresolution. Thinking love and
revolution together enables us to trace the contours of this disagreement
The debate crystalised in the extensively recorded resolution of the
Sixth Comintern or Third Communist International Meeting proposed
under the heading of the Native Republic Thesis. There, in the context of
the Comintern, representatives of India, South Africa, and the USA con-
fronted the question of how to respond to the extreme forms of race and
caste subjection. The Native Republic Thesis programmatically directed
the Communist movements in these countries to support the nationalist
struggles for self-determination, as a stage towards communism. Within
this programmatic formulation, Marxists allied to the Soviet Union gener-
ally tended to ignore nationalist disappointment with liberalism, especially
among an intelligentsia who were the first to be interpellated by the lat-
ter’s ideological apparatus. The Communist Party’s attitude was that
nationalism was merely an alibi in a general postponement of the ideal of
communist revolution after the First World War.31 The spirit of revolution
had to be tempered against the backdrop of a seemingly backward and
lagging discourse of race and caste. The Native Republic Thesis adopted
at the Comintern in 1928 recast the spirit of revolution, driving it increas-
ingly towards a notion of scientific socialism with its plans and prognoses,
calculations and assessments of the levels of consciousness.
Rather than being a stage on the road to communism, nationalism’s
encounter with liberalism is marked by the fact that it speaks in the name
of the public and the everyday, making possible a closer proximity to what
Herbert Marcuse has called an aesthetic ethos, and by which he means the
making of a society as a work of art. If nationalism did convene around a
spiritual core, as Partha Chatterjee suggests, it was one partly infused with
an aesthetic ethos before all other claims to sovereignty and territoriality.32
Nationalist intellectuals too saw their struggle unfolding on the stage of
world history.
The idea of love retreats into a space of corporeality in the West only to
reappear as an image of love of the world in the struggles for decolonisa-
tion. Among the tropes of decolonisation, a significant and telling motif is
the restorative ambition of nationalism facing the world, grasping it as text
and touching it as globe. In his painting of Patrice Lumumba’s famous
anti-colonial speech at Congolese independence in 1960, the artist
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 13

Tshibumba Kanda Matula offers us a glimpse of this sensibility beyond the

corporeality of love indicated in the West where freedom is increasingly
individualised. The image of the globe gives us a way to think about the
efforts to restore Africa into the story of world, as integral and necessary
to it (Fig. 1.2).
If this particular distinction underscored the ambivalence of the nation-
alist anti-colonial encounter with liberalism, how do we account for the
ways in which third-world nationalism, at the moments of departure and
manoeuvre, made itself available as an idea on the stage of world history?
What was the nationalist response to scientific socialism or liberal political
subjectivity?
Nationalism, in its spiritual dimension, sets to work on the grounds of
culture with which it fulfils the humanistic promises betrayed by the old
culture. The struggle over the terrain of culture was aimed at liberalism’s
monopoly over the question of morality with which liberalism inaugurates
ideas of political subjectivity. The exemplary instance of this attitude to
liberal morality is Gandhi’s Law of Love that proposed a tactical rerouting
of love to undercut liberalism’s attempt to define universal subject of
‘Man’ in its own terms. Gandhi’s elaboration of ahimsa countered

Fig. 1.2 ‘Vive le 30 Juin Zaïre Indépendent.’ Lumumba and King Baudouin;
Lumumba giving speech, Nationaal Museum van Wereldculturen, Leiden. Painting
by Tshibumba Kanda Matulu, 1973
14 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

liberalism’s monopoly on love by seeking to revolutionise love itself.

Ahimsa would ground Gandhi’s Passive Revolution, which amounted to a
revolution without a revolution. In South Africa too, a similar concern
with liberal morality in fulfilling the promise of love in the constitution of
political subjectivity is revealed. S.M. Molema reserved a few choice words
for those who claimed the moral high ground of liberalism: ‘In these
things, we shall look, and look in vain, for the much vaunted “Western
liberalism”. In vain shall we search the actions for the so-called High
Political Morality.’33
In our various forays over four workshops on the theme of love and
revolution, the intermediate space between the two grand traditions that
mark our modernity, liberalism and Marxism, made it clear that an idea
specific to the anti-colonial struggles was being forged in the midst of the
great ideological shifts from the nineteenth century onwards. Several
Marxists, among them M.N. Roy and later C.L.R. James, would rework
the script of Marxism to pivot the great impulse for revolution in the colo-
nial world and not in the Europe that emerged after the First World War.
Through several precise engagements, this seemed insufficient to account
for the difficulty of relating love to revolution. The problematic of love
and revolution must be read as more than an effort to reconcile two rather
discrepant terms born of complex and divergent genealogies.
More centrally, the papers in the present volume call attention to the
specific and singular way in which notions of love of the world were born
in a precise moment of anti-colonial struggle, a love of the world for which
one would offer one’s life, and for which there had been no precedent in
the history of earlier revolutions. In contrast to Marxist precursors, nation-
alism in the third world opens the problem-space of liberalism, by recast-
ing liberalism’s depleted love as a terrain on which to constitute its critique
of colonialism. If love enables nationalism, it also proves the site of its
most profound disappointment when the nation acquires a life of its own.

Site 4: Love and Revolution—The Relation

How then may we engage the encounter between affect and politics in
anti-colonial or revolutionary contexts? Such encounters are frequently
elaborated in text itself. In Javed Majeed’s reading of radical Urdu poets
Iqbal and Faiz in colonial India, for example (this volume), the languages
of love and intimacy were integral to revolutionary aesthetics. He shows
how Iqbal recasts ishq (love) in the language of khudi (selfhood), and then
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 15

makes a case for the need of cultivating love, which he calls the ‘power of
assimilative action’. Such a love then makes a demand of selflessness, in
assimilation, and a complex relation between self and collective, where
neither becomes the other, yet is tied to each other through affective
intensities. This also then is at the heart of the troubled relationship
between pan-Islamism in Iqbal and the possibilities of thinking of a future
‘state’ for Muslims, of which he was a significant proponent. The revolu-
tionary poet and intellectual Faiz engaged with postcolonial disillusion-
ment and the continuing oppression despite political independence, yet
continued to dream and desire a better future for Pakistan and humanity.
Faiz’s aesthetic devices drew upon the resources of Urdu poetry, where
the motif of the separated lover from the beloved then is woven back into
ways of articulating both political pain and the conditions of hope. Vivid
and sensuous, it invokes intensely embodied metaphors and images that
speak equally of the ‘anxiety of hope’ of the revolutionary and the aes-
thetic dilemmas of the poet.
Through the category of sacrifice, Simona Sawhney’s meditative chap-
ter (this volume) opens up ways in which the death penalty can be appro-
priated and transformed by the revolutionary subject as both ‘devotion
and defiance’, thereby connecting the ethical and the political. This arises
from her reading of the life and writings of Indian revolutionary Bhagat
Singh, who was sentenced to death by the British colonial state in 1931.
Sawhney suggests that Singh’s staging of his suffering and death as a sac-
rificial act enabled this to be seen in turn as a legacy he left behind for his
heirs. Though popularly referred to as shaheed, a layered term associated
with both religious and political martyrdom, Bhagat Singh was also a self-­
proclaimed atheist, and his text ‘Why I Am an Atheist’ written while in
prison is among his best-read works. This text which was more manifesto
than autobiography brought together the importance of self-reliance as a
sign of political maturity alongside the need for ‘atheist sacrifice’. By
bringing within the same frame the love for humanity, and the desire for
freedom, the revolutionary’s act of self-sacrifice, of going joyfully to the
gallows, becomes a way of transforming a death sentence into a defiant
political possibility, a way of speaking back to state power. The sombre
conclusion that Sawhney draws however is that while such anti-colonial
sacrifice is still applauded today, it is no longer the willingness to suffer but
the capacity to inflict suffering on others that is now valorised in India.
How may one think about the residual sadness, sometimes even close
to melancholia, that often seems to saturate the languages of political love?
16 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

In her reading of Walter Benjamin’s distinction between the productive

possibilities of sadness and his critique of left melancholia, Wendy Brown
sees the crises of the left as one of mourning for the loss of a movement,
and a moment. She argues for a rethinking of the foundations and radical
transformation of ‘political love’; she suggests that without such an affec-
tive commitment to the cause or community, all one would be left with is
unproductive melancholy.34 Her arguments are speaking to a crisis born of
anxieties of critique—both political and theoretical—that was central to
many of the debates of the 1980s and 1990s in Europe and the USA, but
they are pertinent. Here it is productive to look at one kind of critique—
that of the feminist (in its different iterations)—in relation to rethinking
the social and the political. The model of excluding women and slaves
from political life, relegating them to ‘bare life’ and to social and economic
reproduction that was intrinsic to Greek antiquity was not an exclusive
cultural or historical phenomenon.35 As feminists have argued repeatedly,
in different contexts, the problem around women and gender is not one
of absence, but of non-recognition and of not naming.
One may then revisit the ‘problem space’ of love and revolution by ask-
ing questions about the very making of revolutionaries, and their gender-
ing. Several contributors to this volume mark the encounter with
institutions or categories that are recognised and named but are pro-
foundly refigured in political times. This is especially so of the family and
generational ordering under acknowledged patriarchal systems. In Paolo
Israel’s study of Mapiko mask dance and performance in northern
Mozambique, for example (this volume), the liberation movement Frelimo
welcomed the scintillating new emphasis in the mask performances
towards anti-colonial ends. But the movement firmly discouraged certain
forms of older competitive song that related to cross-village insult. Samora
Machel’s revolutionary vision sought ultimately to eradicate the genera-
tional puberty rites that underpinned ‘the tribe’ (and the mask), all in the
pursuit of the making of the New Man who would ‘veio da mata’, that is,
emerge from the bush.36 This was ‘the most crucial task of all revolution-
ary endeavours: the construction of regenerated men and women, “deliv-
ered from the corruption of previous history”’.37 In Pedro Monaville’s
paper, it is also the opportunity to loosen old familial bonds in the 1960s
that helps to drive Congolese male students towards such powerful
instances of the new: the new discourses of romantic love, the new form
of the political party, and the new music and enjoyments of Kinshasa’s
night life.
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 17

Patriarchy however takes on new forms in the political party itself. Ciraj
Rassool offers an immensely suggestive reading of both the making (and
unmaking) of I.B. Tabata and the Unity Movement in South Africa (this
volume), and the ways his biography and the subsequent dissent over its
narration, point to a troubled relationship between politics and affect. In
this reading, institutions such as the family and the school are both sites
for nurturing values and attitudes, functioning as metaphors for the ways
in which parties work through inter-generational relationships that can be
variously described as paternalism and patronage. In using the mode of life
narrative, Tabata’s biography then becomes a way of mapping political
affinities in the mode of social relationships. As pater familias of the party
‘family’, Tabata’s own self-fashioning and his representation could be
recast as that of head of an affective organisation that would provide lead-
ership through a pedagogic model that could be emulated. The filiations,
fictive and real, provide the matrix within which political lives acquire their
identities; the familial model also allowed for greater authoritarianism,
accompanied by intolerance for dissent, especially when articulated by
younger members of the party. Critique in such an instance could be seen
as almost akin to patricide.
In addressing head-on the relationship between gender and political
activism, Mallarika Sinha Roy makes a powerful argument about the post-
colonial Indian Maoist movement Naxalbari (this volume). While many
erstwhile comrades of the movement, some turned scholars, celebrate the
revolutionary romanticism of the male revolutionary and the ways in
which political and romantic love co-exist, they do not engage the ways in
which these realms often overlap or become elided. Sinha Roy complicates
the argument by drawing attention to the manner in which emotions
themselves are gendered, with the rational and political conventionally
being considered masculine, and the emotional and affective feminine.
What then happens to the ‘outlaw emotion’, she asks, when a woman
Maoist revolutionary expresses her love for the movement? And how may
we read that alongside an equally and perhaps even transgressive choice of
marrying outside of prescribed caste norms? In challenging both the vio-
lence of the postcolonial Indian state and its sustenance of deeply unequal
and unjust conditions of life, as well as the heteronormative violence of
Maoist patriarchy, the woman Naxalite becomes that which cannot be
contained, or indeed historicised, within formal narratives of the Maoist
movement.
18 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

Such heteronormative narratives also feature in Monaville’s study of the

Congolese student movement of 1969 that we have mentioned already.
Lovanium University in Leopoldville (Kinshasa) remained a colonial and
clerical institution in the capital after Independence, offering scholarships
and status. It nonetheless became a centre of left activism with a ‘big red
library’ and Marxist reading groups that attracted students who started
out on the Catholic left. Infused by Panafrican, Lumumbist and Global
’68 influences, an emergent student movement called for the decolonisa-
tion of the university and increased social access. A series of events in 1968
precipitated the conflict between President Mobuto and the students,
leading to the June 1969 march, shooting and massacre, with attendant
arrests and detentions. It was in prison that specific forms of solidarity
emerged with students sharing food and cigarettes, and engaging in
mutual learning and ideological development. Again, it was the element of
the new in such male friendships that made political engagement possible
and enduring, with many lasting through exile and later political differ-
ences. By contrast, male student relationships with women in Kinshasa
tended to materialise as a failed romance. Moreover, their fellow women
students and nuns who participated in the protests were marginalised in
activist accounts, even more so in memory. For many, this romance of
male friendship between African youth activists was love, and certainly a
dimension where love and revolution came together. In Monaville’s view,
it explains certain aspects of postcolonial politics.38

Site 5: In the Pause/Interval—Subjective Grounds

of the Political

The ends of liberation struggles and the aftermaths of the Cold War seem
designed to run into the terms of the postcolonial, the postapartheid and
the post-socialist. Thoughts might turn to the so-called Arab Spring, but
here too is a cautionary tale. Plainly, love is not the royal road to revolu-
tion. In the concatenations of love and revolution, and beyond the ‘prob-
lem space’ of categories and effects, we wish to open up other entry-­points
into the subjective grounds of the political that we refer to here as the
pause, or interval.
In his contribution to the recent project Uprisings, Antonio Negri takes
the reader through an arc of political and subjective processes that encom-
pass the minutiae of revolt and its historical residues. At one point he notes:
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 19

When there is an uprising, before exploding, the collective tension gathers

up in a moment of pause, an interval that betrays an undecided effort that
precedes the decision to open up to action. Altogether. When this happens,
time becomes joyful.39

Among the multiple histories traversed in the love and revolution debates,
it is often these intervals of the ‘undecided effort’ where things are so
intense, but opaque at the same time. Something is gathering. For mobili-
sation, this is where subjectivity becomes fundamental, it is ‘a motor of
lifting … to produce action’.40 Thus, one form of ‘love’ in love and revolu-
tion might be a hardened commandment issued by a nationalist govern-
ment fighting ‘disaffection’ (Arunima); or it might be the ‘love manifesto’
articulated by Maoist women militants in Bengal (Sinha Roy); or the dec-
laration that ‘love in jail surpasses love outside’ (bolinga ya cachot) on a
Congolese prison wall (Monaville). But equally it might be less conscious,
in the more indeterminate zone of affect. Thinking about affect is ‘an
invitation to voyage’, suggests Brian Massumi. Affect cannot be clearly
named or determined, it is more of a ‘margin of manoeuvrability’,41 and
only comes to be understood when enacted.42 It is proto-political. Many
contributors have attempted to track these less conscious interplays.
Negri distinguishes between a ‘pause/interval in the gesture’ (before
discharging a collective breath as it were and rising up) and an ‘interrup-
tion/rupture of the gesture’ (when movement is derailed or defeated). In
the latter case, the ‘materiality of the operation’ falls away. Proponents
may start to build a utopia and have recourse to apocalyptic ideas. ‘Those
who didn’t plan to revolt fool themselves a magical hand will lift them up
from impending catastrophe.’ Negri then asks what remains of ‘the
thought of uprising’ and its affects? ‘Memory, suffering, regret, repen-
tance’ are listed. ‘And where has subjectivity gone? Nostalgia takes away
the desire to start again and deposits tired residue of that ancient experi-
ence into the soul. The perception of the crushing of desire replaces the
uprising.’ Negri sees in this a ‘refusal of the concrete’.
Certainly many derailed movements might go in this direction and run
into the sand. Wally Serote’s novel of Soweto in the 1970s, To Every Birth
Its Blood, implies however that these sensations might be felt repeatedly,
even within short bursts of time in an ongoing liberation struggle.43
Movements continue, ‘even through defeats’. In Negri’s geological meta-
phor, ‘The defeats are a stratum, a deposit, and a living one. They are not
inert, they are passions that keep producing subjectivity, productions that
20 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

cannot be stopped.’ Howard Caygill’s distinction between the ongoing

‘capacity to resist’ and singular, spectacular acts of protest or uprising is
pertinent here.44 New indignations become the spark of uprising, Negri
suggests, ‘only when the sad passion of the indignant comes across the
ontological power deposited by lives of struggle. … in that concrete histo-
ricity and in the productive imagination, the relay is handed over.’ These
‘deposits’ feed into teaching and cultural texts, are passed on through vari-
ous media, or mediated through institutions and relationships. Monaville’s
work on the student movement in Congo gestures to this, for the postco-
lonial Mobutu dictatorship ‘did not put an end to political passions’, and
‘affects of liberation kept re-emerging’.
What is necessary for revolution to go into action? Negri insists that
firstly it must be grounded, but also ‘enervated by passions and interests,
radical will and desires for the future’. Secondly, it needs to ‘make itself a
machine producing subjectivity that pulls together, in an active “we”, a
whole of singularities’. He speaks of this development as ‘an ontological
shift of spirit and passions, materiality and needs between a moment of
rupture and an act of building’.45
This interstice between ‘the rupture’ and ‘the building’ can go either
way, as we have already seen. In his chapter (this volume) on the killing of
the ‘People’s Doctor’ Asvat in his Soweto clinic that implicated the
Mandela Foot Ball Club and Winnie Mandela herself, Jon Soske points to
the centrality of the notion of rupture in revolutionary and historical
thought. Winnie Mandela’s betrayal constituted such a crisis, he avers,
because it inserted a rupture within the rupture of the struggle. The crisis
was played out at the funeral where a specific photograph shows the appar-
ent heroes of the Foot Ball Club carrying Asvat’s coffin in a display of soli-
darity. The local newspaper editor did not publish it. ‘Would-be heroes,
boys carrying the coffin of their uncle, appear as the possible murderers of
heroes. Perhaps. This violence of uncertainty is part of the materiality of
the photograph.’ Soske calls it ‘a document of the Saturnine, one of the
moments when the violence of the liberation struggle began to devour its
own, and the very nature of the revolution becomes uncertain’.
It is precisely in these difficult and even suffocating domains that our
work on revolt and love, on politics and affect, is located. Together with
the not-yet of the present one finds pasts that might variously be worked-­
over or suppressed. Every case is different. Where rupture is not ruptured
and continues into the building of a movement, writes Negri, ‘The
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 21

intensity of desire is so strong … that it produces extreme subjectivities.’

Here, such desire ‘does not train consciousness, it changes it’.46

Site 6: Imperfect Time

This brings us to very fundamental questions about time. Revolution
always seems to figure the subject in place and forgets that ‘all subjectivity
is time’. ‘Revolt’, says Negri, ‘is unpredictable. But we organized it.’ The
problem is that time and history are not same thing, but revolutionaries
think they are. As Badiou puts it (cited in Israel), revolution has its own
tense, the future perfect. This is a time to come, and is already determined.
How then can we work with love and revolution to mark the temporalities
in far more precise ways? What analytical pathways would open to us as
a result?
Giorgio Agamben’s essay ‘Time and History’ is often cited for its cru-
cial pinpointing of the way political thought for so long failed to address
the question of time. This is even as historical materialism elaborated its
concept of history. As Agamben writes in 1978:

Because of this omission it [historical materialism] has been unwittingly

compelled to have recourse to a concept of time dominant in Western cul-
ture for centuries, and so to harbour, side by side, a revolutionary concept
of history and a traditional experience of time.47

What is this dominant concept of time? According to Cesare Casarino, for

Agamben it is ‘spatialized, measurable, quantifiable, homogeneous, empty,
and teleological time’ which ‘found its apotheosis with capitalist moder-
nity and its purest expression in the specular and complementary tempo-
ralities of industrial wage labour and of bourgeois historicism’.48
The problem of such unreconstructed time, as David Scott puts it, is
not only the assumption ‘that time and history are identical’, but that
‘what plainly matters is time as history, as opposed to some other plane of
temporality’.49 Thus, when it suddenly transpires that time and history are
not the same thing, entire schemas tend to fall apart. ‘Revolutionary con-
ceptions of history very often harbour the most conventional notions of
time and action’ writes Scott, ‘and the disjunctures in which history and
time no longer coincide are likely to be those of crisis and catastrophe,
when human action takes the most surprising, sometimes fatal turns’.50
22 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

This is arguably when the temporal question becomes most interesting.

The point is not so much to apprehend the problem of what planes of
temporality subsist, and to delineate them. The point is that this out-of-­
jointness of time and history means that we are subject to the contingent
and unexpected. Integral to this is the way that temporality itself is consti-
tutive in relation to action. Scott points to how both Hegel and Arendt
develop ‘comparable if not identical conceptions of action that are espe-
cially attuned to its constitutive temporality and therefore its intractable
vulnerability to contingency and conflict’.51
From this point, vocabularies open up to the notions of the contin-
gency, chance, peripeteia (sudden reversal of fortune) and the aleatory.
Scott suggestively speaks of the ‘alterities of moral and political emotions,
the colliding contingencies of acting in time’.52 He remains with Agamben
and turns to literary modes of tragedy in his elaboration of the disconti-
nuities of the Grenadan revolution. Casarino however turns to Negri’s
argument that is critical of the Benjaminian concept of the Jetzt-Zeit (upon
which Agamben draws), and which highlights instead the dynamic produc-
tivity of time (drawing on Marx). Casarino also invokes Louis Althusser’s
arguments about aleatory materialism that are based on earlier concepts of
time as a random movement of atoms instead of Christian and
Enlightenment ideas of progressive stages in a flow of time.53
All of these debates are in the pursuit of credible grounds for a revolu-
tionary concept of time. Discursively however the ultimate purpose is to
change time. Scott highlights this in the case of Grenada, as does Israel in
his discussion of Frelimo’s new anniversaries and festivals that were
intended to inaugurate a temporal break with colonialism after Mozambican
Independence. A crucial aspect of the Russian Revolution is the Bolshevik
sense that the world needed to see and legitimate the revolutionary events
in Leningrad, in order to fully inaugurate the new revolutionary era and
mark the end of the old. Thus in order to change time, both history and
‘the world’ need to acknowledge revolutionary events, which in turn relies
on a transcendence of nation and new forms of internationalism.54
A key reason for considering problems of temporality is to acknowledge
the tendency to ‘disdain and distrust the more unstable and unpredictable
realm of human action in time’. This happens of course, as Arendt says, ‘in
our zeal to envision ourselves as sovereign “makers” of history’.55 Such
disdain and distrust—such symptoms of the urge to control history—are
precisely what we sought to address when we put this unpredictable pair-
ing of love and revolution into motion.
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 23

The impulse to harness strong emotions into political mobilisation

forms part of the ‘putting the world into movement’ that Patricia Hayes
examines in her chapter on political funerals in South Africa. Mourning
and mobilisation are forcibly linked as funerals became protean spaces of
political organisation and photographic reproduction especially under the
State of Emergency that foreclosed other kinds of assembly. Gatherings
and choreographies at funerals could draw on the ‘deposits’ of previous
deaths and sacrifices and provide the spark for further protest (and repres-
sion), as the deaths of Steve Biko (1977) and the Cradock Four (1985)
amply testify. Political movements joined and subsumed families into these
occasions, channelling love and revolution into a unified field that photo-
graphic images sought to project to the outside world. But when the ‘we’
of the movement breaks up again into singularities of conflicting family
emotions—especially over the representation of death—love and revolu-
tion come flying apart.
Equally, Premesh Lalu’s chapter asks what happens when the coupling
of love and revolution fails to deliver on its promise. Lalu locates a ten-
dency in nationalism to commit the subaltern subject enraptured by the
enchantments of love and revolution to an abiding script of sadness. The
hold exercised over the subject by way of the trope of sadness invariably
mobilises the scene of gender and generational conflict as an enduring
inheritance of an oppressive past, but in the case of nationalist narration,
as a form of blackmail that emphasises wounded paternity. Through its
recourse to the claims of wounded paternity, Lalu argues that nationalism
seeks both to keep the subject of love and revolution in its place, while
explaining its abundant failures in terms that recall the irresolution that
pertains to gender and generational conflict. Ensnared in this double-­
bind, Lalu asks us to trace the sketches of emotion in a postcolonial aes-
thetics that offer pathways out of the entrapments of national sadness.
Here we might also recall Israel’s subjects in the liberation war in
northern Mozambique. The chapter’s microhistorial engagement with the
intersecting trajectories of Frelimo’s nationalist discourses and mapiko
masquerades however offers an ‘experiment in nonlinear narrative’.
Exploring rare filmic and sonic traces, it pinpoints moments of disjuncture
between revolutionary injunctions against long-standing cultural prac-
tices, and the invention and performance of new masks. For long periods
of anti-colonial war there is a uniformity to everyone’s experience, some-
thing of a black box effect that had the effect of shrinking time. But the
‘multiple and contradictory layers’ of the affective dynamics in the
24 G. ARUNIMA ET AL.

revolution are apprehended through the aesthetic and archival traces

around masquerade, song and performance. Israel’s style of writing, with
its enlargement of scale, attempts to overcome the ‘ironing out of time’
and seeks out moments of emergence, dissonance and possibility in what
he calls a prose of ‘ontological openness’.
Many chapters present cases where episodes and aesthetics sit uneasily
alongside one or other ‘liberation script’,56 and where time cannot be sub-
sumed into a smooth narrative. These bumps in the smoothing-out of
time by nationalism also provide a sense of something else. They represent
those ‘joints’ in temporality that might shape later sensibilities and acts.
However heterogeneous they may be, they draw on experiences of aggre-
gating around such moments, offering alternative memories or ontologi-
cal strata to be accessed at some future point of thought, protest or
revolution. In joining love and revolution therefore, we have sought an
apparatus for discerning these intensities of passion and politics that offer
both beginnings and endings. But while the conjunction and between
love and revolution is already an expression of love, care and intimacy,57
much of the work in this volume suggests that these may well fall apart. In
fact, there can be no settled time when one puts love and revolution
together.

Notes
1. Workshops with different but overlapping groups of scholars were held
between 2010 and 2012 in Cape Town, Minneapolis, New Delhi and
returned to conclude in Cape Town.
2. See Appendix 1 for a complete list of workshop participants and issues
addressed in the series.
3. Among many others see Michael Hardt, “The power to be affected,”
International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, 28, no. 3 (2015):
215–222; Lauren Berlant, “A Properly Political Concept of Love: Three
Approaches in Ten Pages,” Cultural Anthropology 26, no. 4 (2011),
683–691: Sean Chabot, “Love and Revolution,” Critical Sociology 34, no.
6 (2008). See also People Opposing Women Abuse (POWA), Breaking the
Silence: Love and Revolution (Cape Town: Jacana, 2010).
4. Suren Pillay, “The Humanities to Come. Thinking the World from Africa,”
Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 37, no. 1
(2017): 121.
5. David Scott, Conscripts of Modernity. The Tragedy of Colonial Enlightenment
(Durham NC: Duke University Press, 2004), 2.
 1 LOVE & REVOLUTION: AN INTRODUCTION 25

6. Ibid., 4.
7. Hamit Borzaslan, Gilles Bataillon & Christophe Jaffrelot, Revolutionary
Passions. Latin America, Middle East and India (London: Routledge, 2017).
8. Njabulo S. Ndebele, “Love and Politics: Sister Aidan Quinlan and the
Future We Have Desired” in Gerrit Olivier (ed), Penny Siopis. Time and
Again (Johannesburg: Wits University Press, 2014), 219.
9. Chandrabhan Prasad, http://www.bbc.com/news/world-­south-­asia-
12355740.
10. Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (London: Vintage, 2002);
Alain Badiou, In Praise of Love (London: Serpent’s Tail, 2012).
11. Srecko Horvat, The Radicality of Love (Cambridge: Polity, 2016), 9.
12. Ibid.
13. Badiou, In Praise of Love, 43.
14. Ibid., 45.
15. Ibid., 57.
16. Ibid., 71.
17. Keith E. Whittington, R. Daniel Keleman and Gregory A. Caldeira, eds,
Oxford Handbook of Law and Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2008), 18.
18. Walter Benjamin, “Critique of Violence” in Selected Writings Volume 1,
1913–1926 (London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press,
1996), 248.
19. Ujjwal Kumar Singh, Penal Strategies and Political Resistance in Colonial
and Independent India (IDEAS Working Paper Series from RePEc, 2006).
20. Ibid.
21. Upendra Baxi, The Future of Human Rights (New Delhi: Oxford University
Press, 2012).
22. Ibid.
23. See Anupama Rao’s excellent discussion of this in The Caste Question:
Dalits and the Politics of Modern India (Ranikhet: Permanent Black, 2010),
especially 118–160.
24. Ibid., 125.
25. The agreement was that a proportionate number of seats would be reserved
for the “Depressed Classes” within the general constituencies. http://
www.ambedkar.org/impdocs/poonapact.htm.
26. See Niraja Gopal Jayal, Citizenship and its Discontents: An Indian History
(Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), for a nuanced reading
of rights, laws and ideas of citizenship in India.
27. Fred Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler (eds), Tensions of Empire: Colonial
Cultures in a Bourgeois World (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1997).
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Barrett, George, vi. 380.
Barrière d’Enfer (a gate), ii. 235.
Barrois, Monsieur, ii. 268.
Barrow (artist), vi. 365.
—— Isaac, iii. 151; v. 147; viii. 26, 63; xii. 346.
—— Sir John, ix. 247 n.
Barry, Colonel, ii. 191, 212, 224, 228.
—— James, ix. 413;
also referred to in i. 35, 148, 150; ii. 221; iii. 257; vi. 270, 340, 372;
vii. 89; ix. 31, 35, 225, 363 n., 380; x. 199, 200, 280; xi. 226; xii.
186, 194–6, 221, 292.
—— Mrs, i. 157; viii. 160.
—— Spranger, viii. 209; xii. 33.
Barrymore (actor), iii. 206; viii. 410; xi. 277, 305.
—— Mrs, iii. 206; xi. 364.
Bartholine Saddletree (in Scott’s Heart of Midlothian), iv. 248; ix.
151; xii. 91.
Bartholomew Fair, ii. 77 n.; iii. 312; vi. 436; viii. 45, 400; ix. 143, 196,
212; xi. 349, 360, 372; xii. 20.
Bartlemy Fair. See Bartholomew Fair.
Bartley, George (actor), viii. 177, 234, 258, 278, 280, 315, 327, 331,
464, 474, 528; xi. 277, 370, 374, 389.
—— Mrs, viii. 302.
Bartoline Saddletree. (See Bartholine Saddletree.)
Bartolommeo, Fra, ix. 226.
Bartolozzi, Francesco, xi. 392.
Barton, Bernard, i. 423; x. 405.
Basedaw, J. B., ix. 483.
Basil (Miss Baillie’s), v. 147; viii. 555.
Basile, Madame, i. 90; vii. 304.
Basingstoke, Mayor’s Feast at, vi. 498.
Basle, ii. 185; ix. 295, 298.
Bassanio (in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice), viii. 179, 180, 465.
Bassano II, Jacopo da Ponte, ix. 35, 43, 355, 386.
Bastard, The (in Shakespeare’s King John), i. 311; viii. 347.
Bastile, The, i. 105 n., 388, 427; ii. 217; iii. 290; iv. 92, 93, 218; xi.
197; xii. 135, 287.
Bates, Miss. See Harrop, Miss.
Bates, William, iii. 266.
Bates’s (Joah) Company, ii. 79, 212.
Bath, ii. 87, 199, 260, 267; vii. 306; viii. 405; ix. 277; xii. 139 n.
Bath Easton Vase, The, ii. 87.
Bath Guide (Anstey’s), viii. 560.
Bath, Lord, vi. 378.
Bath Theatre Royal, viii. 254, 335, 410.
Bath of Diana (Titian’s), i. 72; ix. 27.
Bath of Seneca (Luca Giordano’s), ix. 67.
Baths of Titus, The, ix. 234.
Bathsheba (Wilkie’s), v. 141.
Bathurst, Allen, Lord, iii. 408; ix. 140, 187 n.
Batte, Batte, Masetto (a song), viii. 365, 370; xi. 308.
Battle of Hexham, The (G. Colman, the younger), ii. 109.
Battle of Norlingen (Rubens’), ix. 41.
Battle-piece (Barker’s), xi. 248.
—— (Giulio Romano’s), ix. 43.
—— (Salvator Rosa’s), ix. 226; x. 303.
Baveno, ix. 278.
Baviad (Gifford’s), i. 380, 385, 396; iv. 304, 309; vi. 221.
Baxter, Richard, iii. 266; vi. 76, 364; vii. 243, 320, 321; xii. 383.
Bayes (in Villiers’ The Rehearsal), iii. 97; ix. 319; x. 11, 19, 388.
Bayle, Pierre, i. 82; xi. 323.
Beacon, The (a periodical), vi. 518 n.; xi. 534; xii. 259.
Beaconsfield (the place), iii. 137; iv. 284.
Beatrice (Dante’s Divina Commedia), x. 87.
Beatrice (Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing), ii. 110; viii. 32,
401 n.
—— (in J. P. Kemble’s Pannel), xi. 305.
Beattie, James, iii. 225; vi. 444, 445.
—— Mrs, vi. 445.
Beauclerc, Topham, viii. 103.
Beau Didapper (in Fielding’s Joseph Andrews), viii. 115; x. 33; xii.
226.
Beau Mordecai (in Macklin’s Love a la Mode), viii. 387.
Beau Tibbs (in Goldsmith’s Citizen of the World), viii. 105.
Beaufre, Madame, xi. 366.
Beaumont, Francis, v. 295;
also referred to in iv. 367; v. 175, 176, 193, 224, 296, 344 n., 346;
vi. 192, 193, 203, 218 n.; vii. 134, 229, 320, 321; viii. 48, 69, 89,
264, 353; x. 118, 205, 261; xii. 34.
—— Sir George, vi. 375; vii. 293; ix. 472; xi. 548.
—— Sir John, v. 297.
—— and Fletcher, Ben Jonson, Ford, and Massinger, On, v. 248.
Beaumont Street, ii. 163.
Beaunoir, Count de (in Holcroft’s Anna St Ives), ii. 128.
Beausobre, Isaac de, vi. 76.
Beauties of Charles II.’s Court (Lely’s), ix. 38.
Beauty, On, i. 68.
Beaux’ Stratagem, The (by George Farquhar), ii. 77 n.; viii. 10, 88.
Beccaria, Cesare Marchese de, xii. 466.
Beckford, William, ix. 56 n., 59, 60, 349, 350, 351, 352; xii. 84.
Beckmann, J., ix. 483.
Beddoes, Dr Thomas, ii. 212; iii. 350 n.; xi. 579.
Bede, The Venerable, ii. 187.
Bedford, Duke of, ii. 219; vii. 12, 13, 228, 276.
Bedlam, i. 139; iv. 196; v. 191; vi. 167, 280.
See also Diccon.
Beecher, Mrs. See Miss O’Neill.
Beechey, Sir William, ii. 180, 189, 198, 214; vi. 302, 388, 397; ix. 21.
Bee-Hive, The (by John G. Millingen), viii. 315; xi. 367.
Beelzebub, iii. 373.
—— (Milton’s Paradise Lost), v. 61.
Bees-Inn, ii. 317.
Beggar of Bethnal-green (by Mr Grimaldi), viii. 351.
Beggar’s Bush, The. See Kinnaird’s Merchant of Bruges, viii. 264,
265.
Beggar’s Opera (Gay’s), i. 65; viii. 193, 254; xi. 373;
also referred to in i. 80, 154, 394; iii. 131 n., 210, 252; v. 10, 98,
106, 107, 108, 374; vi. 292, 293; viii. 56, 158, 162, 165, 178, 315,
323, 330, 341, 470, 473, 476; x. 153, 311, 355; xi. 317, 533; xii. 57,
130, 169, 355.
Begri, Signor (Begrey, Pierre Ignace), viii. 326.
Begum, Sheridan’s Speech on the, iii. 252; viii. 166.
Behmen, Jacob, iv. 217; vii. 199; viii. 479; x. 138, 141, 145.
Belcher, Jem, xi. 487; xii. 7, 9.
—— Tom, xii. 2, 9.
Belcour (in Cumberland’s West Indian), viii. 511.
Belfield, Mrs, viii. 241.
Belhaven, Lord, iii. 403.
Belief, Whether Voluntary? xii. 439.
Belinda (in Vanbrugh’s The Provoked Wife), viii. 83.
—— (Pope’s), i. 26; v. 72, 73; viii. 134; ix. 76; xi. 505.
Bell, Andrew, i. 123; iii. 297; x. 133, 134.
Bell of Antermony (Dr John), x. 15, 16.
—— Mr, ii. 201.
Bellafront (in Dekker’s The Honest Whore), v. 238, 239, 241, 247; vi.
192.
Bellario (in Beaumont and Fletcher’s Philaster), v. 262, 296.
Bellarius (in Shakespeare’s Cymbeline), v. 258; viii. 540.
Belle’s Stratagem, The (Mrs Cowley), viii. 163; xi. 404.
Bellini, Gentile, xi. 238.
Bellochi, Madame, vi. 402.
Belmore, Mrs (in Mrs Kemble’s Smiles and Tears, or The Widow’s
Stratagem), viii. 266.
Belphœbe (Spenser’s), v. 38; viii. 364; x. 83, 348; xi. 307.
Belsham, William, ii. 219.
Belvidera (in Otway’s Venice Preserved), i. 157; v. 354, 355; vii. 306;
viii. 210, 307, 391, 397, 459; x. 243; xi. 297, 382, 402, 403, 407;
xii. 122.
Bembo, Cardinal, ix. 238.
Ben (in Congreve’s Love for Love), vii. 127; viii. 72, 152, 278, 555.
Ben Jonson (and Shakespeare), On, viii. 30.
Ben Lomond, iv. 245.
Benedick (in Shakespeare’s Much Ado), viii. 32.
Benedict XIV. (Lambertini), vi. 379.
Benfield, Paul, ii. 176, 222, 226.
Bengough (actor), viii. 335, 353; xi. 303.
Bennet, Mr, iii. 236.
Bennett, Mrs (in Fielding’s Amelia), vi. 457; viii. 114, 115; x. 33.
Bensley, Robert, ii. 81.
Benson, William, x. 377.
Bentevole (in Jephsen’s Italian Lover), viii. 337.
Bentham, Jeremy, iv. 189; xi. 411;
also referred to in i. 139; iv. 200, 225; vi. 151, 356; vii. 49, 50, 129,
186, 240, 250; viii. 411; xi. 414, 415; xii. 86 n., 255, 281, 362, 415,
466, 470.
Bentinck, Lord William, iii. 179.
—— William Henry Cavendish. See Portland (Duke of).
Bentley, Richard, x. 163, 164; xi. 178 n.
—— Thomas, ii. 203.
Beppo (Lord Byron’s), vi. 210; viii. 153; xi. 423.
Berchem, Nicolaas Pietersz, called Berchem or Berghem, ii. 189, 198;
ix. 22, 59, 355.
Berenice, vi. 238; vii. 125; xii. 203.
Beresfords, The, ii. 169.
Berg (sculptor), ix. 355.
Bergami, Bartolomeo, xi. 556.
Berghem. See Berchem.
Berinthia (in Vanbrugh’s The Relapse), viii. 80, 83, 153.
Berkeley, Bishop, George, i. 411; iv. 216, 283; vi. 64, 191 n.; vii. 224,
306, 415 n., 434 n., 448; ix. 19, 289; x. 141, 249; xi. 1, 9, 12, 14, 22
et seq., 32, 42, 65, 100, 101, 108, 109, 112, 129, 130, 173 n., 285,
579; xii. 35, 266, 319, 346, 397 n.
—— Square, ii. 213, 272.
Berkshire, ii. 4, 7, 41.
—— Earl of, iii. 402.
Berlin, ii. 186; iii. 99; viii. 429, 528; xi. 195.
Bermudas, v. 372.
Bernadotte, iii. 106, 107.
Bernardino Perfetti (Godwin’s), x. 391.
Berne, ix. 285.
Bernini, Giovanni Lorenzo (sculptor), vi. 353; vii. 89; ix. 164; x. 292,
296, 298.
Berquin, Arnauld, ii. 114.
Berri, Duke of, xi. 390.
Berry’s, The Miss (Miss B...s), vi. 461.
Berteche, Monsieur (actor), xi. 366.
Berthier, Alexander, iii. 192.
Bertram (Miss Baillie’s), v. 147.
—— (Maturin’s), viii. 304;
also referred to in viii. 335, 352, 368, 416, 421, 478, 530; x. 158 n.;
xi. 418.
Berwick (smack), ii. 300.
Bessus (in Beaumont & Fletcher’s King and No King), v. 252.
Bethlem Gabor, the dungeon of (Godwin’s), x. 389.
Betrothed, The (Scott’s), xii. 88.
Betsy Thoughtless (Heywood’s), x. 24.
Betterton, Thomas, i. 8, 157; iii. 389; viii. 96, 160.
Bettinelli, Xavier, ix. 483.
Betty Foy (Ballad of), (Wordsworth’s), xii. 270.
Betty, Old, ii. 47, 48, 49.
—— William Henry West, iv. 233; vi. 294, 295 n., 342.
Beverley (in Miss Burney’s Cecilia), vi. 120.
Beverley, Mrs (in Moore’s The Gamester), vii. 299; viii. 210, 223, 391,
397; xi. 382, 408.
Bevil, Mr (in Steele’s Indiana), viii. 158.
Bewdley (the town), ii. 66, 196.
Bewick, Thomas, iv. 277, 337; vi. 53, 522.
Bex (a town), ix. 284.
Bexley Baron. See Vansittart.
Beyle, Marie Henri, ix. 250, 278; xii. 96 n.
Bianca (in Middleton’s Women beware Women), v. 214–16.
—— Capella (Tuscany, Grandduchess of), vi. 453.
Bibby, Mr (an American), viii. 299 n.
—— (actor), viii. 318, 351.
Bible, The, v. 15, 16, 116, 182, 183; vi. 392; viii. 284; x. 124, 125, 132;
xi. 312, 452 n., 506.
Bible (Raphael’s), ix. 240.
—— Society, i. 139.
Bienne, Lake of, i. 91, 92; ix. 297.
Big Ben, iv. 342.
Bigordi, Domenico. See Ghirlandaio.
Bilfinger, G. B., ix. 483.
Billingsgate, ii. 244; iii. 445; iv. 252; vii. 375; ix. 247; xi. 546.
Billington, Mrs Elizabeth, vi. 292; ix. 472.
Bills of Mortality, The, vi. 160; vii. 376.
Bingley, Lord, iii. 422.
Biographia Literaria (Coleridge’s), i. 401; iii. 243 n.; v. 118; vii. 38.
Birch (Mr, picture-cleaner), ii. 185, 198, 218, 224.
—— of Cornhill, iii. 445.
Bird, Edward, vi. 360; xi. 188, 189, 244.
Birds (of Aristophanes), viii. 28.
—— (M. Chantry’s), xi. 248.
Birmingham, ii. 14, 69, 70; v. 286; ix. 302; x. 149 n.; xii. 267.
Biron (in The Fatal Marriage), viii. 210, 397; xi. 407.
—— (in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost), viii. 553; xi. 360.
Birth of Flattery (Crabbe’s), xi. 606.
Birthday Odes (Cibber’s), viii. 160, 359.
—— Ode (Southey’s), x. 242.
Bishop, Sir Henry Rowley, viii. 254.
Bishop’s-gate Street, vii. 212.
Bitter pangs (a glee), ii. 190.
Black Breeches, alias Hercules, xii. 214.
Black Bull, The, xii. 277.
Black Dwarf (Scott’s), iv. 246, 248; vii. 339, 343, 345; viii. 129, 422.
Black Eyed Susan (Gay’s), ii. 243; v. 109.
Black Forest, The, ix. 298.
Black George (in Fielding’s Tom Jones), vi. 452, 457; viii. 114.
Black, Dr Joseph, ii. 178, 415.
Black Lion Inn, ii. 59.
Black Ousel (song), viii. 275.
Black Prince, i. 100.
Blackamoor’s Head Inn, ii. 19.
Blackheath, ii. 270, 344.
Blacklock, Thomas, v. 122.
Blackmore, Sir Richard, i. 425; v. 108, 164; vi. 180; vii. 185; xi. 123,
489.
Blacksmith of Antwerp, O’Keeffe’s Farce, viii. 534.
Blackstone, Sir William, Judge, iv. 296; vi. 197; vii. 374, 380; viii.
107; x. 27.
Blackwall (London), xii. 275.
Blackwood, Mr William (publisher), iv. 245, 246, 361; vii. 66, 123,
183, 380; ix. 233, 451; xi. 360; xii. 258, 272, 275, 284, 314, 315.
Blackwood’s Magazine, i. 384; iv. 206, 419; vi. 222, 299, 478–9, 494,
498, 508, 518; vii. 137 n., 378; viii. 479; ix. 247; x. 221, 407, 411; xi.
322, 484, 547, 610; xii. 255, 259, 297, 384, 455.
Blair, Robert, iv. 346.
Blake, Robert (Admiral), vi. 380.
—— William, vii. 95.
Blanc, Mont, vii. 368; ix. 279, 283, 288, 291–4, 296.
—— —— (Shelley’s), x. 270.
Blanch, in Shakespeare’s King John, xi. 411.
Blanchard in Tuckitomba, xi. 365.
—— William, viii. 251; xi. 305, 374.
Blanche Mackay (in Planché’s Carronside), xi. 388, 389.
Bland, Mrs, viii. 237.
Blefuscu (in Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels), v. 111.
Blenheim Palace, vi. 14, 172, 174, 188, 444; ix. 53, 71, 113, 144 n., 387;
xi. 228 n.
Blifil (in Fielding’s Tom Jones), iii. 172; iv. 169; vi. 452, 457; vii. 231,
363; viii. 113, 165, 506, 560; xi. 436; xii. 63.
Blind Fiddler (Wilkie’s), vi. 259 n.; viii. 140, 141; xi. 250, 251, 253.
Blind-Man’s-Buff (Wilkie’s), ix. 15.
Blondeau (in Pigeons and Crows), viii. 468.
Blondel (in Romance of Richard Cœeur de Lion), x. 54.
Bloody Brother, The (Beaumont and Fletcher’s), v. 261.
Bloomfield, Robert, v. 95–7, 377; xii. 53 n.
Bloomsbury Square, vii. 249; xi. 344.
Blossom, lines to (Donne’s), viii. 51.
Blount, Martha, v. 71; xi. 432, 507.
—— Patty, xii. 31, 32.
Blowing Hot and Cold (Jordaens’), ix. 21.
Blücher, Gen., iii. 63; vii. 156 n.; ix. 465; xi. 195, 197.
Blue Anchor, xii. 272.
Blue Beard, viii. 14; x. 393.
Blue Stocking (Moore’s M.P. or the), viii. 239.
—— —— Affair, xi. 386.
Bluemont, Lady, xii. 276.
Boa constrictor, iii. 448.
Boaden, James, ii. 199, 218; vi. 341, 342.
Boar-hunt (Snyder’s), ix. 54.
Boarding House, The (by Samuel Beazley), viii. 239.
Bob Acres (in Sheridan’s School for Scandal), viii. 165, 388, 508; xii.
24.
Bobadil (in Ben Jonson’s Every Man in his Humour), iii. 65; v. 198;
vi. 275; viii. 44, 310.
Bobby, Master (in Sterne’s Tristram Shandy), i. 135.
Boccaccio, Giovanni, i. 25, 80, 138, 161, 163, 164, 331, 332; v. 13, 19,
29, 30, 32, 45, 76, 82, 186, 189, 240, 346, 347; vi. 121 n., 369, 393;
 vii. 93, 227, 303; viii. 94, 110, 133; ix. 75, 211; x. 30, 45, 67, 68, 69,
75, 76, 77, 409; xi. 256, 424, 501, 505, 517; xii. 30, 43, 67, 134, 323.
Boccarelli (a composer), vi. 432.
Boconnock (a town), iii. 414.
Bodleian, The, vi. 188.
Bohemia, i. 346; viii. 283; xi. 451, 452.
Boileau Nicolas (sieur Despréaux), ii. 166; v. 106; viii. 29; x. 232,
250.
Bois de Boulogne, The, ix. 158.
Boissy (town), i. 18; v. 100.
Boleyn, Ann, ix. 23; x. 244.
Bolingbroke (in Shakespeare’s Richard II.), i. 272–3, 275–6, 294,
296; viii. 76, 224.
—— Henry St John, Viscount, iii. 337, 409, 410; iv. 90 n.; v. 76, 77;
vii. 117; xii. 31, 50, 155 n.
Bolivar, Simon, x. 255; xi. 385.
Bologna. See also Domenichino, vi. 239; ix. 197, 205, 206, 207, 208,
211, 263, 264, 275, 282, 409, 417; xii. 48 n.
—— John of, painter. See John of Bologna.
—— la dotta, ix. 207.
Bolsena (town), ix. 231.
Bolton, Duchess of, xii. 35.
Bonchamps, General, vii. 331.
Bond, Oliver, ii. 188, 190.
Bond Street, ii. 212, 222, 227; iii. 132; vi. 162, 375; vii. 212; viii. 250;
xi. 343, 385, 441, 486; xii. 226, 277, 329.
Bondman, The (Massinger’s), v. 266.
Bonduca (Beaumont and Fletcher’s), v. 261.
Bone, Henry, vi. 241.
—— R. T., xi. 247.
Boniface, v. 293.
Bonnafoux, Messrs, ix. 183, 199.
Bonnar, Charles, ii. 113.
Bonneville, Nicholas de, ii. 107, 108, 109, 112, 113, 163, 268.
—— (place), ix. 294.
Bonney, Mr, ii. 151.
Bonomi, Joseph, x. 201.
Booby, Sir Thomas (in Fielding’s Joseph Andrews), vii. 363.
Book of the Church (Southey’s), iv. 267; xii. 305.
Book of Martyrs, the (Foxe’s), iii. 265.
Book of Sports (James the First’s), xii. 20.
Books, On Reading Old, vii. 220.
Boors Merry Making (Ostade’s), ix. 26.
—— (Teniers’), ix. 35.
Booth (Fielding’s), vii. 84; xii. 64.
—— David, iv. 393.
—— Henry (Earl of Warrington), iii. 400.
—— Junius Brutus, i. 157; ii. 75, 78, 91, 103; viii. 160, 354, 355, 357,
368, 404, 410, 428, 430, 440, 441, 450, 472.
—— Miss, viii. 235, 254.
Booth’s Company, ii. 72, 75, 79.
—— Duke of Gloster, viii. 354.
—— Iago, viii. 355.
—— Richard III., viii. 355, 357.
Border Minstrelsy, The (Scott’s), v. 155.
Borghese Palace, The, ix. 238.
—— Princess, The, vi. 382; vii. 113.
Borgia, Cæsar, ii. 172.
—— Portrait of (Raphael’s), ix. 238.
—— Lucretia, vi. 401; ix. 238; xii. 36.
Borgo de Renella, The, x. 282.
Boringdon, Lord John, vi. 349, 376.
Born, Bertrand de (Vicompte Hautefort), x. 54.
Borodino (a conspirator), iii. 113.
Borough (Crabbe’s), iv. 351, 352; viii. 454; xi. 606.
Boroughbridge, iii. 405.
Boroughmongers, iv. 338.
Borromees, The Isles, ix. 278.
Borromeo, The Marquis of, ix. 278.
Boscow (a town), ii. 167.
Bosola (in Dekker’s Duchess of Malfy), v. 246.
Bossu, René le, x. 8.
Bossuet, Jacques Benigne, vii. 321; ix. 119.
Bostock, John, vi. 488.
Boston (U.S.A.), viii. 473; x. 316; xii. 377.
Bosville, William, ii. 199.
Boswell, James, i. 138, 174; ii. 178; 181, 183, 184, 187, 190; vi. 205 n.,
366, 401, 505; vii. 36; viii. 103; xi. 221; xii. 27, 31.
Botany Bay, v. 163; viii. 405; xi. 554.
Botany Bay Eclogues (Southey’s), v. 164.
Both, Jan, ix. 20.
Botherby, Mr (William Sotheby), xii. 276.
Bothwell (Scott’s Old Mortality), iv. 247; viii. 129.
Botley (town), i. 425; iv. 337; vi. 53, 102; vii. 25.
Bottle Imp, The (by Richard Brinsley Peake), xii. 229.
Bottom (in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream), i. 61, 379,
424–5; ii. 59; iii. 85; viii. 275, 276, 420; xi. 338.
Boucher, François, vi. 130 n.
Bouilly, M., ii. 235.
Boulevards, The, ix. 143, 153, 192; xii. 146, 170 n., 189.
Boulton-le-Moors, vii. 174 n.
Bourbonnois, The, ix. 179, 180.
Bourbons, i. 99; iii. 31, 33, 39, 46, 52, 61, 62, 63, 80, 81, 82, 97, 99,
100, 101, 105, 108, 109, 118, 123, 130, 132, 169, 171, 172, 216, 227,
228, 263, 279, 295, 313, 314, 435, 446; iv. 249, 307, 320, 359, 360;
vi. 150, 189, 197, 324; vii. 34, 128; viii. 174, 309, 319, 322, 323; ix.
104, 157, 181, 244; x. 220, 233, 250; xi. 196, 339, 417, 509, 529; xii.
104, 236, 320, 457, 460.
—— and Bonaparte, The, iii. 52.
Bourdon, Sebastian, ix. 110.
Bourgeois, Sir Peter Francis, ii. 181, 184, 198; vi. 120; ix. 18, 20.
—— Gentilhomme (Molière), v. 2; viii. 28, 193; x. 107; xi. 355, 383.
Bouton, Charles Marie, ix. 124.
Boutterwek, Professor, x. 46.
Bouverie, Mr, ii. 190.
Bow-bells, vii. 254.
Bowdich, Thomas Ed., ix. 255.
Bow Street, ii. 173; xii. 120.
Bower, Archibald, ii. 172.
—— of Bliss, The (Spenser’s), v. 36, 38.
Bowes, George, ii. 73.
Bowkitt (dancing-master), vi. 417.
Bowles, William Lisle, xi. 486;
also referred to in iv. 217, 259; v. 379; x. 138.
Bowling, Lieutenant, viii. 116.
Boxhill, xii. 146.
Boy Lamenting the Death of his Favourite Rabbit (W. Davison’s), xi.
248.
Boyardo, Matteo Maria, x. 69.
Boyce, Miss, viii. 184, 515.
Boyd, Walter, ii. 176, 226.
Boydell, Alderman John., vi. 362, 434; viii. 515.
Boyer (artist), ix. 167.
Boyle, Miss, viii. 333, 336, 534.
Boyle’s Rosalind, Miss, viii. 336.
Boys with Dogs fighting (Gainsborough’s), xi. 204.
Bracebridge Hall (Irving’s), iv. 367.
Bracegirdle, Mrs, i. 157; viii. 160.
Brachiano. See Duke of Brachiano.
Bradamante (Tasso’s), x. 71.
Bradshaw, President, vi. 418.
Bradwardine. See Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine.
Braes of Yarrow, The (by William Hamilton), v. 142.
Braham, John Abraham, vii. 70; viii. 225, 226, 229, 297, 326, 451,
452, 453, 459, 461, 470, 528, 559; ix. 152; xi. 370, 378.
Brahmins, vi. 81.
Brain-worm (in Ben Jonson’s Every Man in His Humour), viii. 45,
310, 311.
Brakenbury (in Shakespeare’s Richard III.), xi. 193, 399.
Bramhall, Bishop, xi. 54, 579.
Bramhead (Mr), ii. 175.
Brancaccia, Cardinal, x. 283.
Brandenburg-House, vi. 386.
Brandes (German dramatist), ii. 116.
Brandreth, Jeremiah, iii. 280.
Branghtons, The (Miss Burney’s, in Evelina), vi. 157, 160; vii. 72; viii.
124; x. 42; xi. 442.
Brass (in Vanbrugh’s Confederacy), viii. 80.
Brazen Horses, The (at the Tuilleries), ix. 113.
—— —— (at Venice), ix. 274.
Breakfast-table (Wilkie’s), ix. 36.
Breaking the Ice (Jas. Burnett’s), xi. 247.
Bremen, ii. 195.
Brenda (in Scott’s Pirate), xi. 536.
Brennoralt (Suckling’s), viii. 57.
Brenta, The, ix. 266; xii. 51.
Brentford, i. 350; viii. 140; ix. 42; xi. 252.
Brescia, ix. 275, 277.
Breton, Mr, ii. 213, 225.
Breughel, see Brueghel.
Brewer, Anthony, v. 292.
Brian, Mr (picture collector), ix. 33 n.
Brian de Bois-Guilbert (in Scott’s Ivanhoe), viii. 426.
Brian Perdue (Holcroft’s), ii. 236.
Briareus, xii. 221.
Bride of Abydos, The, x. 15.
Bride of Lammermuir, The (Scott’s), xii. 141.
Bridewell, iv. 312; viii. 143.
Bridge at Llangollen (Wilson’s), xi. 199.
Bridge of Sighs at Venice, The, ix. 275; xi. 422.
Bridge St. Association, vi. 190; xii. 267.
Bridget Allworthy (in Fielding’s Tom Jones), viii. 113.
Bridgewater, vi. 186; xii. 269, 274.
—— Duke of, ix. 33 n.
—— Mrs, ix. 447.
Brigg (town), vii. 169, 177; ix. 255, 280, 281.
Brighton, ii. 200; iii. 246; viii. 354, 355, 405; ix. 89, 90, 91, 94; xi.
497.
Brigs of Ayr, The (Burns), v. 132.
Brill, Paul, ix. 66.
Brisk, Mr (Congreve’s Double Dealer), viii. 72.
Bristol, ii. 212; iii. 421; vi. 95; vii. 10; ix. 98; xi. 418; xii. 10, 270, 274.
Bristol Channel, The, xii. 272.
—— Countess of. See Chudleigh, Elizabeth.
—— Lord, iii. 399.
Bristow, Miss C., viii. 235, 244.
British Gallery, The, i. 157; vi. 171 n., 173; viii. 133; ix. 12, 472; xi. 201,
202, 453.
—— Institution, The, xi. 242, 246, 248;
also referred to in i. 25, 77; ix. 13, 75, 392, 401 n., 464, 471, 476; x.
196; xi. 187; xii. 327.
—— ——, The Catalogue Raisonné of the, i. 140, 146; ix. 311.
—— Museum, i. 144; ix. 168 n.
—— Novelists (Cooke’s), vii. 223.
—— Poets, Dr Johnson’s Lives of, v. 46; viii. 58.
Britomart (Spenser’s), v. 38.
Britton, John, vi. 213, 492.
—— Thomas. See Small-Coal Man’s Musical Parties.
Brobdignag (Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels), v. 112; x. 131; xi. 483.
Brocard, Mademoiselle, vi. 415; xi. 371.
Brodum, Dr, xii. 297.
Broken Heart, The (Ford’s), v. 269, 273.
—— Sword (play), viii. 535.
Brompton, ii. 196; xii. 353.
Bromsgrove, ii. 66, 196.
Bronzino (painter), ix. 225.
Brooke (Fulke Greville), Lord, iv. 216; xii. 34.
Brookes’s, ii. 200.
Brother Jonathan, x. 313.
—— the Younger (in Milton’s Comus), viii. 231.
Brothers, Richard, ii. 226.
—— The (Cumberland’s), ii. 206.
Brougham, Henry, Lord, iii. 128, 214, 234, 240; iv. 225, et seq., 318,
337; vi. 87; vii. 505; xi. 465, 468, 469, 470; xii. 275, 459.
Brougham, Henry, Esq., M.P., the speech of, iii. 127, 132.
Broughton (the fighter), xii. 14.
Brouwer, Adrian, ix. 20.
Brown, Charles Brockden, vi. 386; x. 310, 311.
—— Mr, vi. 379.
—— Mountain, The (in Cervantes’ Don Quixote), vii. 465.
—— Thomas, iii. 311, 319; vii. 368; viii. 176 n.
—— William, v. 98, 122, 311.
—— William George, ii. 204, 225, 228.
Browne, Sir Thomas, v. 326;
also referred to in iv. 365, 367; v. 131, 333, 339, 341, 343; vi. 225,
245; vii. 36, 320, 443 n.; viii. 480; xi. 559, 572; xii. 27, 150.
Brownrigg, Mrs, iii. 220, 238; vii. 350.
Bruce, James, ix. 349.
—— Mr, xi. 554.
—— Michael, v. 122.
Bruckner, Rev. John, iv. 402.
Brueghel, Jas., ix. 349, 354.
—— Peter Peters, ix. 354.
Brueys, François Paul, ii. 214.
Bruges, viii. 265.
Bruin (in Butler’s Hudibras), viii. 65.
Brummell, George Bryan (Beau Brummell), ix. 464; xii. 124.
Brunet, Jean-Joseph Mira, called, ix. 154, 174.
Bruno, Jordano (or Jordanus), iii. 139; xii. 403.
—— (in Pocock’s Ravens, or the Force of Conscience), xi. 305.
Brunswick, Duke of, iii. 461; xi. 555.
—— House of, iii. 159, 285; iv. 206, 249; vi. 155; vii. 34; xii. 288.
Brunton, Miss, vi. 277; viii. 454, 461, 513; xi. 396, 401, 402, 404.
Brunton’s Rosalind, Miss, xi. 396.
Bruscambille (in Sterne’s Tristram Shandy), vii. 221.
Brussells, ii. 173; xi. 289.
Bruton Street, ix. 158.
Brutus, i. 435; ii. 361; iv. 205; vi. 176; ix. 373.
—— (David’s), ix. 134.