H O M E C O M I N G S

B I U E N G L I S H 7 2 2 - F A L L 2 0 1 4 - D R . D A N I E L F E L D M A N

& NOSTALGIA

L I T E R A R Y R E L A T I O N S H I P S

• Person

• Period (or past)

• Idea or belief

• Place

W H E R E A R E Y O U ?

”?איכה“

תשוב״עפרואלאתהעפר״כי

H I S T O R Y A S

H O M E C O M I N G

• Paradise Lost

• Paradise Regained

• Exile and Return

• Origin and Telos

• Nostalgia

M I G R A T I O NA L I E N A T I O N A N D D I S P L A C E M E N T

M I G R A T I O NA L I E N A T I O N A N D D I S P L A C E M E N T

H I S T O R Y A S

H O M E C O M I N G

• Paradise Lost

• Paradise Regained

• Exile and Return

• Origin and Telos

• Nostalgia

– M I L A N K U N D E R A

Nostos: Origin as Myth, Return as Template

T H E G R E E K W O R D F O R " R E T U R N " I S N O S T O S . A L G O S M E A N S " S U F F E R I N G . " S O N O S T A L G I A I S T H E S U F F E R I N G C A U S E D B Y A N U N A P P E A S E D Y E A R N I N G T

T H E O D Y S S E Y :

B O O K S 2 2 - 2 4

F I R S T R E A D I N G : N E X T

W E E K

HOMER

The Odyssey

N O S T A L G I AL A Y E R S O F M E M O R Y

N O S T A L G I A : H O M E + L O N G I N G

The Future of Nostalgia

by Svetlana Boym (2001)

The word “nostalgia” comes from two Greek roots: νόστος, nóstos (“return home”)

and ἄλγος, álgos (“longing”). I would define it as a longing for a home that no longer

exists or has never existed. Nostalgia is a sentiment of loss and displacement, but it

is also a romance with one’s own phantasy. Nostalgic love can only survive in a

long-distance relationship. A cinematic image of nostalgia is a double exposure, or a

superimposition of two images—of home and abroad, of past and present, of dream

and everyday life. The moment we try to force it into a single image, it breaks the

frame or burns the surface.

N O S T A L G I A : H O M E + L O N G I N G

In spite of its Greek roots, the word “nostalgia” did not originate in ancient Greece.

“Nostalgia” is only pseudo-Greek, or nostalgically Greek. The word was coined by the

ambitious Swiss student Johannes Hofer in his medical dissertation in 1688. (Hofer also

suggested monomania and philopatridomania to describe the same symptoms; luckily,

the latter failed to enter common parlance.) It would not occur to us to demand a

prescription for nostalgia. Yet in the 17th century, nostalgia was considered to be a

curable disease, akin to a severe common cold. Swiss doctors believed that opium,

leeches, and a journey to the Swiss Alps would take care of nostalgic symptoms. By the

end of the 18th century, doctors discovered that a return home did not always cure the

nostalgics—sometimes it killed them (especially when patriotic doctors misdiagnosed

tuberculosis as nostalgia). One doctor claimed that nostalgia was a “hypochondria of the

heart,” which thrives on its symptoms. From a treatable sickness, nostalgia turned into

an incurable disease. A provincial ailment, a maladie du pays, turned into a disease of

the modern age, a mal du siècle.

V E T E R A N I N A N E W F I E L DW I N S L O W H O M E R , 1 8 6 5 ( M E T M U S E U M , N Y )

T H E R E T U R N I N G S O L D I E R : H O M E L A N D

– H E N R I E T T A B E N S O N D E S C R I B I N G H E R S O N , 1 8 6 5

“He came home so changed that his best friends

did not know him.”

– B R U C E D A W E , “ H O M E C O M I N G ” ( 1 9 6 8 )

“They’re bringing them home,

now, too late, too early”

T H E H U R T L O C K E R ( 2 0 0 8 ) : H T T P : / / Y O U T U . B E / H U R T

“Where’s the cereal?”

T H E R E T U R N

O F M A R T I N

G U E R R EN A T A L I E Z . D A V I S

S E C O N D R E A D I N G : W E E K 2 / 3

H O W D O W E

G E T T H E R E ?

• How is home portrayed in

literature?

• What is the relationship

between the self and

home?

• What accounts for the

power of nostalgia over the

modern psyche?

E X I L E A S T H E L I T E R A R Y

C O N D I T I O NRobert BrowningHome Thoughts, from AbroadO, to be in EnglandNow that April 's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!

And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

E X I L E A S T H E L I T E R A R Y

C O N D I T I O N

יר הבשובהמעלותש יבתאת ' יוןש יםהיינוצ מ כחל

חוקימלאאז ינוש שוננופ נהול ר

רואז ילבגויםיאמ גד הה םלעשות ' אלהע

יל גד הה מנולעשות ' יםהיינוע מח ש

השובה יתנואת ' ב יםש יק בנגבכאפ

ים ע עההזר מ ד נהב ר צרוב יק

ניבואבאהזרעמשךנשאובכהילךהלוך ר אלמתיונשאהב

M E A N I N G S O F H O M E C O M I N G

The Lake Isle of Innisfree - W.B. Yeats (1888)

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

M E A N I N G S O F H O M E C O M I N G

your homecoming will be my homecoming - e.e. cummings (1961)

your homecoming will be my homecoming-

my selves go with you,only i remain;

a shadow phantom effigy or seeming

(an almost someone always who’s noone)

a noone who,till their and your returning,

spends the forever of his loneliness

dreaming their eyes have opened to your mourning

feeling their stars have risen through your skies:

so,in how merciful love’s own name,linger

no more than selfless i can quite endure

the absence of that moment when a stranger

takes in his arms my very lifes who’s you

-when all fears hopes beliefs doubts disappear.

Everywhere and joy’s perfect wholeness we’re.

M E A N I N G S O F H O M E C O M I N G

Homecoming - Simon Armitrage (1988)

Think, two things on their own and both at once.

The first, that exercise in trust, where those in front

stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall

backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight.

The second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket

on a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook,

becoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home

the very model of a model of a mother, yours, puts

two and two together, makes a proper fist of it

and points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions

in the house. You seeing red. Blue murder. Bed.

M E A N I N G S O F H O M E C O M I N G

Then midnight when you slip the latch and sneak

no further than the phonebox at the corner of the street;

I'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring

because it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet.

Retrace that walk towards the garden gate; in silhouette

a father figure waits there, wants to set things straight.

These ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves.

These fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold

into a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip

or buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it

and try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket, there

like this, for size again. It still fits.

M E A N I N G S O F H O M E C O M I N G

Homecoming

Think, two things on their own and both at once.

The first, that exercise in trust, where those in front

stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall

backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight.

The second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket

on a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook,

becoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home

the very model of a model of a mother, yours, puts

two and two together, makes a proper fist of it

and points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions

in the house. You seeing red. Blue murder. Bed.

Then midnight when you slip the latch and sneak

no further than the phonebox at the corner of the street;

I'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring

because it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet.

Retrace that walk towards the garden gate; in silhouette

a father figure waits there, wants to set things straight.

These ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves.

These fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold

into a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip

or buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it

and try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket, there

like this, for size again. It still fits.

• For next week: Odyssey, books 22-24 (optional: 18-24,

ideally 13-24)

• Confirm name, email, degree on contact sheet