This is a response to Arjun Appadurai’s article “The Ready-Made Pleasures of Déjà Vu: Repeat Viewing of Bollywood Films.”1 Repetition as a concept is discussed here in relation to Deleuze, genre, remakes of older films, tradition, cultural regimentation, and individual desire.

This article calls attention to the categorical confinement of Algerian novelist, historian, and feminist Assia Djebar (1936–2015), and argues that the politicization of Djebar’s text has contributed to the relative obscurity of her work. Following a call by Françoise Lionnet to reimagine the relationship between politics and aesthetics in critical response, I analyze modified repetition—rhyme, recall, echo, imitation, and mirror—as a formal device in L’Amour, la fantasia. In its third section, this paper, drawing from Rita Felski’s discussion of the four types of activities in which academics engage, argues for the importance of formal comparison in postcolonial scholarship. In attending to the particulars of Djebar’s text, so as to privilege connection, postcolonial scholars might increase her exposure and broaden the reach of postcolonial theory.

The publication of Happiness in 2019 marked a near twenty-year immersion in narratives that dealt with notions of war and trauma, an inquiry that began with a memoir The Devil that Danced on the Water (2002), written at the time of the civil conflict in Sierra Leone, and continuing through four novels, culminating in Happiness. In The Memory of Love and through the character of British psychologist Adrian Lockheart, a trauma specialist who arrives in Sierra Leone in the wake of the conflict, I engaged most directly with conceptual notions of trauma. It is in this novel that Attila Asare, a Ghanaian psychiatrist who runs a mental health facility in postwar Sierra Leone, makes his first appearance. Some years later, following publication of the Croatian-set novel The Hired Man, I found myself compelled to return to the character of Asare and the subject of trauma in my most recent novel, Happiness.

Taking into account the interconnectedness of spaces, a number of theorists and writers have investigated the impact of trauma on subjectivities within their social, cultural, and political environments. In postcolonial studies, scholars such as Veena Das (2007)2, Antjie Krog and colleagues (2009)3, and Stef Craps (2012)4 have convincingly argued that postcolonial trauma survivors are not necessarily under the tyranny of the past; to the contrary, they may take advantage of the past event by immersing themselves in the trauma. Jay Rajiva gives the example of those survivors who cannot distance themselves from the past because they are compelled “to perform the grief of the community in both clothing and gesture. Such a submersion in past trauma becomes a way for a trauma survivor to expand and even renegotiate her relationship to that same community… . Essentially, the survivor inhabits the enforced retriggering of her trauma but finds the means—in daily life, over months and years—to make sense of her trauma.”5

The fourth chapter of Frantz Fanon’s classic work Black Skin, White Masks, titled “The So-Called Dependency Complex of the Colonized,” is a powerful critique of Mannoni’s Prospero and Caliban: The Psychology of Colonization (1956). Born in France of Corsican parents, Dominique-Octave Mannoni had come to know the African colonial condition primarily through his ethnological work in Madagascar, where he spent twenty years. The argument of Prospero and Caliban is that colonial “situations” are the product of “misunderstanding, of mutual incomprehension.”1 The situation, Mannoni observes in the introduction, is created the very moment a white man appears in the midst of a tribe, and he goes on to elaborate on its distinctive and varied features: dominance of a majority by a minority, economic exploitation, the seemingly benign paternalism of the civilizing mission, and racism. The colonizer’s “grave lack of sociability combined with a pathological urge to dominate” gives him a “Prospero complex”2 while the colonized Malagasy, forced out of their own history, genealogy, and tradition and victimized by a failed European interpellation, develop a corresponding “dependence complex.”3 Neither inferiority nor superiority, “dependence,” Mannoni claims, is Caliban’s reliance on colonizers fostered by a sense of abandonment.

I am grateful for the responses to my essay on “repeat viewing” by Kabir, Mazumdar, and Wong, each of whom offers a sympathetic critical response, pointing to ways of elaborating and complicating my argument about the relationship of repetition to difference in Bollywood films. In this comment I stress issues of genre, history, and context.

Sohrab Sepehri (1928–1980), the Iranian poet, painter, and translator, wrote during the tumultuous decades before the Islamic revolution in Iran (1979), concurrent with global decolonizing movements. At a time when many of his contemporaries were active participants in the “Committed” literary movement and wrote ostensibly political poetry, Sepehri’s work was considered apolitical and thus marginal in the revolutionary discourse of the time. This article demonstrates how his writing in fact worked towards decolonizing the mind of the Iranian subject by creating his own unique language of revolt–a language that refrained from engaging in the East-West binarism of this discourse. His language of revolt comes out of his subversive view of culture and through his frequent travels to global literary spaces while simultaneously de-centering these spaces. I analyze his poem "Address" in tandem with its visual representation by Abbas Kiarostami to present the embodiment of his poetic geography.

This article provides a contextual analysis of an enigmatic object—dubbed the “Confucius Dressing Mirror” (Kongzi yijing 孔子衣鏡)—recently unearthed from the tomb of Liu He 劉賀 (Marquis of Haihun 海昏侯, d. 59 BCE) in 2015. I raise questions about the prevailing identification of this object as a “dressing mirror” and a “lived object,” used by Liu He for moral self-cultivation or political self-preservation in his volatile life as the deposed ninth emperor of Han. Instead, I treat the object as an assemblage and analyze its complete material composition and physical placement in Liu He's tomb in the broader context of funerary material culture and burial practice in early imperial China. I propose that the entombed object can be considered as a composite talisman to protect the deceased against baleful and harmful influences in the tomb and in his afterlife. Methodologically, this article stresses the importance of contextual analysis in shedding light on the traditional conceptual categories such as “lived object” (shengqi 生器) and “funerary objects” (mingqi 明器) in actual funerary ritual processes.