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Chapter 2 | John Meisel (continued) Given this complex web of determinants, one may well ask whether it makes much sense to talk about national culture. Despite the foregoing observations, the answer is very much in the affirmative, just as it is legitimate to generalize about culture, so long as one remembers the nuances of these terms. Spatial and hence societal contexts do imprint certain shared characteristics on cultural life. It is, therefore not only appropriate but essential to speak of national or other cultures. It is in this context that I cite a wise and penetrating comment by a writer from a small nation who lives in a large one, Milan Kundera. In a classic and, regrettably little known paper, he says The known European culture harbours within it another unknown culture made up of little nations with peculiar languages, such as the culture of the Poles, the Czechs, the Catalans and the Danes. People suppose that the little countries necessarily imitate the big ones, but that is an illusion. In fact they’re quite different. A little guy’s outlook is different from a big man’s. The Europe made up of little countries is another Europe (Kundera, 1985). The differences to which Kundera refers relate to the self perception of the members of the groups involved: how they compare with neighbours, whether they are esteemed or disdained, their history, relations with others, the quality of their scientific and cultural achievements and so on. And these are, of course, in part influenced by how they are perceived by others (Taylor, 1992). He notes the importance of size, not so much because it bestows power but because for a number of reasons it imparts a sense of value and self-definition. His statement that “a little guy’s outlook is different from a big man’s” is, in the present context, pregnant with meaning. By way of example, Kundera evokes Kafka, Haek, not the goalie but the author of the Good Soldier Schweik, in which the famous anti-hero, though an underdog, mercilessly mocks the Austro-Hungarian empire, and Capek, Czechoslovakia’s premier novelist, essayist and playwright, whose writings embodied a humanist, tolerant and liberal philosophy in a Europe hurtling towards totalitarianism (Haek, 1973; Parrot, 1983; Matuska, 1964; Harkins, 1962). These writers, he says, are the best representatives of their country: what they have in common is the disabused outlook of this other Europe of little countries and minorities. They have always been the victims rather than the initiators of events: the Jewish minority (Kafka), surrounded by other people but isolated from them by its own solitude and anxiety; the Czech minority (Haek), annexed to an Austrian Empire whose politics and wars were meaningless to it; the newly-born Czech state (Capek), also a minority, lost amid a Europe of big nations rushing towards the next catastrophe, and never being consulted (Kundera, 1985). Intriguingly, Connor Cruise O’Brien (1962), in an entirely different context, makes a closely related point, emanating from his experience as the Irish representative at the United Nations. Comparing the positions taken by his delegation, and that of other small and weak states, he notes that UN delegates fall into two categories, the groaners — like his lot — and the gloaters — the representatives of the powerful states. The first group sees itself as a frequent victim and tends to be pessimistic. It does not expect much from promises made by the hegemonic states. Representatives of the latter are satisfied with the status quo and tend to take a Panglossian, complacent view of the world. These positions do not just express attitudes or opinions but reflect deep personality traits bonded into the personae of the diplomats by their national experiences. They are, in short, national characteristics, characteristics which influence artistic creation and cultural life as much as diplomacy. Only a Czech (or a citizen of a small country with a similar history) could have created vejk, just as only a Quebecker could have imagined Tit-Coq. Significantly, this invention of Gratien Gélinas triumphed in Canada — French and English — but failed on Broadway. Imbedded in Jean Laponces’ profuse writings on relations between language groups and diverse language speakers in mixed societies is a fascinating vignette highly apposite to the argument developed here. He observes that when two language groups of unequal size and strength coexist, “the minority-language speaker develops a specific language identity. The contact between dominant and dominated language is thus, often, a contact between two types of personalities... which have very different psychological outlooks...” (Laponce, 2001). The same analysis suggests, although it does not explicitly argue, that globalization results not merely from the presence of powerful states and cultures, and their inter-relationships, but also from the status of various languages, and particularly English. Laponce reports that in the mid nineteen seventies, 60 per cent of the articles cited in the comprehensive and authoritative Chemical Abstracts were in English. By the mid nineties, that proportion had risen to over 80 per cent. The closest competing languages — Russian, Japanese and Chinese — are, respectively, in the five per cent range. He concludes that in the world to-day, “English is the language of chemistry” (idem, 2001). The situation in many other sciences is similar. The anglicization of so much scientific and academic literature reflects, in part, the dominance of American science, to be sure, but only in part. It is also nourished by the linguistic realities of the United Kingdom and most of the Commonwealth, and of the fact that researchers of many countries — in Scandinavia, for example — maximize their exposure by having recourse to the indisputably reigning lingua franca. |
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