A recent outburst in these pages bore one
worthwhile literary tool that we should consider — the pseudonym; which
is also known as a nom de plume, a pen name or an alias.
Why
did Eric Arthur Blair adopt the name George Orwell? Why does a writer
don a disguise? The simple answer is: because the act of writing is as
dangerous as a decision to go to war!
Throughout
the ages — from the archaic to the millennials — writers have adopted
alternative identities in order to avoid persecution for ideas that
others might deem profane or otherwise unacceptable in polite society.
In
19th Century Europe and North America, women were housebound; deprived
of voice and visibility in public spaces. They had no vote and in most
countries they could not earn an income without the knowledge of their
husbands!
Consequently,
intellectually endowed women like the Bronte sisters — Charlotte, Emily
and Anne — circumvented these conservative attitudes by adopting pen
names.
Jane Eyre was first published in 1847 under Charlotte’s pen name, Currer Bell. Subsequently she adopted the pseudonym Jean Rhys.
NOT TRUE PRAISE
In
explaining why she and her siblings had adopted male-sounding pen
names, Charlotte later remarked: “We had a vague impression that
authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice; we had
noticed
how critics sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of
personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true
praise”.
Victorian women were not
alone in fearing the prejudice that comes with skewed biographical
criticism. In 1865, the Cambridge University mathematician and Anglican
Deacon, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, chose to publish under the name Lewis
Carroll.
He was afraid that his day
job might well be at stake if it were to be discovered that he spent his
evenings delighting in the logic of word play and children’s rhymes
rather than decoding the conundrums of calculus and trigonometry.
Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass contain some of the finest examples of the genre known as literary nonsense.
After
Agatha Christie became a world-famous crime writer, she feared that her
forays into romantic fiction would cause some to see her as nonsensical
and would, therefore, devalue her fame.
Thus she published Unfinished Portrait (1934) and The Burden (1956) under the pseudonym Mary Westmacott.
Apart
from obscuring the real person behind nonsense of various kinds,
pseudonyms do have the capacity to drive urgent causes forward while
shielding the author from unwarranted opprobrium.
Carolyne
Adalla was one of the first writers in Kenya to break the silence on
suffering, back in the day when there was fierce stigma attached to
HIV/AIDS.
But her epistolary novel, Confessions of an AIDS Victim (1993)
exposed her to unjustified backlash because some readers could not draw
the line between Adalla’s personal life and the fictional world that
she had created.
Earlier, when
government chemist Nicholas Muraguri sought to unmask the inadequacies
of Western-trained intellectuals and the corruption that was beginning
to ravage the newly independent Kenyan state, he avoided the wrath of
his employer by picking the pen name Mwangi Ruheni under which he
published The Future Leaders (1973) and The Minister’s Daughter (1975).
In recent years, global narratives of violent extremism have found a counter discourse in the novels of Yasmina Kader. L’Automne des chimères (1998) and Wolf Dreams (2003), amongst others,
were received in France as the definitive new voice of Arab womanhood.
A WRITER INVITES ALL KINDS OF CRITICISM
Except
that the author was not really a woman. (S)he was in fact a man —
Mohammed Moulessehoul, a veteran Algerian army officer who had decided
to adopt his wife’s name as his pen name
because he was weary of submitting his manuscripts for approval by a committee in the Algerian army.
A
writer who was a soldier invites all kinds of criticism. Moulessehoul
has been brutal in his opinion of those who crudely challenge his ideas
on account of his unusual career path.
“Let
me tell you, it was a hard battle — there is no honesty or integrity
among the pseudo-intellectuals I had to take on. There’s much more
honesty and integrity among soldiers, trust me.”
One
could argue that in the kind of writing where one is stridently
critical of one’s benefactors, the term nom de guerre — the moniker
under which a person goes to war — is more befitting because
in this cloak and dagger game, the author launches a missile and prays that it will not ricochet and pulverise him.
Arguably,
the most famous nom de guerre in our local press came from an alias
derived by blending the names of two world famous Leftists — Amilcar
Cabral of Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde, and our very own Pio Gama Pinto.
It
is now an open secret that Cabral Pinto of the Saturday Nation was the
current holder of a senior constitutional office. By picking a pen name,
the official circumvented censure by his employer of the time.
He also insulated himself against premature dismissal by future employers.
Imagine
what might have happened to his quest for the constitutional office if
all of the panellists at the interview and at the parliamentary vetting
had been aware that the man before them was the very one whose
revolutionary column regularly demanded that “civil society should
capture the reins of state power”?
Chanan
Kapila is the pen name that the official adopted for a column in
another publication. This alias paid homage to local legal luminaries —
Justice Chanan Singh and lawyer Archhroo Ram Kapila.
In
his autobiography, Justice Abdul Majid Cockar salutes Kapila for his
“pin-pricking defence of political agitators”. If we pay attention to
the words of American singer and activist, Tracy Chapman,
we will conclude that even when they “sound like whispers”, the official’s pen names are always “talkin’ bout a revolution”.
TACTICAL PLOY
Whatever
their tenor and accent, calls for change, take on many forms and in the
ensuing struggle, the pseudonym becomes a tactical ploy, rather than a
mark of cowardice. However, a pseudonym only succeeds when editors or
publishers act as the writer’s allies.
In
any event, when the monies from publication roll in, the editor will
need to know where to send the cheque! But from the onset, the editor
must be convinced that the writer’s job, reputation or life may not
survive the publicity.
In the case of
Joanne K. Rowlings, the author of the famous Harry Potter series, it
was agreed that her first attempt at a crime story would be unduly
burdened by the weight of her famous name since readers had typecast her
as the queen of fantasy fiction.
And
so she became Robert Galbraith, author of The Cuckoo’s Calling (2013).
One newspaper hired a British linguist who used a software programme to
analyse the novel against other writing and ultimately identified
Rowlings as the writer behind the mask.
But
even prior to the birth of forensic linguists and the age of the
Internet and its swift tools for unveiling anonymity, the pseudonym has
rarely ever remained in the dark permanently.
Sometimes,
the circumstances of history have changed and those — like Victorian
women — who did not previously have a public persona, acquire one and
come out to claim their sweat and genius.
In
other instances, it is the writer’s own ego that swells irredeemably,
eventually bursting forth so that he can dwell in the limelight of being
the published author of a renowned masterpiece or two.
And
then there are those particularly amusing times when the disguise worn
by the writer has been so thin. Between the first two paragraphs, a
litter of familiar word play and a telltale signature, the seasoned
reader easily picks out the identity of the ghost behind the spectacle
and his enablers.
Camouflage tip: If
you must use a pseudonym remember the six degrees of separation theory.
There are just six acquaintance links, or less, separating any two
strangers in the world. So everyone knows everyone!
Dr. Nyairo is the author of Kenya@50: Trends, identities and the Politics of Belonging. jnyairo@gmail.com
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