O silent dead – from white light our ashes will fly
[Postmodern ethics in post-holocaust literary reactions to the voices of the holocaust dead]
“In my imagination the man who I thought was trying to get in had been growing and growing in size until in the end he appeared to be a giant and the greatest Fascist that ever walked the earth.”
The dead speak to the living by not speaking at all. It is the attested function of literature, for many, that it plays a vital role in the exploration of discursive aporia; in particular, the aporia that is those human voices that, for whatever reason, are impossible to hear. Before postmodernism, the narrative is: once traced, these subaltern voices are represented in fiction by the benevolent author, and the wrong of silence is ‘righted.’ The imperative for these blanks to get ‘filled in’ becomes especially pressing once time has silenced not only the generation who remembered the voices we wish were recallable, but also everyone who remembered that generation personally. After memory, after post-memory, all that remains is the “post-“ – the hyphen firmly linking the afterwards to nothing, to the aporia of memory’s absence. This inability-to-know is thus an unsolvable epistemological problem, one that literature cannot put ‘right.’
Postmodern ethics attempts to understand the most respectful way, not to ‘right,’ but to challenge this unsolvable problem, in a way that does not compromise the voice of the subaltern – either by perpetuating the subaltern’s silence, or by speaking on the behalf of the subaltern, who because silent is always unable to consent.
(I define ‘voice’ as: ‘the right and/or ability of the existed/existing individual to self-represent within the discourse of the present,’ and ‘silence’ as the inability and/or lack of the right to do this.)
Silence leaves the subaltern stranded; if I cannot hear a person, I cannot hope to help them or those like them, because I am unable to ever have even discovered that they need my help. As a result, the epistemological problem of subaltern silence is also an ethical problem, in the sense of Emmanuel Levinas’ ethics, which is the endless attempt to achieve a respectful and loving relationship between me and the other, in your singular, impenetrable, internal difference (‘Otherness,’ for short). There are many forces that can render an individual subaltern, but the force most challenging to ethics. most unnecessary and irrevocable, is a specific kind of death.
The silencing of death-by-natural-causes presents no ethical violation, because subalternity has not been forced without consent on the dead individual by a hateful agent. It is only in cases of death-by-murder that the epistemological problem of silence is atrociously amplified. A relatively minor ethical problem –I doubt anyone would complain if I wrote a poem from the perspective of my dead great-grandmother – becomes a vital ethical-philosophical conundrum, because the murdered voice has been deliberately silenced by an-other being, purely and prematurely because of the murderer, the agent of that murder’s anti-ethical hatred. The ‘hatred’ in murder is what
“…desires the death of the Other only in inflicting this death as a supreme suffering… To inflict suffering is not to reduce the Other to the rank of object, but on the contrary to maintain him superbly in his subjectivity. In suffering the subject must know his reification, but in order to do so he must precisely remain a subject. Hatred wills both things… In this lies the logical absurdity of hatred.”
In wanting the other to die, I therefore must first acknowledge the absurdity of my action in wanting to silence the other’s voice, and then select, in spite of my-self, to silence it. Murder, which is always irrational and therefore in an un-numbed situation always feels wrong – the Einsatzgruppen murder-squads got smashed to do their job – is the supreme ethical crime. It is thus through Levinassian ethics that I can approach an understanding of the importance of attempting to hear not the voices of all those who have ever died, but specifically the voices of all dead perpetrators and all dead victims of murders: an act exemplified in the crime of genocide, the atrocious mass silencing of “each singular [targeted] individual as a singularity,” as well as of the political voice granted by “the more general naming that binds and creates [targeted] communities.” To attempt to hear these voices is to attempt to comprehend both what is irrecoverably, unnecessarily, and unfairly destroyed by murder, and how it is that humans can become able and/or willing to enact this destruction of the ethical relationship. It is murder, in the present, whichI must attempt to eradicate, not the fact that someone was murdered. To analogise Gayatri Spivak’s objection to the idea of “white men… saving brown women from brown men,” it is unethical and useless for living people to want to save dead people from dead murderers. In using the attempt-to-listen to attempt-to-understand the atrocious consequences of past murders – something textual engagement can enable – I may learn the value of ethical activism against murder in the present.
The voices of the dead which I must attempt to hear may be almost-heard only in what Jacques Derrida names ‘cinders,’ – the trace-in-the-present of the other-in-the-past – a strange dust, found disturbed by the old vibrations of the absent prisoner’s screams in the night. The cinder refers to the presence of absence; as Maurice Blanchot puts it, “to be silent is still to speak.” This essay concerns itself with cinders made in the ovens of Auschwitz.
This essay focuses on a particular genocide, the Nazi holocaust, for no reason other than I have just taken a module on the literature of that holocaust. ‘Post-holocaust’ literature is authored by writers whose only connection to the holocaust, due to the aporia of temporal distance, is through representative texts authored in the voice of those with holocaust memory; or through post-memory, the use-with-permission of the memory of the once-heard voice. The nature of these representative texts – cinders which point to cinders – and the way in which they are exploited by the ‘post-’ author’s response to the silence those texts uncover, has profound implications for the ethical character of that response in its relation to the vital attempt to hear the subaltern dead of the holocaust. These ethical implications are demonstrated in texts by the poet Sylvia Plath, the novelist Martin Amis, and the band Neutral Milk Hotel.
“…the gap that exists and grows wider every year between things as they were down there and things as they are represented by the current imagination fed by approximate books, films and myths… I would like here to erect a dyke against this trend.”
Antony Rowland states that in order for writers to “provide ethical responses to the events in Europe between 1933 and 1945,” what is required is a sense on the author’s part of ‘awkward poetics.’ Rowland defines this in Levinassian terms as poetry that would “enable the poet to adopt a position of interpretative responsibility towards the victims they are representing,” essentially meaning art that, in representing subaltern voice, accepts and incorporates its inability to represent subaltern voice. Rowland says himself that awkward poetics “might be a little pious,” but that the only alternative to “interpretative responsibility” is apparently the anti-postmodern “unreflective seizure of Holocaust icons.” Rowland’s argument, essentially, is that art which encounters the problem of silence whilst writing the holocaust should make a performance of feeling “awkward,” about doing so. He is partially right, in that ‘post-‘ representation of the subaltern dead is always inherently unethical, and acknowledging failure is the first step to confronting it. But this guilt is “pious,” snivelling even, because it merely resolves the guilt the author and reader feel for enjoying a literary re-presentation-without-permission. It fails to actually address the silence, achieving only an apology to the subaltern who cannot hear you anyway.
Where awkward poetics can have ethical value, though, is when it is used to camp an ‘un-awkward’ poetics. In two holocaust poems by Sylvia Plath, a performance is made of not feeling bad at all about the problem of silence. ‘Lady Lazarus,’ is written in the first person from the perspective of the Lady herself, who has risen from the dead to speak. She performs a “big strip tease” in which she “[peels] off the napkin” of deathly-otherness to reveal herself as being composed of holocaust icons, with her skin “Bright as…” the Ilse Koch’s supposed “Nazi lampshade” made of human skin, her body being made not of “Flesh, bone,” but of “A wedding ring,/A gold filling” and the “cake of soap” made from human fat – images gleaned from Plath’s “vicarious reception of the Holocaust through sensationalist media.” The Lady makes grotesque the idea that such images can in any sense bring the dead back to life, criticising the “peanut-crunching crowd,” who gets cheap thrills from this false “miracle!” Indeed, she dramatizes the ethical consequences of this capitalist transaction: “There is a charge for the hearing of my heart,” a devilish payment that the reader of these icons must make. The act of dying, in its necessary Otherness to lived-experience, is reduced unethically to a representative “art, like everything else.” This conception is revealed to be a violation of the Lady’s subalternity by the fact that she keeps trying to die and “not come back at all,” but is forced by the “call” of the present-consumers who demand that she speak her-‘self’ to them, for their entertainment. “Ash, ash –/You poke and stir,” until the original cinders become unethically re-inscribed with a stick-person, drawn by the post-holocaust living.
The Lady’s ‘self,’ and the voice that reveals this ‘self,’ are constructions of Plath’s. Lady Lazarus is a collage of the false images which cover the subalternity of the dead by falsely appearing to represent them and their experience accurately. As Rowland puts it, “the transformation of Ilse Koch into an icon of the Holocaust has had the effect of occluding the role of the SS in Buchenwald, and the collusion of the Germans living nearby the camp.” My attention becomes misdirected away from a real understanding of holocaust murders, and the cinder of the subaltern’s shriek is not heard – I would rather be titillated by the “Bitch of Buchenwald.” Plath’s poem therefore offers a critique of unethical re-presentation in all post-holocaust art inspired by over-mediated, ‘spectacular’ traces, and of the rhetorical figure of all ‘prosopopoeia’ – speaking on another’s behalf. The transparent quality of spectacular traces enables the living to determine the terms upon which the holocaust dead can be represented within post-holocaust discourse – the impossibility of their speaking is not even acknowledgeable, let alone challenged. Subalternity is obscured, in favour of a less troubling relationship of false, created knowledge. Same and Other are invasively ‘merged’.
This alluring-because-simplifying quality of the spectacular trace is dramatized in ‘Daddy,’ another of Plath’s post-holocaust poems. The ‘Daddy’ speaker describes images of herself and her dead father she has constructed and now rejected. The critiqued father-image is built from icons which signify ‘fascistic rightness’ and ‘fascistic power’; “The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna/are not very pure or true,” and what she “used to pray to recover,” she now sees as the “brute/Brute heart of a brute,” once the mediation of an alluring cultural impression is removed. “Every woman adores a Fascist,” she asserts, because a fascist conception of ethics is so simple that “not God but a swastika” might be enough to make sense of a universe that allows murder. The speaker yearns for this worldview because, albeit falsely, it makes sense of her father, and of the holocaust murder she knows. She describes her “heart” as split “in two,” between her post-memory of his actual voice, and her “Fascist” construction of him, which speaks on his behalf without permission, telling her what she wants to hear to alleviate her own guilt. The speaker tries obsessively to make herself into enough of a “Jew” to be ‘worthy’ of “Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.” By becoming a victim, she resolves the problem of failing to try and listen to the voice of the subaltern murdered, because she somehow is one of them; she can listen to her-self. The speaker fails, though. She cannot honestly say ‘I am a Jew,’ only the qualified “I think I may well be a bit of a Jew.”
Realising that a fascist understanding of ethics has become culturally rejected, that “they,” the “villagers” of the post-Nazism world, “are dancing and stamping” on “Daddy,” the speaker finally disconnects from the lure of the false image. The final word, “through,” puns on the sense of both an ending, and a successful telephone connection to aporia; she swaps the unethical “black telephone” for the impossible attempt-to-listen to her real father’s subaltern voice.
Plath’s poems therefore do not unethically represent the holocaust dead, because they are built on and about holocaust icons, which they reveal as lies. Plath’s post-holocaust poetry, beginning from this critique of the Lady Lazarus spectacle, begins to move towards an ethical relationship with the subaltern dead. The caller who ends “Daddy,” and the speaker of ‘Mary’s Song,’ opt to reject misleading false cinders, marking the beginning of a textual performance of the attempt to listen. This approach towards a conception of art congruent with postmodern ethics works for Plath because she consciously rejects ‘real’ cinders; both Martin Amis and Neutral Milk Hotel pointedly do tie their texts back to such cinders, and this creates correspondingly different ethical problems.
No. ‘Ethical’ plays absolutely no [part] – the word does not exist.
-Ernst B. - a Nazi doctor
Heavily inspired by Robert Jay Lifton’s psycho-historical investigation The Nazi Doctors, Martin Amis’ novel Time’s Arrow works from a more originally ‘ethical’ web of cinders than those used by Sylvia Plath for her poems. Lifton’s book analyses the social and political factors that made it possible, in Nazi Germany, for doctors to murder patients in a manner they believed was ‘reconcilable’ to their Hippocratic oath. The Nazi Doctors achieves this through rigorous research of milieu and extensive interviews with surviving Nazi doctors – from which Lifton uses his psychologist’s training to deduce psychological principles that rationally explain medicalised murder and genocide. In this way, The Nazi Doctors is a wonderfully ethical post-holocaust text. It tries to understand the doctors it describes, without ever attempting to re-inscribe their subalternity. It is easier for nonfiction texts to be ethical than fiction texts; representation is not considered their generic remit.
The characterisation in Time’s Arrow is based on the generalised psychological principles that Lifton uncovers in his book: “doubling,” in which an “Auschwitz self” capable of justifying hurting and murdering is created; and “psychic numbing,” the desensitisation which enabled Nazi doctors to dissociate themselves from the hurt and murder they facilitated. In The Nazi Doctors, it is understandable that the generalisation practiced by Lifton is not unethical; he makes points about Nazi doctors as a community that do not necessarily describe all individual Nazi doctors; the attitudes of the doctors vary, and the book carefully describes these contrasts. Time’s Arrow attempts to be ethical in that its protagonist is the fictional Nazi doctor Odilo Undervorben, rather than a representation of an actual doctor. However, the intertextual characterisation lifted from Lifton’s generalisations, and Amis’ grotesque exaggeration of this source, ultimately undoes the text; the doctors’ singularities are reduced from real, unique subaltern cinders into an archetype – “the worst man in the worst place at the worst time” – that inherently disrespects the subalternity of all dead Nazi doctors. Amis thus perverts Lifton’s findings, as well as ethics in general, with blatant post-holocaust authorial interjections and biases of his own. The text disrespects subalternity.
Odilo is recognisably an archetype because, as Sue Vice puts it, he “has done everything a Nazi doctor might do,” including participating in “euthanasia” murders, and the Einsatzgruppen killing squads. As discussed in The Nazi Doctors, these activities did precede the medical murders of Auschwitz, but experiences of the two were not at all universal for camp doctors. Unverdorben therefore represents an accumulation of the worst of Nazi actions, as opposed to a collation of their real internal lives. Amis’ stated aim for the text is to demonstrate that “the German idea… was… counter-human… like a counter-clock world.” This desire to represent the holocaust as “counter-human” perhaps rationalises writing Unverdorben as an apotheosis rather than a more directly cinderous character, as well as the novel’s backwards chronology, but this is nonetheless a misreading of Lifton, who rigorously provides human explanations for every facet of the holocaust. Much of Chapter 19 and much of the whole book is spent explaining the human psychological explanations for both the “German idea” itself, and its origins in human culture and behaviour. The Final Solution, Lifton believes, was very much “human,” and an understanding of it as such enables him and I to try to understand the (preventable) conditions required for murder on the level of genocide humanly possible. This requires an attempt to understand the otherness of the holocaust’s perpetrators. But Time’s Arrow makes understanding impossible; there is no otherness to an archetypical character. “Negation by representation is epistemologically to repeat the consequences of… murder,” and Unverdorben indeed does negate the sources of his cinders. He becomes hollow text. The Nazi doctors were not murdered, granted, but postmodern ethics will not accommodate revenging.
As just one example of unqualified generalisation and extrapolation of Nazi doctor behaviour within the text which causes ‘hollow text,’ “Odilo is given bizarre sadist and necrophiliac sexual perversions, which are never implied by Lifton. This is all totally incongruent with Odilo’s split-self’s assessment of him as a “moral being … absolutely unexceptional, liable to do what everybody else does, good or bad, with no limit, once under the cover of numbers.” He is clearly exceptional, designed to be so; Time’s Arrow misleads its reader.
Even when accepting that Amis was not trying to relate Odilo to every Nazi doctor’s voice, this representative falling-short still causes the novel to fail aesthetically. If the backwards narrative is so constructed in order to satirise the “counter-human” nature of Auschwitz, then surely an ‘accurate’/ethical representation of perpetrators is necessary to fully realise this satire? A hollow-text boogeyman is of course able to be “counter-human.” This is not of ethical interest. Trying to understand the human ability to behave in ways that are “counter-human,” alternately, is ethically fascinating, and potentially useful. It is because the Nazi doctors are responsible for atrocities that their subalternity must be respected, so that we might respect the imperative left us by their victims.
Ultimately, it all comes down to approach. Lifton’s text is recognisably hermeneutic, in that its generalising representations are the result of a move towards understanding. Amis’ novel is, alternately, poetic – the text starts at a generalising representation, and then, aptly, works backwards. It begins from a position of having-already-understood. The dead’s voices are re-inscribed by Amis’ predetermined satirical agenda. Before the text begins, Time’s Arrow has always failed as an ethical representation, and thus fails in its own aims. Post-holocaust literature from ‘real’ cinders must, then, perform a hermeneutics in order to approach the ethical. Neutral Milk Hotel’s second album, In the Aeroplane over the Sea, exemplifies such a performance.
NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL
I was walking around wondering, “if I knew the history of the world, would everything make more sense to me or would I just lose my mind?” And I came to the conclusion that I’d probably just lose my mind.
In the Aeroplane over the Sea, as a piece of post-holocaust art, works mostly through the medium of apostrophe. Apostrophic art allows for a way to address silence in a way that respects subalternity, in that the artist speaks to the silent-dead, and not for them. Aeroplane dramatizes the relationship between a mourning speaker and addressed Anne Frank-figure, who, in an ethical gesture, is allowed to be non-responsive.
On ‘In the Aeroplane over the Sea,’ the joy of entering into a relationship with a textual cinder, in its finity and impermanence, is performed. The speaker “[hears] a voice as it’s rolling and ringing” through him, in “notes that bend unreachable,” unreplicable, unique. He describes his love of this textual other as “a beautiful dream that could flash on the screen/in a blink of an eye and be gone from me,” acknowledging its beauty and impermanence. He wants this vision-of-a-relationship to last, recalling, with echoes of Plath, how he used to “push [his] fingers through/your mouth to make those muscles move” in a sad parody of speaking. This subaltern figure cannot communicate, though, and representation is revealed as a self-serving charade. In a minor key, he ponders what he might not know about the addressed figure: “all secrets sleep in winter clothes/with one you loved so long ago/now we don’t even know his name.” This Anne Frank-figure might have loved a boy once, but she hasn’t told us about it in The Diary of a Young Girl, so we can never know, because she cannot speak to tell us. The misery of this is alleviated slightly for the speaker by the fact that they will be joined together in death, when they both become Other; when they die, their “ashes will fly/from the aeroplane over the sea,” an aeroplane capable of bridging, say, between Denver, 1998, and Holland, 1944. “How strange it is to be anything at all,” he decides. How strange that I can speak and you cannot.
Once the speaker starts to wonder about the ‘real’ girl behind the text, he begins to protest this strangeness. On ‘Holland, 1945,’ the first song on the record to allude explicitly to Anne Frank and the holocaust, he describes her death from typhus in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, “only weeks before the guns” of the British liberators “all came and rained on everyone.” He ascribes specific, historical blame to her murderers – “they buried her alive/one evening, 1945,” but this is the closest Aeroplane comes to anything like anger. Mostly he just wonders where she is, now that she’s dead and subaltern. Is she a “little boy in Spain,” still a victim of fascism, “playing pianos filled with flames,” still a blazing artist? She is compared to an imagined brother who refuses to come back to earth, who “says it was good to be alive/but now he rides a comet’s flame/and won’t be coming back again.” This contrast makes Anne’s attempt to ‘live’ again through the voice of her diary seem deliberate, similar to Bhubaneswari Bhaduri’s decision in Can the Subaltern Speak? to “render her body graphematic” through methodical suicide. Through Blanchot, I may understand all self-representation as a kind of suicide;
To write one’s autobiography… in order to expose oneself, like a work of art, to the gaze of all, is perhaps to seek survival, but through a perpetual suicide… In a sense, the “I” cannot be lost, because it does not belong to itself. It only is, therefore, as not its own, and therefore as always already lost.
Even The Diary does not enable Anne to speak beyond death; it is an elaborate suicide note describing not her-self, but how she wished to be remembered. It is “the living travesty of completed Meaning.” The only cinders of actual lived experience we get from Anne are “indentions in the sheets/where their bodies once moved but don’t move anymore,” as even her own self-representation is unethical towards the self it represents; it necessarily kills it through hardening it into an image. A self can never be an image, but without the image, no trace of the other self exists.
On ‘Two-Headed Boy Pt. 2,’ the real self that the image blocks is addressed. This subaltern self, unable to speak, makes its presence felt on both ‘In the Aeroplane,’ and this song through the use of a choked-sounding, non-verbal musical saw. Here, the absent “daddy,” “brother,” and “sister” are spoken to, in a melancholic tone which recycles the themes of the rest of the album. The necessity of death for unification with the other to occur is dramatised:
When we break
We’ll wait for our miracle
God is a place where some holy spectacle lies
When we break
We’ll wait for our miracle
God is a place we will wait for the rest of our lives
Ultimately, In the Aeroplane over the Sea is written through a white light hermeneutics. Mangum’s “belief that all things contain an eternal white light” informs the album as post-holocaust art; rather than begin from a position of ‘understanding’ and guilt and work backwards, like awkward poetics or Time’s Arrow, it begins from a confused and broken position, performing a moving towards the non-occurrence of the realised ethical relationship with the ‘white light’ of your endless otherness in time and space. The record, by illuminating the sadness of this failure to connect, becomes a sublimely powerful criticism of murder, because it tries, by apostrophising the already-destroyed, to illuminate what it is that murder destroys: the self that can never be re-presented, even by itself, now without even the right to actively re-trace itself into the “anonymous continuity of humanity.” This is why the white light of your otherness is holy; like “God”, it is unique and uncommunicable. Trying to touch it, “we will wait for the rest of our lives,” for the non-occurrence. Seeing this white light, I cannot murder. My psychic numbing is destroyed. Standing face to face with my victim, I see the trace of an Anne behind her eyes.
Emmanuel Levinas rejected art in his philosophy because it “is not transcendent.” I do not know if he really understood the potential of art to reveal the vital urgency of a postmodern ethics, but I think he might have enjoyed Aeroplane, or Georges Perec’s W., or Sylvia Plath’s ‘Mary’s Song,’ or any other text that practices a white light hermeneutics. Says Levinas:
You know, one often speaks of ethics to describe what I do, but what really interests me in the end is not ethics, not ethics alone, but the holy, the holiness of the holy.
 Following Jacques Derrida and Norman Finkelstein, I politely refuse to capitalise the Nazi holocaust, unless in quotes. This is not out of disrespect for its victims, but a concern that Nazi holocaust exceptionalism reduces our ability to grieve for the victims of all other holocausts, and tends to serve questionable political purposes. All murder is identically unethical.
 Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank, Otto Frank, (Basingstoke: Macmillan Publishers, 1995), pp. 36-37.
Robert Eaglestone, The Holocaust and the Postmodern, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004) p. 269
 Ibid. p. 294
 Stephen Morton, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, (Oxon: Routledge, 2005) p. 56
 Maurice Blanchot, The writing of the disaster, (London: University of Nebraska Press, 1995) p. 10
This is permission in the ethical sense of re-presenting a voice that the writer has actually heard, not permission in the literal sense. This is dramatized in Maus, when Art Spiegelman-as-character asks his father if he can include a story of Vladek’s in his novel and is refused, but then does so anyway after his father’s death – he lacks permission, but nonetheless has ethical ‘permission’ to do so, because he knew his dad, and attempts to represent him ethically.
 The Holocaust and the Postmodern, p. 22.
 Antony Rowland, Holocaust Poetry, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) p. 11
 Ibid. p. 12
 Sylvia Plath, Ariel: The Restored Edition, (Faber and Faber: London, 2004) p. 14.
 Holocaust Poetry, p. 46
 Holocaust Poetry, p. 40.
 Ariel: The Restored Edition, p.73.
 Robert Jay Lifton, The Nazi Doctors: Medical Killing and the Psychology of Genocide, (USA: Basic Books, 1986) p. 178
 The Nazi Doctors, p. 419
 Martin Amis, Time’s Arrow, or the Nature of the Offense, (London: Jonathan Cape, 1991) p. 12
 Sue Vice, Holocaust Fiction, (Routledge: London, 2000) p. 33
 Martin Amis on writing Time’s Arrow, ”, The Guardian Online,<.http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jan/23/martin-amis-times-arrow> [accessed 24 May 2012] (para. paragraph number)
 The Holocaust and the Postmodern, p. p. 269
 Time’s Arrow p. 157, 158
 Ibid. p. 164
 Martin Amis on writing Time’s Arrow
 Pitchfork Media, ‘Neutral Milk Hotel’, (2008) <http://pitchfork.com/features/interviews/7471-neutral-milk-hotel/> [accessed 23 May 2012]
 Neutral Milk Hotel, In the Aeroplane over the Sea. (Merge Records: Durham, 1998)
 Gayatri Spivak, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’ (downloaded from Wikipedia)
 The writing of the disaster, p. 64
 Ibid.. 48
 Kim Cooper, 33 1/3: In the Aeroplane over the Sea (London: Continuum International, 2005) p. 70
 The writing of the disaster p. 7
 The Holocaust and the Postmodern, p. 342