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Theorising Democracy and Fiction

A Far Cry from Emma Bovary: A Critique of Rancière—and a Tribute to Rebecca

Aux antipodes d’Emma Bovary : critique de Rancière et hommage à Rebecca
Frédéric Regard


Dans les ouvrages de Rancière, il est du devoir du philosophe politique de contester le partage établi des positions de chacun, ce qu’il nomme le travail de « la police ». La police s’assure que les positions et les classes restent séparées, tandis que la politique s’emploie au contraire à mettre à bas cette répartition. Rancière articule de la sorte démocratie et esthétique. Ce qu’il nomme la littérature « moderniste » donne une forme esthétique au principe « démocratique » qui constitue le cœur du nouveau « régime » de l’art. Un des exemples privilégiés de Rancière est Madame Bovary, le roman de Flaubert. Mon essai avance pourtant que l’œuvre de Rancière a pour point aveugle l’un des enjeux majeurs de notre modernité, à savoir « la question de la femme ». Il suggère que le genre le plus « démocratique », qui s’empara le mieux de cette question, fut le roman de détection. Je me réfère pour ma part à Jane Eyre, de Charlotte Brontë, et Rebecca de Daphne du Maurier.

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  • 1 The subsequent development on Rancière’s theories is partly drawn from another essay of mine, ‘Poli (...)
  • 2 Here and throughout, all translations are mine, based on the original French edition, to which page (...)

1Jacques Rancière’s work is thoroughly subtended by a belief in an original, equally shared intelligence between all human beings.1 This fundamental assumption supported his very first book, a critique of his mentor Louis Althusser (Rancière 1974), and was made even more explicit in his next book, The Night of Labour (1981), before it became the very centre of The Ignorant Schoolmaster (1987), a book presented in the form of a tribute to Joseph Jacotot, a French educational philosopher of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, who had developed a method of ‘intellectual emancipation.’ Drawing on Jacotot’s theories, Rancière argues that true emancipation is ‘the act of an intelligence which only obeys itself’ (Rancière 1987, 26)2itself, that is to say: not the intelligence of a master thinker. Everyone can think; it is just the education system that produces differentiation between master and pupil, as well as the ‘stultification’ (abrutissement) of the masses (Rancière 1987, 33), and the alleged inequality between the average people and an intellectual elite (Rancière 1987, 27).

2This is a notion centrally dealt with in a collection of three essays written between 1986 and 1988, and brought together in book-form under the title of On the Shores of Politics (1990). Rancière claims that it is in the very nature of true equality to precipitate what he calls une déclassification (Rancière 1990, 51), a word to be understood in its literal sense of an abolition of all classes, but which might also be understood to mean a more general process of ‘decategorization’. Rancière’s main concern is indeed to overturn all imposed forms of categorization, i.e. all stable differentiation of one category of person, or experience, from another. True equality only occurs when workers are not distinguished from intellectuals, masters from disciples, whites from blacks, men from women, true literature from popular fiction, art from non-art.

3That is why, Rancière claims, philosophy must become political. For it is precisely the duty of politics to propose a rupture of the accepted distribution of positions—what in ‘Thesis 6’ and ‘Thesis 7’ of On the Shores of Politics is called the work of ‘the police’ (Rancière 1990, 167). It is the duty of politics to contest the accepted partition of the world between the ones who exercise power and the ones who subject to it. What ‘the police’ do, in other words, politics must undo. The police make sure that positions and classes remain clearly differentiated; politics, on the contrary, challenges categorisation.

4This idea was developed notably in Disagreement (1995), very often considered in France to be Rancière’s major work. Rancière explains that when the police ‘distribute places and functions’, it also by the same token institutes itself as ‘an order of the visible and the sayable, which stipulates that an activity is visible and another is not, that an utterance is heard as discourse and another as noise’ (Rancière 1995, 52). Politics is thus what also introduces a rupture in this ‘configuration of the sensible’. It says the as yet unsayable, displays the as yet invisible. It ‘refigures’ the space where absences and presences manifest themselves (Rancière 1995, 53). What becomes clear then, is that what is disrupted by political disagreement is not only the power arrangements of the policed social order, but more deeply the perceptual and epistemic underpinnings of that order. What Rancière calls ‘dissensus’ is not merely a disagreement about the justice of particular social arrangements, it is also a disagreement about the partition, or distribution, of ‘the sensible’. And that is profoundly why politics and aesthetics cannot be dissociated, an assumption made particularly explicit in The Politics of Aesthetics (2000), where Rancière uses the term ‘aesthetics’ not to refer to theories or practices of art, but to ‘the aesthetic regime of art,’ i.e. to a historical moment: the moment when art came to be identified as a specific field of experience (Rancière 2000, 28–31). This new regime, which imposed itself at the end of the 18th century and throughout the 19th, rests on the idea that art is that particular human production that is open for new restructurings, through what Neil Corcoran astutely names ‘the free play of aestheticization’ (Corcoran 2010, 17), a free play based notably, according to Rancière, on the equal aesthetic worthiness of all subjects, activities, and objects.

5Although Rancière finds illustration for such theses in various forms of art, writing it is—modern writing—that appears to be given preeminence, Flaubert’s Madame Bovary (1857) being a favourite reference of his. In modern writing, everything is made to talk. Modern literature articulates ‘mute speech’, the opaque density of silent, muted things (Rancière 2007, 31). Writing is thus defined as the privileged way of (re)configuring the domain of the sensible, since it allows the invisible and unsayable to gain visibility and sayability, while inventing characters, such as Emma Bovary, who do not fit the roles expected of the representatives of definite classes and categories, characters whom Rancière sees not as classic subjects, therefore, but as ‘intervals’ and ‘quasi identities’, or ‘misnomers’ (Rancière 1990, 89).

6We are beginning to understand how Rancière’s philosophy relates ‘democracy’ to aesthetics. Democrats turn themselves into discursive beings, des êtres de parole, that is to say also ‘poetic beings,’ who speak in the name of others, fictionalise themselves as others, thus transgressing the laws of the police. Modernist literature, Rancière argues, constructs a ‘floating world’ in which dreams, drugs, criminals and prostitutes are made into figures of errancy and ‘disintegration’ (Rancière 2014, 103–107). Such figures, he explains, are used to deregulate all representations of places and positions, and should not therefore be confused with representatives of the working class, and of its alleged authenticity and purity.

7This is what Flaubert’s art manages to do through the character of Emma Bovary: Flaubert’s writing, his style, the very succession of his sentences, seek to bring forth a process of ‘disidentification’ (Rancière 2014, 32), which is achieved by exploding the rigid partitionings that normally forbid a young, uneducated, provincial woman to experience the beauty of passion through a multiplicity of apparently disconnected incidents and details (Rancière 2014, 33–36). This is also what modernist impersonality is all about, Rancière suggests: it gives central stage presence not to action, but to vision, a ‘paratactic’ vision of the material world which is not specific of any class, but on the contrary guarantees ‘the equality of all the beings, things and situations’ that are caught up in this field of material vision (Rancière 2014, 23). That is why modern writing contests the primacy of the narrative over the descriptive; preferring instead to ‘choose a fragmented . . . mode of focalisation, which ensures that the rough presence of the real (la présence brute) prevails over the rational cause-to-effect developments of the story (les enchaînements rationnels de l’histoire)’ (Rancière 2014, 34–35). In order to illustrate his point, Rancière highlights the sudden emergence, in the course of the 19th century, of the news item, le fait divers, which in the economy of narrative came to be perceived as the visible though enigmatic tip of ‘a reticular system’ engaging the whole of society (Rancière 2014, 124).

8I would like to suggest here—and this is something Rancière seems to miss altogether—that the rise of the ‘detective novel’, a genre which includes among its ancestors Gothic and sensation novels, as well as some of the narratives of the so-called school of ‘New Journalism’ (Regard 2018), should be considered as a far better example of a reappropriation and narrative reconfiguration of the fait divers. Was not the paradigm such narratives all shared that of the necessity of the inquest? Which is to say: of an investigation into a muted, unsayable world, the existence of which had suddenly been hinted at by the fait divers—the disappearance of a young girl, the discovery of a prostitute’s dead body, the suicide of an actress, the accidental death of a wife, etc. A world which remained opaque—invisible, unsayable—and which therefore demanded a new reading of society, an epistemological task which could only be undertaken by starting from odds and ends, by focusing on traces, signs, fragments of information, meaningless, discarded things—in one word: clues.

9What is detective literature indeed, if not that kind of narrative reconfiguration of the sensible, which sees in each object, and even in each fragment of an object, a clue?—or, the trace of a wound inflicted on the defenceless by a social system which distinguishes between those who are worthy of the protection of the State and those who are not, those who think and decide, and those who are considered as mere passive bodies, offered up for the consumption of the rich and powerful? What is a clue, if not the possibility offered to the amateur detective—or to the maverick police officer—in any case to a floating subject, awkwardly poised between acceptability and unacceptability, and like Sherlock Holmes using drugs to suspend the time of means and ends, what is a clue, if not an invitation to perceive in trash or fragments, in discarded or broken objects, the hidden, suppressed, muted, silenced, unofficial reality that underlies the consensual representation of society? To perceive in tiny, otherwise neglected, unworthy details, a world of suffering, the story of a horror to be exposed, of a scandal to be revealed. The amateur detective—embodied by a lady taking the defence of prostitutes, by a journalist denouncing the perversion of the upper classes, or by a ‘queer’ sleuth—introduces disagreement in the community, a dissensual voice in the consensual representation of the world. The sleuth, I want to argue, is the democratic character par excellence, whose dissenting ‘mode of sensibility’—call it ‘intuition,’ the very opposite of rational thinking—makes visible and audible unexpected networks of meaning-production.

10I strongly disagree with Rancière, therefore, and contend that the finest emblem of democratic aesthetics was not Flaubert’s Emma Bovary, or Balzac’s Comédie Humaine, but the invention of the detective novel. As a matter of fact, I would tend to consider Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre (1847) as the matrix of all such narratives. But for the sake of time and convenience, I choose to dwell more specifically on one of Jane Eyre’s most famous, although also most underestimated revisions, Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier (1938). I want to argue that the enduring success of this novel, foretelling the popularity of all later ‘Queens of Crime’, is due precisely to its ‘democratic’ urge: that of making legible the central, muted narrative of the endlessly reenacted murder of the woman—a dimension that Rancière also completely bypasses, when the one female character he chooses to put to the fore—the provincial bourgeoise—is one whose visibility and audibility in 19th-century literature was never fundamentally problematic.

11Before I move on to a quick study of Du Maurier’s novel in the light of this general argument, let me make more explicit the way I read Jane Eyre. As we all know, what lends the novel its energy and dynamism is not the unfolding of a love story between a young governess and the wealthy owner of Thornfield Hall; it is the secret which haunts the Hall, the secret which as a point of fact haunted any British country house then, a secret which haunted the very architecture of a certain idea of respectability and propriety: the secret of a ‘madness’ which needed to remain hidden away for the established order to thrive, the secret also of the necessary suppression of this ‘madness’. Said otherwise, the secret of the murder, symbolic or real, of the woman—here, as in so many Gothic, Sensation or detective novels, the secret of the suppression of the first wife, whose capital must be secured and appropriated by the capitalist, patriarchal—what I call the ‘capitriarchal’—system. Such is the final lesson of Jane Eyre: the mad woman’s suicide should be read as a perfect murder, a murder with no suspects, a legal murder if you prefer, and although the final reunion of Jane and Rochester seems to display the classic features of a romance, this happy ending is made to take place on the background of a ruined estate, symbolising the possibility of the crumbling down of ‘capitriarchy’.

12This is what Daphne du Maurier understands when she transposes the same basic plot into Rebecca (1938), a novel which, I claim, seeks to make explicit the ‘detective story’ aspect of its predecessor. The estate of Manderley is thus made into the fourth main character of the narrative, complicating the amorous triangle which binds together Maxim, the rich owner, and his two wives, one alive but fairly absent from the narrative, the other dead, but insistingly present. Officially, Rebecca, the first wife, commits suicide, but the narrative gradually reveals that Maxim, a reembodiment of Rochester, is her murderer, who shot his adulterous wife for fear of losing the estate, which could have gone to an illegitimate heir. Interestingly enough, in the 1940 Hollywood adaptation of the book by Hitchcock, Rebecca accidentally hits her head in the course of a violent argument with her husband, a betrayal which I see as a pathetic symptom of official culture’s inability to cope with the facts disclosed in all detective novels, namely: that men will kill women to protect themselves, which is to say, to protect their names and properties, the very symbols of ‘capitriarchy’.

13Contrary to the film, Du Maurier’s narrative systematically underscores the extreme vulnerability of women, which accounts for the atmosphere of latent terror that suffuses the text. The second Mrs De Winter is the only focaliser of the narrative, a strategy which enables the narrator to turn every description of the estate into a moment, not of security, but of indecision, the narrator’s consciousness being incessantly caught between the ‘perfect moment’ and the reminder of one’s precariousness. And indeed, every moment in Rebecca is poised between felicity and atrocity, security and menace, daydreaming and the sudden realisation of reality’s nightmarish quality. Anxiety may thus be said to be the defining feature of the novel, and an emblematic scene of this narrative strategy may be found in chapter 19, where a diver who is observed from the cliff becomes the very figure of looming disaster. Rebecca’s body, caught in her sunken boat, may be discovered, the truth of the murder established. Lost in a peaceful seascape with happy families having a picnic on the shore, the anonymous, almost invisible diver should thus be perceived as an embodiment of the work of ‘democratic’ writing, as it keeps going down for truth and coming up for air, the unpredictability of his efforts intensifying the oscillation between revelation and delusion, death and life, menace and security, with which the main character, an unwilling detective, is agonised. This diver is the figure of the process of the return of the repressed, of the unofficial side of reality, which detective novels always allow or precipitate. Je reviens, the French for ‘I Return’ (a better translation will be suggested), is the name of Rebecca’s sailboat. And indeed if Du Maurier’s novel should be considered as one of the great pioneers of all modern detective novels, it is first and foremost because it ‘democratically’ completes the process of disclosure initiated by Charlotte Brontë’s plot, inviting the corpse of the murdered woman to come back to the surface of reality, recalling to central stage presence the silenced, concealed body of the ‘mad’ wife. Je reviens, I’ll be back: the narrative keeps a forgotten, muted, sunken promise, in violation of the law of the ‘police’ and of its partition of the sensible. The true genius of Du Maurier’s narrative, however, lies in articulating this anxiety of revenance through figures, tropes, rhetorical strategies, which transform the gradual realisation of the unofficial side of reality into a semiotic operation.

14What comes back, what returns, resurfaces, is not simply the dark, criminal aspect of the policed order of the rich and powerful; it is first and foremost a semiotic event, as is illustrated by the constant reminder throughout the novel of the letter R, the initial of Rebecca’s name, to be read as the signature of a dead body made into an insisting revenant, a signature encrypted in the very name of the boat, Je Reviens, I Return, the foreign language adding to the uncanny effect of the phenomenon. This signature also imposes itself as the eminently paradoxical title of the novel, Rebecca, which bears the name of a woman who is never present as a character, but only as a ‘force’ democratically returning into the life of the living to disturb their normality. Manderley is thus made to undergo a process of ‘unhoming’, of Unheimlichkeit, of uncanniness. Indeed, something manifests itself inside the estate where it should not; something is made present, visible and audible, which should have remained suppressed. This is a device Du Maurier’s narrative systematically exploits to make us feel the everlasting presence of the suppressed woman in Manderley: in nearly all the chapters, Rebecca’s traces are turned into clues, not so much of her violent disappearance as of her capacity to return as a disturbing force into the normal, ‘policed’ order of life. But among all the traces left of her passage in Manderley, her handwriting it is that most conspicuously survives her bodily disappearance, notably the tall sloping R of her monogram.

15Unlike Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre, the revenant in Rebecca is not therefore marginal, despite her absence. On the contrary, her presence is made central from the start, as an invisible force which keeps sending letters, literally sending letters, to the living, a strategy the first Mrs Rochester is consistently denied in Brontë’s narrative. If in Du Maurier’s novel, the second Mrs De Winter, who plays the role of the unwilling detective, of the detective who wishes she weren’t returned to the truth, if the unnamed, second Mrs de Winter eventually turns herself into a criminal, it is not only because she accepts to become accessory to the crime committed by her husband; it is primarily because she tears Rebecca’s letters into pieces, as if the unbearable revelation were the sudden realisation of the murdered woman’s capacities as a sign-producer. The fist wife’s hand is too lively—the hand, not the womb, or the uterus, the version of womanhood Hitchcock chooses to represent, in direct compliance with the discourse held by male power, constitutes the true threat to ‘capitriarchy’. The second Mrs de Winter’s role thus consists in duplicating her husband’s murder by semioticising the initial crime: whereas he kills the body, she kills the letter, literally and figuratively, as clues which will tend to return and address messages to the living. She tears up Rebecca’s letters, thereby also contesting the woman’s capacity to produce signs, to semioticise herself, to stylize herself—and we should remember that Rebecca is presented as a very talented interior decorator.

16My theory regarding the immense fascination still exerted today by Du Maurier’s novel is that what manifests itself, what is made both visible and audible in Rebecca is, at the very same time, both men’s hatred of women’s freedom, and women’s abilities as sign-producers. Again, Du Maurier’s narrative genius should be acknowledged here, retrieved from the margins of academic literature, which has been extremely reluctant to accept ‘popular’ detective fiction into its syllabuses, a reluctance also evidenced in Rancière’s choice of examples. If semiotic awareness is the hallmark of serious, canonical literature, then Rebecca should definitely be considered a serious candidate, if only for the play on the various semiotic forms of revenance that I have just alluded to, or for some untranslatable homophonies, for example with ‘see’ and ‘sea’. What is given to see is what lies hidden at the bottom of the sea—the body of feminine writing, the body of a disturbing force which both stirs the smooth surface of linguistic competence and challenges patriarchal normative assumptions as to gender or as to sexuality—compulsory monogamous heterosexuality, modesty, subservience, as opposed to homosexual love, incestuous desire, or so-called ‘nymphomaniac’ love-making, practices strongly suggested by Rebecca’s attitude to Mrs Danvers, her cousin Favell, her various other lovers. But, Du Maurier’s novel strongly suggests, is it not through such ‘madness’ that Rebecca, whose name stands for all encrypted women, asserts her own authority, her own style, her own signature, her own stamp on reality?

17That is why I suggest we should shift the focus of analysis from the narrator of Du Maurier’s novel to her absent, dead, which is also to say unseen and unheard, character—a character whose visibility and audibility is definitely made into the central issue of the process of writing. Rebecca is not simply the name of a mysterious, evil, slain, first wife; it is the name of that blinded, muted force, which from time immemorial has sought to surface through ‘capitriarchal’ culture, and which, some time during the second half of the 19th century, started to find in the invention of a ‘minor’, inferior, literary genre the very condition of its emergence, or more exactly, of its embodiment. For the force in question had no other solution but to imagine itself in the form of a woman’s dead body, dead but also living, called back to life as it was made to desperately send signs, clues, for us, democratic readers, to decipher or decrypt in order to approach the unimaginable truth. Rebecca the character is the name of all the living-dead who started to be reclaimed by the work of detective writing; Rebecca the novel, lends its structure to the most forceful mise en abyme of culture’s death drives ever conceived.

18This is not to deny that Du Maurier’s novel deploys stereotypes of femininity which draw on various other genres, such as the Fairy Tale or the Gothic (Horner and Zlosnik 1998). Nor do I wish to bypass the complex deceptive strategies of the narration that Sylvie Maurel (2003) and Harriet Kramer Linkin (2016) so remarkably analysed. The second Mrs De Winter’s use of similes and metaphors does indeed manage to deconstruct gender roles. But what I have tried to uncover in this article is another kind of redistribution, one which does not pit or play a gender, or a representation, against another. My main focus is, perhaps more radically, on the divide between the presented and the ‘absented’, the said and the unsaid, the visible and the invisible, the expressed and the suppressed. It is on the secret which should never have been disclosed, but which the detective narrative democratically places at the heart of fiction—the secret of a ‘madness’ which is made to return into full visibility and audibility and which, in Du Maurier’s work, takes the form of the disfigured body of the unruly woman, the disfigured body of the disobedient, beautiful and intelligent woman, crying for justice in the split space of writing.

19A far cry from Emma Bovary.

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Brontë, Charlotte, Jane Eyre: An Autobiography (1847), London: Penguin, 1998.

Corcoran, Neil, ed. and trans., Preface to Jacques Rancière, Dissensus: On Politics and Aesthetics, London: Continuum, 2010.

Du Maurier, Daphne, Rebecca (1938), London: Virago, 2003.

Hitchcock, Alfred, dir., Rebecca, prod. David O. Selznick, Selznick International Pictures, 1940.

Horner, Avril, and Zlosnik, Sue, Daphne du Maurier: Writing, Identity, and the Gothic Imagination, Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1998.

Kramer Linkin, Harriet, ‘The Deceptively Strategic Narrator of Rebecca’, Journal of Narrative Theory 46.2 (2016): 223–253.

Maurel, Sylvie, ‘“I am another woman”: Tropes and the Metamorphosis of Gender Roles in Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier,’ Études britanniques contemporaines 25 (2003): 103–114.

Rancière, Jacques, La Leçon d’Althusser, Paris: Gallimard, 1974, trans. Emiliano Battista, Althusser’s Lesson, London and New York: Continuum, 2011.

Rancière, Jacques, La Nuit des prolétaires, Paris, Fayard, 1981, trans. John Drury, The Nights of Labor: The Workers’ Dream in Nineteenth-Century France, Philadelphia: Temple UP, 1991.

Rancière, Jacques, Le Maître ignorant, Paris, Fayard, 1987, trans. Kristin Ross, The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation, Stanford: Stanford UP, 1991.

Rancière, Jacques, Aux bords du politique (1990), 2nd edition, Paris : La fabrique, 1998, trans. Liz Heron, On the Shores of Politics, London: Verso Books, 1995.

Rancière, Jacques, La Mésentente: politique et philosophie, Paris: Galilée, 1995, trans. Julie Rose, Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy, Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1998.

Rancière, Jacques, Le Partage du sensible. Esthétique et politique, Paris: La fabrique, 2000, trans. Gabriel Rockhill, The Politics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the Sensible, New York: Continuum, 2004.

Rancière, Jacques, Politique de la littérature, Paris: Galilée, 2007, trans. Julie Rose, The Politics of Literature, London: Polity, 2011.

Rancière, Jacques, Le Fil perdu. Essais sur la fiction moderne, Paris: La fabrique, 2014, trans. Neil Corcoran, The Lost Thread: The Democracy of Modern Fiction, London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2016.

Regard, Frédéric, Le Détective était une femme. Le polar en son genre, Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2018.

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1 The subsequent development on Rancière’s theories is partly drawn from another essay of mine, ‘Police, Politics, and Popular Culture: A Discussion of Rancière’s Conception of ‘Democratic Art’’, in Paulo de Medeiros and Alexis Tadié, eds., Troubled Encounters. Theory, Politics, and the Present, London, Routledge, forthcoming.

2 Here and throughout, all translations are mine, based on the original French edition, to which page numbers therefore always refer.

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Frédéric Regard, « A Far Cry from Emma Bovary: A Critique of Rancière—and a Tribute to Rebecca »Études britanniques contemporaines [En ligne], 57 | 2019, mis en ligne le 01 décembre 2019, consulté le 15 juin 2021. URL : ; DOI :

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Frédéric Regard

Frédéric Regard is Professor of 19th- and 20th-century English literature at the University of Paris-Sorbonne. He is the author of books on William Golding, George Orwell, Virginia Woolf, ‘feminine writing’, Josephine Butler. His contributions to Victorian studies include essays on Cardinal Newman, Richard Burton, E.B. Tylor, Honoria Lawrence, or Mary Prince. His publications also include collections of essays on life-writing and exploration narratives. His latest book, Le Détective était une femme, an essay on the gendered origins of the ‘detective novel’, was published with PUF in September 2018.

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