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2. Modernist Non-fictional Narratives: Rewriting Modernism

Flann O’Brien’s Anti-Manifestos

Julian HANNA


L’un des grands défis de l’œuvre de Flann O’Brien, c’est sa catégorisation. Pour certains, O’Brien est l’égal de Joyce et Beckett; pour d’autres, son œuvre est un pastiche moderniste; pour d’autres encore, c’est un satiriste réactionnaire tandis que pour certains, il est le précurseur du postmodernisme américain. Son œuvre est souvent dite, de manière très lâche, « surréaliste » ou « absurde ». Pourtant, on lit rarement l’œuvre d’O’Brien comme une œuvre d’avant-garde à part entière. Cet article tente de mieux comprendre son œuvre en lisant certains de ses écrits – ses manifestes – dans le contexte de l’avant-garde historique européenne. Comme beaucoup d’écrivains de sa génération et de la précédente, O’Brien écrivit des manifestes. Ainsi écrivit-il l’éditorial fondateur de l’ « anti-magazine » Blather (1934) dont le « rire sardonique » fait écho aux manifestes – ou « anti-manifestes » – du Vorticisme et du Dadaïsme. Le manifeste de l’intertextualité dans At Swim-Two-Birds (1939), quant à lui, est plus complexe : alors qu’il apparaît par certains côtés comme une déclaration sincère sur le roman en général, il est aussi profondément ironique et empreint d’autodérision. Mais cela montre d’autant mieux à quel point il est proche des manifestes des décennies précédentes qui minaient fréquemment leur propre objectif tout en le mettant en œuvre.

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1One of the greatest challenges presented by the writings of Flann O’Brien is how to place them. For some he is the peer of Joyce and Beckett, the third member of a holy trinity of Irish modernism; for others, like Sean Ó Faoláin, his work is modernist pastiche with the “odour of spilt Joyce all over it” (Cronin 101); still others regard him as a reactionary satirist who attacked modernism’s excesses; while for another group he is the cultish innovator and father-figure of American postmodernism (both At Swim-Two-Birds (1939), reissued in 1960, and The Third Policeman, posthumously published in 1967, appeared on the reading list that Donald Barthelme gave his writing students at the University of Houston). His work is often loosely labelled “surreal” or “absurd.” Yet O’Brien’s work is rarely read as avant-garde per se. This paper attempts to gain a new understanding of his oeuvre by reading a particular sliver of it – his manifestos – in the context of the historical avant-garde in Europe.

2Like many writers of his generation and the one previous, O’Brien wrote manifestos. They were not straightforward or sincere, but neither were the manifestos of the avant-garde. One example is the founding editorial of Blather, the “anti-magazine” edited by O’Brien (then O’Nolan), his brother Ciarán O’Nolan, and Niall Sheridan, shortly after O’Brien left University College Dublin (Clissmann 57). Blather appeared in five issues, from August 1934 to January 1935. Calling for “revolution” and declaring itself both “arrogant” and “depraved,” the opening manifesto’s “sardonic laugh” echoes the anti-manifestos of Vorticism and Dada (Myles 97). Like most avant-garde manifestos, it also bears little relation to the writing or art that was actually produced. The manifesto of intertextuality found near the beginning of At Swim-Two-Birds (1939), meanwhile, is more complex: while it appears to be a (relatively) sincere statement about the novel as a whole, it is also ironic and self-mocking. But that only deepens its relation to the manifestos of the preceding decades, which undermined their own principles and authority with self-mockery and self-criticism.

3This essay will begin with an overview of the manifesto as a literary genre, including a brief discussion of the modernist manifesto in Britain and Ireland – where its presence was less widespread than in Continental Europe, and where it has attracted less attention from scholars. From there the focus will shift to something I call the “anti-manifesto,” a sub-genre to which O’Brien’s manifestos arguably belong. Finally, the manifesto-like texts found in Blather and At Swim-Two-Birds will be examined as case studies of the avant-garde manifesto as it appears in Flann O’Brien’s writing, and more specifically as examples of the anti-manifesto.

1. The avant-garde manifesto as a literary genre

4The manifesto – which I would define as a public declaration of aims or principles, issued by an individual or group, usually on the subject of the present or future state of politics, society, or art – represents, in the most practical sense, an advertisement for a movement or tendency (an “ism”). (As Dadaist Tristan Tzara noted, “advertising and business are also poetic elements” [Caws 298]). Often physically slight, ephemeral, and small in scale, the manifesto is disproportionately grand in rhetorical style and ambition. A bold, outrageous, charismatic genre, it has marked some of the most important and revolutionary moments in modern history, from the declaration of wars and the birth of nations to the launch of countless social, political, and artistic movements worldwide. A century on from its “high” period – shortly before and after the First World War – the manifesto has resurfaced in the present moment as one of most vibrant and adaptable forms of writing. Once again, as in the historical avant-garde, isms – from Accelerationism to Postcapitalism, Antifa to Black Lives Matter – are using manifestos to set out their demands and announce their vision to the world.

5The avant-garde manifesto, which is the focus of this essay, is an incendiary offshoot of the revolutionary political genre. In her essay “The Intelligibility of the Avant-Garde Manifesto,” Lauren Shumway differentiates between the avant-garde manifesto and earlier literary manifestos, describing the way in which the latter speaks to the widest possible group while the former attempts to narrow the focus, isolating a group of converts, a coterie, from the larger mass of society (and other isms) against which it rages, and in opposition to whom it defines itself. Shumway uses the phrase “stylistic terrorism” to describe this method of delineating and solidifying a small but faithful group of adherents (Shumway 57). Combining ideological zeal with theatrical performance, visual boldness, and an insatiable thirst for novelty, the avant-garde manifesto creates a circus-like delirium. It also displays a high degree of self-consciousness – possibly stemming from a degree of performance anxiety – relative to its sterner political cousin. In the midst of the semantic chaos that characterises Dadaism, Tzara’s “Dada Manifesto” (1918) lays out some stylistic rules that ring true:

Each page ought to explode, either from deep and weighty seriousness, a whirlwind, dizziness, the new, or the eternal, from its crushing humour, the enthusiasm of its principles or its typographical appearance. (Caws 297)

6Boldness rises above the noise and contradictions to become the defining attribute of all avant-garde manifestos. Tzara states: “We have discarded the sniveling tendency in ourselves. […] We must have strong, upright works, precise” (Caws 300). Marinetti, the leader of Italian Futurism and the most prolific and influential manifesto writer of the twentieth century, recommended “violence and precision” as a recipe for effective manifesto writing (Perloff 81). Indeed, aggression – chiefly rhetorical but occasionally physical – is perhaps the key element borrowed from the revolutionary genre that lends energy and tension to the avant-garde manifesto. It is romantic, performative violence; it creates an atmosphere of drama and menace which conveys the sense that something fundamental, something even more important than art or literature, is at stake. What was originally a form of authoritarian discourse underwent a shift in the nineteenth century to become, in Marjorie Perloff’s words, “the mode of agonism, the voice of those who are contra” (82). This agonism is still at the root of all revolutionary manifestos, including the “anti-manifestos” discussed in this essay.

7Something else to note about manifestos is their theatricality. At Swim-Two-Birds often reads like a script (despite being almost unfilmable), and shares the manifesto’s fantasy of performativity, the desire to change the world with words. Blather’s rhetoric of provocation and outrage shares the Marinettian drive to confront and draw the ire of the crowd; in the words of the Russian Futurist Vladimir Mayakovsky (and others), in “A Slap in the Face of Public Taste” (1912): “To stand on the rock of the word ‘we’ amidst the sea of boos and outrage” (Caws 230). Marinetti made art into a Punch and Judy show, with pantomime fights and bold, simple story lines: destroy the past, embrace the future. From Dada manifestos in the Cabaret Voltaire to the radical street theatre of the 1960s, the manifesto – manu festus, “struck by hand” – is always about striking gestures. In his essay “Screeching Voices: Avant-Garde: Manifestos in the Cabaret,” Puchner argues for the importance of theatrical and performative aspects of the manifesto. He claims that “what the revolutionary ‘we’ stands for remains uncertain, as does the authority by which it represents,” and that the revolutionary manifesto therefore “compensates for this lack of authority [...] through demonstrative over-confidence and aggressiveness” (114-15).

8Much as writers in the 1960s experimented with LSD, Flann O’Brien and his fellow modernists experimented with manifestos. Mark Byron has called The Third Policeman in its entirety “a deeply ambivalent bicycle manifesto” (Byron 229) – not to mention the novel’s description of atomic theory, or the curtailed “ultimatum” exchange with Mr. Finnucane:

“Have you an ultimatum?”
“I have a secret ultimatum,” I replied.
“I am sure that it is a fine ultimatum,” he said, “but I will not ask you to recite it for me if you think that it is a secret one.”

9Unlike William Butler Yeats, however, who did not shy away from collective statements or polemics at any stage of his career, from the Irish Theatre manifestos at the turn of the century right up to his final blast, On the Boiler (1939), the younger Irish modernists did not typically subscribe to movements or write or sign manifestos. There were, of course, exceptions. James Joyce’s youthful provocations include “The Day of the Rabblement” (1901) and “Gas From a Burner” (1912); later there is ALP’s “mamafesta” in Finnegans Wake (1939). But despite his early exposure to Italian Futurism in Trieste and plenty of isms in Zurich and Paris during and after the First World War, Joyce never engaged in manifesto writing as such. Samuel Beckett signed the “Poetry is Vertical” manifesto in transition magazine in 1932, and five years later sent the telegrammatic statement “UPTHEREPUBLIC” to Nancy Cunard for Authors Take Sides on the Spanish War (1937). He also delivered a spoof lecture, “Le Concentrisme,” to the Modern Languages Society at Trinity College Dublin in 1930, which began as “a casual skit on modern movements and the manifestos promoting them” (Gibson 52). But in general he too steered clear of collective activities and propaganda. O’Brien followed in this tendency, issuing manifesto-like declarations only from the safety of fictional characters and pseudonyms, through layers of irony and (self-)parody.

10Over the past two decades, Anglophone scholarship on the manifesto has gained considerable ground in catching up to similar work in French, German, and other languages. Following the lead of Marjorie Perloff’s The Futurist Moment: Avant-Garde, Avant-Guerre, and the Language of Rupture (1986), with its groundbreaking central chapter on the avant-garde manifesto as a distinct and vital “literary genre” (81), Janet Lyon’s Manifestoes: Provocations of the Modern (1999) dug deeper into the (especially gender) politics of the manifesto, and shifted the focus from Europe to London. Luca Somigli’s Legitimizing the Artist: Manifesto Writing and European Modernism, 1885–1915 (2003) and Laura Winkiel’s Modernism, Race, and Manifestos (2008) followed, each presenting new approaches and lenses through which to view the manifesto, as well as Martin Puchner’s Poetry of the Revolution: Marx, Manifestos, and the Avant Gardes (2006), which provides a genealogy of the manifesto with a much broader frame, tracing the development of the genre through various countries and movements, from Marx to the historical avant-garde to the second-wave of the 1960s and beyond. What still remains relatively underrepresented, however, is the manifesto in British and Irish modernism.

11Apart from familiar stories of Imagists and Vorticists in London before the War, there exist few examples of analysis of literary and artistic manifestos in Britain and Ireland in the modernist period. While it seems that starting a movement in Britain or Ireland has always proved more challenging than in Germany, Italy, or France – as the English Surrealist David Gascoyne noted, “the island’s damp climate extinguishes the fuses” (457) – neither have those isles ever been short on provocateurs. From Yeats to Ezra Pound, James McNeill Whistler to Oscar Wilde to Wyndham Lewis, Dora Marsden to Virginia Woolf, there have always been manifesto writers in Anglophone modernism – if not many willing to use the collective “we.” Group activities are often met with scepticism among artists in Britain and Ireland, where individualism and irony are often valued over shared aims and serious propaganda. But this makes those isles fertile ground for the “anti-manifesto,” which embraces dark humour, rhetorical ambivalence, and linguistic instability.

2. The “anti-manifesto”

12If we read past the opening volley of “rules” in Tzara’s “Dada Manifesto” of 1918, it becomes apparent that none of the rules can be taken at face value. As Tzara states: “I am against action; for continual contradiction, for affirmation also, I am neither for nor against and I don’t explain because I hate common sense.” In the same manifesto Tzara declares: “I am writing a manifesto and there is nothing I want” (Caws 300). Similarly, the Istanbul-based “D Group Manifesto” (1933) insists: “This is not new painting … I am not expounding a theory” (Lack 27). These are examples of the sub-category I call the “anti-manifesto” – the manifesto that appears to undermine, negate or contradict its own purpose. I will argue that irony, parody, negation, and other characteristics of the anti-manifesto are more rule than exception in the manifestos of the avant-garde. What anti-manifestos do, in fact, is to say something, even something serious, while claiming to say nothing, or nothing serious. The anti-manifesto is, on one hand, a parody of serious manifestos (whether revolutionary or party political). But it is also a reaction against the avant-garde manifesto that follows the template laid down by Marinetti and Italian Futurism with “The Founding and Manifesto of Futurism” in 1909: from Imagism’s “A Few Don’ts” (1913), to Vorticism’s “mercenaries” fighting on “neither side or both sides” (Blast 30), to Dada’s manic nihilism, these anti-manifestos seek to deflate Futurism’s bombastic rhetoric, belief in technological progress, faith in the future, and military triumphalism.

13The strategy of saying something serious while claiming to say nothing can be seen in Vorticism’s sincere case for an English avant-garde to compete with Italian Futurism (“a movement towards art and imagination could burst up here […] with more force than anywhere else” [Blast 22]), or in Tzara’s passionate protest against the meaningless carnage of the First World War. Anti-manifestos undercut their own purpose in the midst of their performance, but the serious intent, even if it is purely critical or reactionary, nevertheless remains intact. Anti-manifestos are “realist” in the sense that they are anti-utopian, denying the high-flown ambitions of a movement such as Futurism. In the case of Imagism or even Vorticism, they portray themselves as purveyors of common artistic sense: pragmatic and necessary rather than fanciful, utopian, or extreme.

14From Blather (“Blather doesn’t care”) to the defaced text of the “Neoism Manifesto” of 1979 by Istvan Kantor, aka Monty Cantsin (in which the only legible words read: “Neoism has no manifesto”), these texts push the limits of avant-garde antagonism and the practices of negation. Anti-manifestos refuse to do what manifestos seemingly exist to do: to convince and convert. The Imagist manifesto published in Poetry in 1913 makes this refusal explicit, stating: “They had not published a manifesto. They were not a revolutionary school” (Caws 352). In our own time, the philosopher and self-described provocateur Timothy Morton’s Being Ecological (2018), which could plausibly be described as a manifesto for ecological thinking in the Anthropocene, opens with several instances of anti-manifesto tactics: “Rest assured this book is not going to preach at you. It also contains no ecological facts, no shocking revelations about our world, no ethical or political advice, and no grand tour of ecological thinking. This is a pretty useless ecology book, actually” (3). Morton refers to genres like the manifesto as “possibility spaces”, but notes that as well as possibilities the space is governed by numerous rules and habits (4). Writers of anti-manifestos test the boundaries to see where they exist; reverse or push back against their expected logic; or try to undo or unsettle generic constraints in other ways. These and other manifestos like them refuse to admit, against clear evidence to the contrary, that they are manifestos at all.

15Manifestos are often criticised for being too blunt, for not permitting ambiguity or ambivalence. In his 2010 essay “Manifestos for the Future”, Hans Ulrich Obrist admitted that the manifesto seemed like “a defunct format. […] The bombast and aggression, the half-apocalyptic, half-utopian thrust, the earnestness – all the manifesto’s rhetorical devices seem anachronistic now” (Obrist). But the best examples of the genre, including many “anti-manifestos,” foreground precisely these elements. As Joseph Brooker has observed, far from unselfconsciously promoting its own agenda, “Blather regularly undercuts itself. It correctly predicts its own demise” (7). The self-critical tendency that Marx refers to in The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte (1852) is in fact characteristic of many avant-garde manifestos. So to the question: is the anti-manifesto mere parody, or does it represent a sincere attempt to communicate artistic aims? The answer is both. Mere parody would defeat its higher purpose, while mere propaganda would not interest writers like O’Brien.

3. “Anti-manifestos” in Blather and At Swim-Two-Birds

  • 1 For more on the Irish context, see my discussion of correspondences between Yeats’s flirtation with (...)

16Little magazines – Blast, The Egoist, To-Morrow, 391, transition – feature prominently in the manifesto’s history. While it is primarily a humour magazine, Blather is nonetheless part of this broader lineage of incendiary and short-lived ventures, and its manifesto participates in Shumway’s “stylistic terrorism,” pitting “we” and “us” firmly against “you” and “them.” It is a common trope of little magazines to sound the trumpet with an opening blast declaring aims and principles and clearing discursive space. The Blather editorial begins simply: “Blather is here.” The manifesto’s “sardonic laugh” – the “serious” laughter of the carnivalesque, the joke that tells the truth – echoes Blast’s praise of “humour [that] has fought like tragedy” and laughter “like a bomb.” This “Tragic Humour” is “the birthright of the North,” according to Wyndham Lewis; “volcanic chaos” in the form of laughter is one of the defining characteristics of British (and, it may reasonably be inferred, Irish1) literature (Blast 38).

17Blather’s authorship – who wrote it, and in whose voice – is unclear: as Maebh Long has noted, “The majority of texts were written anonymously or pseudonymously” (31). Wilde and Yeats made extensive use of masks, not least when they proclaimed their manifestos, precisely because the mask enables the necessary boldness and theatricality. As Richard Ellmann argued (in reference to Yeats): “the mask is a weapon of attack” (176). Similarly the manifesto’s subject position, which tends to be expressed as a brash but under-defined “we,” always involves a degree of bluff and swagger. (Even when the first-person singular is used, it is complicated by precisely this use of masks.) As Wyndham Lewis confessed of Vorticism and the manifestos contained in Blast, which had no less than eleven signatories: “I expended a good deal of energy in order to create the impression that a multitude existed where there was in fact not much more than a very vigorous One” (“Vorticists” 382). This also ties back to Puchner’s point, cited above, about uncertainty and anxiety leading to aggressive overcompensation.

18Above all it is Blather’s contempt – for morality, the establishment, and public opinion – that is its dominant feature and the characteristic that ties it most closely to the anti-manifesto. “Blather doesn’t care,” the manifesto begins; and later it sneers, “Maybe you don’t like us? … / A lot we care for what you think” (Myles 97-8). The antagonism toward readers ties it to Dada and Vorticism, and to transition’s “Revolution of the Word” (“The plain reader be damned”). Its canine metaphors (“cruel and cynical hounds that we are” [Myles 97]) are reminiscent of the line from Blast: “Our Vortex rushes out like an angry dog at your Impressionistic fuss” (Blast 149). Verging at times on outright hooliganism (“Do you get the smell of porter?” [Myles 97]), Blather’s unpredictability and menace ties it to the threat of actual physical violence in the early cabaret performances of Italian Futurism (Apollonio 22).

19Though it is veiled in humour, Blather performs a version of the masculinist bravado present in so many avant-garde manifestos. Like Marinetti’s Futurists with their notorious phallocentrism and “scorn for women,” the men of Blather are “arrogant and depraved.” Like Vorticism’s self-described mercenaries, “Blather has no principles, no honour, no shame.” Like Vorticism, Futurism, and Dada, Blather fantasises, however ironically, about domination in the political as well as artistic sphere. Here the manifesto descends into the rhetoric of bloody violence, with talk of a “Blather Revolution,” in which “the Motherland will be soaked in a bath of blood,” leading to the establishment of a “Blather Dictatorship” (Myles 97). It takes this hyperbolic parody to uncomfortable lengths, especially in the 1930s with Fascism on the rise – but it is of a kind with the grotesque and bloody-minded satire seen in other O’Brien texts including At Swim, with its scenes of murder, torture, and rape (of a fictional character by her own author).

20The manifesto in At Swim-Two-Birds is even more complex. It appears, at first glance, to be a sincere statement that lays out the theory and method of the book as a whole, using an authorial stand-in, as well as passing comment on the state of the novel more generally. The At Swim manifesto is described by the narrator in manifesto-like terms – as “an explanation spontaneous and unsolicited concerning my own work, affording an insight as to its aesthetic, its daemon, its argument, its sorrow and its joy, its darkness, its sun-twinkle clearness” (32). The general complaint it makes about the novel’s shortcomings, specifically versus the theatre, is sane and valid – especially given the context of 1939 and the Wake, when the novel, and civilization generally, seemed in some respects to have run their course. But it is also intensely ironic and self-mocking: in the uncensored draft version of the novel, for example, Brinsley, the audience for the manifesto, calls it “all balls” (Myles 180). Is this passage a true glimpse into the novel’s inner workings, its revolutionary approach to character, plot, and other elements? Or is it simply a parody of Joycean experimentalism? It is impossible to say with confidence one way or the other. The layers of self-reflexive mockery and scorn, however, only serve to deepen its relationship to the anti-manifesto.

21The At Swim manifesto contains a Brechtian argument that “a satisfactory novel should be a self-evident sham to which the reader could regulate at will the degree of his credulity” (33). This is later echoed in the experiments of the English avant-garde novelist B. S. Johnson, who attacked fiction as lies and frequently called the reader’s attention to that fact – most famously in Albert Angelo (1964), with its exasperated narrative intrusion: “OH, FUCK ALL THIS LYING!” (163). As for the political elements, they represent a more straightforward comic setup, a satire of the revolutionary workers’ manifesto: “It was undemocratic to compel characters to be uniformly good or bad or poor or rich. Each should be allowed a private life, self-determination and a decent standard of living.” The intertextual argument, meanwhile – “existing literature should be regarded as a limbo from which discerning authors could draw their characters” and “The modern novel should be largely a work of reference” (33) – is a combination of a comic move typical of O’Brien (the big, daft idea, à la de Selby in The Third Policeman) and a highly influential postmodernist concept that began to take hold in the 1960s and by the 1980s had become the basis, for example, for most of Kathy Acker’s books. Almost eighty years later it looks like a foundational text of literary appropriation and genre confusion as stylistic methods.

22Naturally O’Brien gives all this a negative twist, turning it into a parody of difficulty and elitism (“A wealth of references … would effectively preclude … persons of inferior education from an understanding of contemporary literature” [33]). This is in keeping with Brinsley’s deflating comment (“That is all my bum”) that provides an ironic frame for the manifesto in the final version of At Swim. But the striking ideas are already out there, and the final overturning does not entirely negate them. Anthony Cronin said that At Swim “dealt with the novel as a form in a nihilistic and destructive way” (Lives of Brian). While that is true in one sense, the manifesto fulfills its revolutionary purpose of scorching the earth in order to clear space for the new – in this case the novel after Joyce. Aside from Brinsley’s uncensored “all balls” there is another interesting passage in the draft version, in which Brinsley doubts the novelty of the narrator’s ideas: “I don’t think that’s new … It’s the sort of thing that occurs to everybody but nobody bothers to try it out. Do you know what I mean? It wouldn’t stand the light of day” (Myles 180).


23If the anti-manifesto often appears to say something serious, while claiming to say nothing, or nothing serious – what then is O’Brien’s serious intent? I have tried to argue that in the case of Blather it is youthful disruption, a fairly universal protest against authority, hypocrisy, and common sense; while in the At Swim manifesto it is more substantial, calling for nothing less than a post-Joycean literature. Is it too farfetched to imagine O’Brien in 1938-1939, with his major disappointments still ahead of him (and Beckett’s major accomplishments still ahead of him), aiming to succeed Joyce as the leading experimental novelist in Ireland? No – and in fact it is at such moments and under such circumstances that manifestos are born.

24Bruno Latour argues, in “An Attempt at a ‘Compositionist Manifesto’” (2010), that despite its generic shortcomings and a troubled history the manifesto still holds great potential if it can be reimagined: “Not as a war cry […] but rather as a warning, a call to attention, so as to stop going further in the same way as before toward the future” (473). Latour tries to resuscitate the manifesto genre because it offers an alternative to unconstructive critique – what he calls the “debunking” spree of postmodernism. “Compositionists,” Latour declares, “believe that there are enough ruins”; that we must at least temporarily “suspend the critical gesture” and begin to “reassemble” (476). This is what the manifesto, whether “anti” or not, does best: it gives us a bold vision of how things could be different. Both of O’Brien’s manifestos do this in the literary realm: Blather through its youthful sense of outrage at complacency and the status quo, and At Swim through its sheer unfettered inventiveness and a hailstorm of novelistic possibilities. This is ultimately why they are texts worth talking about, why manifestos generally are worth our time, and why as a genre the manifesto is as important now as it was to modernism and the avant-garde a century ago.

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1 For more on the Irish context, see my discussion of correspondences between Yeats’s flirtation with violent rhetoric and political extremism especially in the 1930s (e.g. On the Boiler’s “barbarism of truth”), Swift’s “savage indignation”, and the avant-garde manifesto in Ireland (Hanna 301-2).

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Julian HANNA, « Flann O’Brien’s Anti-Manifestos »e-Rea [En ligne], 15.2 | 2018, mis en ligne le 15 juin 2018, consulté le 11 juin 2024. URL : ; DOI :

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Julian HANNA

Madeira Interactive Technologies Institute, Portugal
Julian Hanna is Assistant Professor of Digital Humanities at Madeira Interactive Technologies Institute, Portugal. He is the author of Key Concepts in Modernist Literature and two forthcoming books on manifestos: Manifestos in the Digital Age (Palgrave Macmillan) and The Manifesto Handbook (Zero Books).

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