A fascinating example, in which the natural imagery actually changes to fit the social and psychological condition of the story, may be found in the Turkish Book of Dede Korkut. A young prince has been wounded by his father and almost dies. His mother, fearing the worst, climbs Kazilik Mountain, searching for him. At this point, there is psychological fear (on the part of the mother) and danger to the society (due to the traitorous advisors who urged the father to kill his son). As the mother ascends the mountain, we are told that its “ice and snow do not melt in winter or summer.” Thus, it is continually frozen and barren–as hopeless of future growth as the mother and the kingdom may be if this virtuous son dies. Moreover, the air is filled with “crows and ravens” (Lewis, 1974, 35). But, just then, the wandering saint Khizr appears, a mystic associated with the beginning of spring (196n.11). He says that the prince will be cured by “The flowers of the mountain” (35). This associates the boy’s recovery–hence, his life, the  end of the mother’s sorrow, and the continuity of social authority–with natural growth and spring warmth, just after his death had been associated with barrenness and wintry cold. The mother’s assistants are then able to gather those mountain flowers, despite the assertion of the mountain’s barrenness just moments before. (Of course, the seeming contradiction can be reconciled by placing the flowers lower on the mountain, but the imagistic point is sharpened by the apparent inconsistency.)

As these examples already suggest, categories of imagery recur across cultures as well. In fact, categories are remarkably consistent in different traditions, even in fairly specific forms. For example, in all the major written traditions, the sorrow of lovers is linked with images drawn from the category of natural sterility, while their union is linked with images drawn from the category of fertility.  Again and again, in Arabic, Persian, Urdu, and other literatures of the Muslim world, Majnun wanders in the desert, separated from his beloved Layla. Indeed, in Nizami’s version of the story, Majnun is not simply exiled to a desert, but “A terrible spot, a place of anguish, a cave in the desert like a tomb, right in the flames of Hell” (Nizami, 1997, 93)–an image, not only of sterility, but of inescapable death. Rather less severely, spring flowers fail to blossom when Dusyanta has lost his beloved Sakuntala (Kalidasa, 1984, 149) in what is generally considered the most exemplary work of the Sanskrit canon. Conversely, Indian literature from Sanskrit to the present standardly associates romantic union with the coming of rain. This correlation is also prominent in other literatures of the sub-continent, including the linguistically unrelated Tamil tradition. An illustrative instance may be found in the Ainkurunuru anthology, which refers to “drops splattering” from “loud-voiced clouds” as the lovers “play in the new water” that “brings desire” (Hart, 1979, 39). The great Chinese novel, The Story of the Stone, makes ironic use of this imagery in a scene that occurs shortly before the heroine’s death and the forced marriage of the hero, Bao-yu, to another woman. One of the characters discovers that some trees in the family garden have blossomed. But it is the wrong season for blossoming. Moreover, “these trees had already been struck by the blight for almost a year” (Cao and Gao, 1982, 287). One of the characters explicitly asks for the meaning, “How do you explain the fact that half-dead trees should start flowering now, at such an odd time of the year?” Another character responds, “My own humble suggestion is that they have flowered specially to tell us of some happy event that is about to take place in Bao-yu’s life” (287). Thus this image serves to sharpen the irony and pathos of the subsequent events.

Patterns along the same general lines are to be found in oral traditions as well. For instance, the Goulburn Island Cycle of the Australian Yirrkalla directly links the coming of “Rain and wind . . . spreading over the country” (Berndt, 1976, 65) with the sexual union of young lovers. The point is repeated in the Djarada songs, when the lover speaks of his beloved’s sexually alluring physique, saying “Hail and rain stream down her body,/Spreading out into pools around her” (117). In both cases, however, there is also a suggestion of some ambivalence, perhaps even something dangerous in nature. This becomes more pronounced in the Yirrkalla Rose River cycle, which connects sexual union not only with rain (106), but also with “hurricane wind” (105). These are instances of a common assimilation of sexual relations to some wild or excessive force of nature. For example, in Tikopia song, the passion of a man and a woman is often linked with atmospheric excess or force, especially on the water–thus high waves and strong winds (see, for example, Firth, 1990, 218). In one case, a woman speaks of resisting the advances of her lover, saying “I have stemmed there the tide” (223). There is a suggestion of the same sort in the Yuan drama, Chang Boils the Sea, where the “bubbling and boiling, seething and steaming” (Liu Jung-en, 1872, 179) of the sea are linked with the re-union of the lovers. In Chikamatsu’s play, The Courier for Hell, the two lovers try to escape together and “Their hearts . . . are agitated like reeds in a driving rain” (Chikamatsu, 1990, 193), a point that repeats the more general image of the rain that is falling outside, where “a driving shower beats against the windows” (189).

Some of the preceding cases suggest another common and important pattern in literary imagery--the assimilation of human feelings, attitudes, activities, etc., to seasons. Some of the most prominent cases of this sort concern romantic love. Thus the union of lovers is regularly linked with spring or some equivalent, while their separation is tied to winter, or whatever the season of “death” may be in a given place. (This is clearly one instance of the general linking of romantic union with natural fertility and romantic separation with natural infertility.)

In Sanskrit literature, the link between the monsoon season and romantic love is too well known to require elaboration. Analyzing classical Tamil literature,  Ramanujan isolates a more fine-grained system, pairing different seasons with different relations between the lovers (Ramanujan, 1985, 242).

Given the emphasis on seasonal imagery in Japanese poetry, it is not surprising that the connection between lovers and seasons is important in Japanese literature as well, and not only in lyric poetry. Consider, for example, The Courier for Hell, just mentioned. Though there is rain at the end of the play, the action takes place in winter, and the rain is not producing new life. Rather, it freezes as it settles on the ground (Chikamatsu, 1990, 190). In keeping with this, the lovers cannot remain together, but are arrested. In some other Japanese works, the time of parting is linked with autumn, fall leading to winter just as parting leads to separation. For instance, Hitomaro’s poem, “On Parting from His Wife as He Set Out from Iwami for the Capital” explains that the speaker could not see his wife, waving farewell from the shore, because of “the leaves/Falling like a curtain in their yellow whirl” (Brower and Miner, 1961, 116). He appeals to the leaves “That whirl upon the autumn slopes” to part for a moment and allow him to glimpse his beloved again. The general structure of seasonal mapping is open to other, complex manipulations as well. For instance, in Takasago, Zeami mixes imagery of spring with imagery of snow to treat the union in separation of a god and goddess: “I break a twig of plum to stick into my hair/And find the snow of Midspring falls upon my ribs” (Hare, 1986, 70). The lovers are paradoxically unified and separated, and thus the mixed image is apt. In addition, they are associated with two pine trees–trees that do not flower in spring, but also do not wither in winter.

Chinese tradition too follows this pattern. Autumn is frequently emphasized as the time of separation, rather than winter per se. However, in keeping with this, autumn is presented as the season of death and infertility. This occurs most obviously through the image of fallen leaves, which suggest not only death, but the life that preceded. One of the most famous Chinese lyric poems is “The Ballad of Ch’ang-kan” (best known to English readers through Ezra Pound’s translation, “The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter”). This poem treats the separation of a wife and her husband. Though the husband departed in summer, the wife is now mourning this separation and it is, aptly, the time of seasonal decline. She complains that “fallen leaves” are everywhere, struck by “Autumn winds” (Cooper, 1973, 125). Shih, citing numerous instances from Yuan drama, points out that “Spring is frequently introduced in its different aspects as the background of romance” (Shih, 1976, 130) and “In contrast to the spring imagery, autumn imagery traditionally conveys a sense of desolation and sadness” (137). In the Yuan drama, The Soul of Ch’ien-nu Leaves Her Body, the lovers are separated at “the time of willows, west winds, autumn days” (Liu Jung-en, 1972, 103), when “The wind is rustling among falling leaves” (89); they remain separated for the course of the winter and are re-united in spring “full of blossoming flowers” (110).

This last example, along with similar cases from Sakuntala and elsewhere, suggest that a common part of this seasonal imagery is the linking of flowers with romantic love and, particularly, with the sexual union of lovers or with the beloved as sexually desirable. The point is obvious in European writing. It applies no less to other traditions. For example, James Liu cites a poem from the Chinese Book of Poetry that assimilates a bride to a peach tree in blossom (James Liu, 1962, 107). Shih cites numerous examples from Yuan drama. In one, a romance is about to be culminated amid “swaying . . . cherry-apple blossoms” (Shih, 1976, 131). In a second, the lover explains his first rendezvous with his beloved by saying “Spring is here and flowers flaunt their beauty . . . ./The heart of the flower is not gently plucked,/And the dewdrops make the peony unfold” (135). Another work varies the imagery somewhat, associating a separated lover, not with blossoms, but with “fallen petals” (130).

In Japan, Kwanami’s Noh play, Hanakatami, as revised by Zeami, provides an apt example, for the love between the two main characters is first expressed and subsequently recognized through a basket of flowers. An interesting variation on the image is found in Zeami’s Ominameshi. Here the beloved dies, and her soul becomes a flower carefully tended by her lover, before their souls are finally reunited. Summarizing the play, Waley explains “the refrain of the play,” which is “one while”: “it is only for ‘one while’ that men are young, that flowers blossom, that love lasts” (Waley, 1988, 267). Brower and Miner cite a number of poems, from different periods, that draw on floral imagery in connection with unions that are only remembered or imagined. For example, in a poem from the 10^th century, the “fragrance of the flowering orange trees” reminds the speaker of “that person from my past.” In a poem from three centuries later “the scent/Of the orange flowers” causes a woman to dream of her lover (Brower and Miner 1961, 289). A century or so after this, a dead husband is spoken of as “blossoms that have gone” (388).

The link between romance and flowers is insistent in the classical Tamil poems also. One speaker compares her skin to “the soft peeled stalk/of a waterlily” when her lover is present (Hart, 1979, 20). In other poems, the beloved has “flower-fragrant hair” (22) or “flowerlike eyes” (23). Elsewhere, the lover’s home is seen as a place of “ripening clusters of buds” (25). Similarly, Moayyad notes that the narcissus is a stereotyped image for the beloved’s eyes in Persian lyric poetry (Moayyad, 1988, 131) and Yarshater explains that the beloved in the ghazal tradition is regularly assimilated to a rose (Yarshater, 1988, 24). Here too, the point is not confined to major written traditions. Firth points out that, among the Tikopia, “Floral imagery is particularly prominent in highly conventionalised form in the taunting songs exchanged between young men and young women . . . . In such songs an unopened frangipani or gardenia bud is held to be a token of virginity” (Firth, 1990, 38).

The Hidden Universality of Cultural Particulars

Of course,  not all aspects of imagery are so clearly shared across cultures.  Indeed, for most readers, the differences among traditions in their uses of imagery are more immediately striking than the similarities–so much so that the images of one tradition are often intuitively opaque to readers from other traditions. This is because what we encounter directly in other literatures are contents, particular images, not techniques or types. There are some obvious ways in which these contents differ. However, despite these differences, such contents are often, perhaps always, specifications of universal categories, embedded in universal techniques. Moreover, the differences in specification are rarely, if ever, theoretically consequential. In other words, they do not seem to reflect culturally distinctive principles of thought, but such matters as different geographical environments or mere historical accidents.

The point appears in some of the cases we have already discussed, such as the mapping of seasons onto emotions. Here, we are immediately faced with the fact that seasons themselves differ from place to place, leading to obvious differences in imagery.  For example, as already noted, in the Sanskrit tradition, romantic love is regularly associated with the monsoon–thus overcast skies, rain, cool breezes, swelling rivers. There is no monsoon in Europe, and thus it cannot serve as the season linked with romantic love. However, in both Sanskrit and European imagery, we are dealing with an assimilation of love to the temperate season of fertility.  In these and related cases, the traditions clearly share the important universal principle. Their differences result merely from contingent features of the physical environment.

Another case of the same sort occurs with bird and animal imageries. The cross-cultural  association of positive feeling with the bodily direction up, combined with observations about mating for life among birds, leads to a cross-cultural linking of lovers with birds.  In contrast, lovers are rarely linked with--sexually promiscuous--land animals.[iv] Or, rather, romantic love is regularly linked with imagery of birds. In contrast mere sexual relations may be linked with land animals, especially when the sexual relations are promiscuous or the object of disapproval, thus linked with the direction down (e.g., in one Mundurucu story discussed by Levi-Strauss, wild pigs have their origin in humans who copulate when they are not supposed to and are “all changed into wild pigs,” in keeping with the “grunting sounds” they make [Levi-Strauss, 1969, 85]). In some cases, even the birds themselves are repeated across cultures. Most obviously, both the European and Persian traditions have a particular fondness for the nightingale in this context (see, for example, Yarshater, 1988, 24). More often than not the birds do differ–in part for the very banal reason that not every region has the same birds. The important point, however, is that bird imagery is used in much the same way cross-culturally, whatever the particular birds may be.

Consider, for instance, the opening poem of the inaugural collection of Chinese lyrics, the Book of Odes. This is a Wedding Song that begins with imagery of ospreys or mandarin ducks “noted for their conjugal fidelity” (Cooper, 1973, 48). When the lovers are re-united in The Soul of Ch’ien-nu Leaves Her Body, Ch’ien-nu remarks that “Pair upon pair of purple swallows, yellow orioles . . . ./Each accompanies the other” (Liu Jung-en, 1972, 110). Shih cites instances from a number of Yuan dramas, including The Romance of the Western Chamber, Autumn in Han Palace, and Rain on the Wu-t’ung Trees (see Shih, 1976, 130, 137, 145). In “The Ballad of Ch’ang-kan,” Li Po takes up these images of re-union, but he uses them contrastively, to evoke the pathos of the lovers’ separation. Thus, the lonely wife dreams that she and her husband are reunited as mandarin ducks (Cooper, 1973, 126). James Liu cites several poems that use bird imagery in the same manner. In a poem by Wen T’ing-yun, for example, a reference to “golden partridges flying two by two” serves to emphasize one woman’s “solitary state” (James Liu, 1962, 110-11). In a poem by the 3^rd century poet, Juan Chi, the speaker expresses loneliness by describing how “Out in the wild a single swan cries,/In the northern wood a flying bird sings” (113).

In Japan, birds are perhaps most commonly used to emphasize the separation of lovers. Thus Empress Saimei hears “Flights of wild duck” and feels “lonely” because her beloved is “not here” (Bownas and Thwaite, 1964, 11). Kakinomoto Hitomaro says that his beloved “soared like the morning bird” before she died (25). Tajihi laments his wife’s death, complaining that “Even the wild duck/Sleep close by their mates.” He feels particularly desolate when he hears “The cranes call/As they cross to the reeds” (31).

An interesting variation in the Japanese tradition may be found in the Noh play Early Snow. There, the main female character loves a bird who disappears. Eventually, he returns and “Lovingly he hovers,/Dances before her” (Anderson, 1977, 744). Evidently, this is a literalization of the bird image, a shift from metaphorical image to literal plot element. The link of the bird with prior, metaphorical imagery is made particularly clear when he is identified as “a bird of parting,” explained by Arthur Waley as “the bird which warns lovers of the approach of day” (Waley, 1988, 743n.). This sort of literalization of imagery is also a common practice cross-culturally.

The love songs of the “Goulburn Island Cycle,” a cycle of poems from the Yirrkalla people of north central Australia, also include imagery of this sort–if with different birds and, perhaps, a greater acceptance of sexuality. The opening lines compare a location of eventual sexual union to the nest of a “sea-eagle” (Berndt, 1976, 49). When the young women move provocatively, the poet says the “The bird saw the young Burara girls . . . . The pigeon watches them, flapping its wings and calling out” (58). Subsequently, “The pheasant cries out from the door of its nest” (64), a swallow arrives (68), a “seagull flaps its wings” (70), and “The keen eyes of the gull search for food in the night, as a lover looks for his sweetheart” (71). In the Djarada poems, the lover’s longing for the beloved is signaled by the cry of the chicken hawk as it sees the beloved (117).

Mahapatra explains that the Kondh, a hill-dwelling “tribal” group, are among the least modernized peoples “in the whole of India,” regularly being described as “most primitive” (xviii). Their extensive repertoire of poetry includes lyric poems in which “The beloved is compared to . . . the ‘jungle fowl’” and “the ‘esi bird of the forest’” (Mahapatra, n.d., xxix).

The fact that the particular birds differ in these cases seems entirely inconsequential. It is, again, merely a matter of specification. Indeed, the fact that the birds are specified is itself a significant universal. It might have happened that some or all traditions merely relied on the generic image of a bird–not a nightingale, a wild duck, or a crane, but just a “bird.” Instead, literary imagery tends toward a degree of specificity that allows for sensory imagination. Hence, it tends toward species terms rather than genus terms.

On the other hand, the specification of bird imagery involves more than merely naming particular species. For example, it may involve mythic or folkloric stories in which the imagery is tacitly embedded. Is this not a place where significant cultural difference enters into literary imagery?

Consider, for example, a potentially theoretically consequential instance of cultural difference, drawn from the Sanskrit tradition. Perhaps the most common use of bird imagery in Sanskrit literature is for the separation of lovers. In and of itself, this is unremarkable. It is a cross-cultural function of such imagery, as we have seen. More significantly, in the Sanskrit case, this separation is imagistically associated with the folkloric isolation of the male and female cakravaka. This isolation has particular narrative features. For example, there is a diurnal cycle of union, separation, and reunion. Moreover, the separation is represented as a separation across a river. In the details of the cakravaka story then, we seem to be faced with a more opaque tradition-specific image than those considered above. This is not necessarily a problem. After all, lexical items differ across languages. There is no reason images should not differ as well. Moreover, the image does fit under the general principle associating lovers with birds.

However, as it turns out, even the full, detailed development of this image is not as culturally relative as it seems initially. Its cultural specificity results to a great extent, not from some special features of Indic culture, but rather from the combination and specification of distinct universals. First, the image joins the identification of lovers and birds with seasonal images. Specifically, the image of the river separating the cakravakas derives in part from the association between love and the monsoon, with its swelling rivers. The association of the birds with standard, seasonal imagery of romantic union serves to intensify the pathos of the separation, but also to prepare for the reunion that follows the separation. In connection with this, the story of the cakravaka birds and their very name (“cakra” meaning wheel) manifest the circularity that characterizes romantic tragi-comedy cross-culturally–simply put, union, separation, re-union.  Here, the love-birds are condemned to spend the night apart, but are re-united during the day.  This, in turn, particularizes a further universal that serves to map emotion onto times of the day–especially, sorrow onto night and joy onto dawn.

We could continue with this example, but it should be clear that the image of the cakravaka birds, though particular to the Sanskrit tradition, is a synthetic specification of universal principles.  When Kalidasa refers to the cakravakas just at the moment Dusyanta is leaving his beloved Sakuntala, a European reader, unfamiliar with Sanskrit tradition, will not find anything intuitively suggestive or consequential in this image.  It wil be opaque to him or her, entirely tradition-specific.  Nonetheless, it is founded upon the same universal principles that generate the image patterns of the European tradition. The difference is simply that these common principles have gone through different, largely accidental processes of synthesis and specification in relation to distinct physical surroundings.

Envoi

            In sum, most, perhaps all prominent techniques and categories of imagery are universal, while imagery contents differ only superficially. Image patterns are the product of constants in human cognition and in human experience, constants that are oriented and organized by the shared purposes and conditions of verbal art. Indeed, this is true even of the patterns that seem highly culturally specific, for, on inspection, these turn out to result from the combination of many universal features, along with a few contingent, usually environmental or similar factors (such as variations in seasons).

These points—and the larger research program in which they are embedded—are radically at odds with some views that, until recently, were doctrinal in literary study. Despite the burgeoning work on literary universals and human cognitive structure, many humanists continue to maintain a belief that differences between cultures undermine any search for cross-cultural patterns and, conversely, that any assertion of universality necessarily obscures differences between distinct cultural traditions.  If my argument is correct, this gets things almost exactly backwards.  In fact, the precise nature of differences between traditions provides strong evidence for the existence of literary universals.  Moreover, the nature of differences among traditions is not at all obscured through a discussion of universals.  Rather, we can only illuminate and fully understand those differences by recognizing their derivation from universal principles. For example, we have no reason to examine and analyze images such as the cakravaka if we do not first recognize a fundamental commonality of purpose and operation in image-patterns. Moreover, without this commonality, we would have no way of interpreting and understanding such images. They would simply be bare differences, their significance immured in inaccessible “Otherness.”[v]^{, [vi]}

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