In Search of Dracula or, Cultures in Dialogue

Lars Kleberg 20 January 2010
In Dracula, Bram Stoker's famous Victorian horror novel, the young British lawyer Jonathan Harker sets out on a journey eastward. When the hero crosses the Danube andenters Transylvania in order to finalize a contract with a local count on the purchase of a piece of real estate in London, he notes a number of disquieting details. He finds himself in a strange, ambiguous region "just on the border of three states", inhabited by "four different nationalities" where five different languages are spoken (Stoker 1979: 9-10). Young Mr Harker has actually entered on two parallel journeys, the goals of which he is not aware of.  The first journey leads to a castle, where he encounters a rich and eccentric customer who also is the upholder of ancient vampyrism, count Dracula. The meaning of this journey only slowly reveals itself to the hero. The implications of the other, parallel, journey, Harker could not possibly imagine: as a narrator he takes part in what only a hundred years later would aquire its proper name: the construction of Eastern Europe.
Does Eastern Europe really exist? The question may seem strange, and the answer selfevident. But if we agree that Eastern Europe exists, and thereby that the distinction between Eastern and Western Europe - as well as that between Europe and non-Europe - does exist, we also have to agree that this distinction was not created by God or Nature. It was invented by people. And because it was invented by people, it is based on certain presuppositions of cultural difference, hierarchy, power etc. which can be defined and analyzed.
In contemporary cultural studies this kind of analysis, often called constructivist, has expanded widely in the aftermath of Edward Said's pioneering Orientalism (1978). This paper wants to discuss the possibilities for such constructivist analysis of the concept of Eastern Europe, its advantages and limits, and then to confront it with another model of analysis, which can be called the dialogical.
The constructivist analysis shows how a culture becomes itself and aqcuires power by defining itself in opposition to the Other, by projecting distinctions and hierarchies, by exclusion and inclusion, etc. It is well suited, and has been used widely, in studies of subordinated or 'subaltern' cultures - in feminist, post-colonial, etc. studies. In Orientalism Edward Said thus proposed that "the Orient has helped to define Europe (or the West) as its contrasting image, idea, personality, experience" and that
Orientalism can be discussed and analysed as the corporate institution for dealing with the Orient - dealing with it by making statements about it, authorizing views of it, describing it, by teaching it, settling it, ruling over it: in short Orientalism as a Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient. (Said 1978: 3)
The other model of cultural interpretation which we want to discuss here, the dialogical, asks questions about the interplay between cultures in a different way than the constructivist one. Inspired by the Russian philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin's understanding of text, ideology and culture, it focuses not so much on questions of domination and power as on those of understanding and self- understanding in the representation of the Other. According to Bakhtin, any culture becomes a culture, acquires a language, so to say, only through mutual exchange with other cultures and their representations of this culture. In this perspective, "exotopy" or "outsideness", i. e., the point of view form outside, is not a disadvantage but a powerful motor in the development of a culture as well as of each individual. Thanks to mediators such as Julia Kristeva and Tzvetan Todorov, Bakhtin's works - especially his seminal books on Rabelais and Dostoyevsky - have become widely influential in contemporary Western literary criticism and cultural studies. On a higher level of abstraction, implying larger textual units as "national styles" or whole national cultures, comparative literature and anthropology have only recently begun to respond to Bakhtin's dialogism and his provoking proposals for research.
Interesting applications of the constructivist approach following the example of Said's Orientalism, have, on the other hand, been introduced in the study of the Slavic cultures (Todorova 1997). The most prominent example of constructivism in Eastern European and Slavic studies so far is probably Larry Wolff's widely discussed Inventing Eastern Europe. Wolff's book is a richly documented and thought-provoking study of how Western European intellectuals, from the Enlightenment and on, have constructed the image of Eastern Europe, at the same timed defining their own and the West's superiority over the East. This construction, Wolff proposes, has had farreaching consequences up to and during the Cold War period. Only the fall of the of the Berlin wall in 1989 finally made it both possible and necessary to critically analyze the history of this construction, by means of which Eastern Europe has been separated from the West as darkness from light. Before the Enlightenment, or actually before Russia as a consequence of the Great Northern War 1700-1718 took over Sweden's leading role in Northern Europe, there was no clear distinction in political or cultural geography between Western and Eastern Europe (Wolff 1994: 89-94, 156-157). The fundamental conceptual divide in Europe had traditionally been between the South and the North, i. e., between Romans and Germans, between civilization and barbarianism. In the eighteenth century, according to Wolff, this situation was fundamentally changed:
[...] it was the intellectual work of the Enlightenment to bring about that modern reorientation of the continent which produced Western Europe and Eastern Europe. Poland and Russia would be mentally detached from Sweden and Denmark, and associated instead [what they had not been before - L.K.] with Hungary and Bohemia, the Balkan lands of Ottoman Europe, and even the Crimea and the Black Sea. [...] The Enlightenment had to invent Western Europe and Eastern Europe together, as complementary concepts, defining each other by opposition and adjacency. (Wolff 1994: 5)
According to Wolff, eighteenth-century travellers from the West - French, English, later also German - were essential to the establishing of the new intellectual division of Europe. As a matter of fact, many of the works presented as travelogues were not at all so new but drew heavily on earlier descriptions of Russia and the East, primarily on von Herberstein's famous work from 1549. What changed radically in the early eighteenth century, according to Wolff, was on the one hand the 90 degrees turn of the main axis of - 4 - opposition in Europe from North/South to East/West, and on the other hand the enormous expansion of literature on Eastern Europe and Russia produced in the West, from travelogues over historical and geographical works to fictional travels as found in Casanova's The History of My Life, Raspe's The Singular Adventures of Baron Munchausen, or Marquis de Sade's History of Juliette.
A striking feature in almost all the travelogues and descriptions of Eastern Europe isthe image of ambiguity. These nations - from Poland, through the Baltic lands, to Russia, and southward down to Bohemia, Hungary, Dalmatia, Transylvania and the Balkans, only now united under the common name "Eastern Europe" - are all situated somewhere inbetween and disquietingly, not to say monstrously, mixed. Eastern Europe is not part of "real" Europe, but does also not belong to Asia; it is not located at the antipode of civilization, down in the depths of barbarianism, but rather unstably situated somewhere on the scale between civilization and barbarianism. The landscape which the travellers find in Eastern Europe is strange (for a person coming from England or France): vast, almost uninhabitated steppes, endless forests, or wild mountains, usually covered in fog. The languages spoken are numerous, "strange", and of unclear origin. The inhabitants might look European, but they are nevertheless as different as Asians or Africans. The common people are stricken by illness, especially by repelling skin diseases, and all dressed in sheepskins - half men, half animals. The use of corporal punishment is paramount, and sexual practices described as brutal, bordering to the un-human. The aristocrats of Eastern Europe, on the other hand - be it in Warsaw, in a castle in Lithuania, or in St. Petersburg - might look almost like their Western counterparts, and dress like them; but this actually means that they are as if disguised, being even more ambiguous than the common people.[1]
Eastern Europe was thus esentially defined as somewhere in between, a fact that aroused suspicion in many observers and men of state. In 1784, the new British ambassador to St. Petersburg, count de Ségur, on his way to Russia through Poland, visited Frederick the Great in Potsdam. The king ironically remarked that Poland was a strange country: "a free land where the people is enslaved, a republic with a king, a vast country almost without population [where] the women are truly the men" (Wolff 1994: 18).
Neither European nor Asian; similar on the surface but different in their hearts; partly civilized, partly barbarian; seductive and repulsive at the same time: the dangerous ambiguity was to become the common denominator of all more or less imaginative descriptions of the people inhabitating Eastern Europe. The Enlightenments's construction of the borderline between the West and the "other Europe", according to Larry Wolff, logically ends in Winston Churchill's famous Fulton speech 1946 which, maybe in a selffullfilling prophecy, announced that an "iron curtain" was dividing Europe in two parts. The construction was revived for the last time on a large scale by Milan Kundera in his often-quoted essay "Un Occident kidnappé" - only with the difference that Kundera insisted on moving the cultural border between West and East further eastward, thus reclaiming Poland, Czechoslovakia and Hungary for the light and separating Central Europe from the dark abyss of the Russian/Soviet empire (Kundera 1983; on the debate over Kundera's thesis, see Schöpflin and Wood 1989).
What Larry Wolff's analysis of the constructed representation of Eastern Europe discloses is the Western self-image of superiority, and the borders within us. A rereading of Bram Stoker's Dracula, a book which surprisingly enough is not mentioned in Wolff's study, only confirms this image. Stoker was obviously well-read in the travel descriptions of the kind Wolff refers to. When young Mr Harker in Dracula changes the last train for horse and carriage, he passes through a landscape where the horizon is strangely broken, "whether with trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed" (Stoker 1979: 14). People are dressed in strange folk dresses and the inevitable sheepskins, and they certainly have terrible skin diseases.
With the help of Wolff's analysis we can see that in Dracula we are not only in Transylvania, but in the constructed image of Eastern Europe. In this perspective, the ambiguous vampire count Dracula reveals himelf as a symbol firmly situated in the Eastern European register. But Stoker's Dracula is not only residing in Transylvania. He manages to make his way to England, where he threatens to spread his terrible madness, especially among weak young English women. Dracula's vampyrism has more often than not been interpreted in terms of ambiguous sexuality, an elementary force which threatens to undermine the norms ruling our libido and to spread its rebellious "message" like a contagious disease (Byron 1999, Janion 2002). However, one should also remember that Dracula, thanks to his enormous fortunes in pure gold brought from Transylvania, threatens to disrupt the entire London stockmarket. In the political climate of the late twentieth century, the novel Dracula - and an endless number of films based on it - has functioned effectively within the framework the general myth of the Eastern European peril, including Soviet communism (which obviously was not at hand when Stoker wrote his book). Even today, Dracula continues to serve as a powerful vessel for Western prejudice about Eastern Europe, inspiring ever new myths of the threat of "Eastern contamination", including postcommunist infiltration, AIDS epidemy and Russian maffia operations on the international stock market. In cultural terms, and in the perspective of the literary construction or invention of Eastern Europe, Dracula can thus be seen as a matrix metaphor for the Western image of Eastern Europe's alleged resistance to modernization. When the count finally is driven back to where he belongs, and annihilated with great violence, it is significantly done by nothing less than a joint expedition of British capitalists and a Dutch scientist.
Our rereading of Bram Stoker's novel suggests both the possibilities and the limits of a constructivist analysis; here, the enlightened travellers' invention of Eastern Europe has come to an end, and can easily be summarized. The invention of the threatening Eastern European Other sometimes has less to do with a concrete geographical and cultural reality than with our - Western, "civilized", or simply human - need to find objects on which we can project our anxiety, our fear for the irrational inside ourselves (so much vast and ungraspable compared to our concrete everyday life). But once the constructivist analysis has exposed ethnocentrism and showed how the construction of the Other serves its obscure (or, all too obvious) purposes in the imperial motherland, what remains more than to repeat the operation on new source material? And what have we learned about Eastern Europe? Of course little, or almost nothing: and the constructivist analysis actually never promises us a different, more 'true' image of the Other (Said 1995: 3). At the same time as our own - academic - culture appears enlightened in its critical self-reflectedness, the Other, the other culture, remains strangely closed to us. The constructivist analysis inthis sense carries enlightenment, but communicates no other voice than its monological own.
Can the voice of the Other, then, actually reach us, can it be understood? Or, as Caryl Emerson poses the question to contemporary cultural studies:
Can one culture study another culture that is radically different from it? Can cultures genuinely learn from another - and if so, on what basis - or can they only exploit and assimilate, that is, interact solely in terms of dominance and power? (Emerson 1996: 107)
Emerson sees three possible approaches that can be taken in relation to another culture. First, there is the naïve idea of total translatability between cultures, which is based on the presuppositions that "all that is needed is good will [...] and the patience to seek out the necessary equivalents" and which can often be found in political science and diplomacy. The benefits of such a position may be a certain universalism and ecumenism, but its dark sides "lead us to cultural imperialism and to a stupefying naïveté about the genuine multiplicity of the world". The second approach is the opposite of the first. It assumes that cultures are so untranslatable that in order to understand a foreign culture, the best we can do is "to try to become what they are" - an illusory path, which makes us pretend what we, with our experience, cannot be. But there is a third approach, Emerson says, which is more complicated and demanding than the two opposite 'total' variants, one which presupposes understanding from a self-reflected outside position. The basic arguments for such an "outsideness" are elaborated in the works of Mikhail Bakhtin (to the translation and interpretation of which Emerson has made important contributions). Emerson writes:
As categories to organize our thinking about culture, "sameness" and "difference" ['total translatability' and 'total untranslatability' - L. K.] carry within themselves no genuine positive potential. Bakhtin would insist that to be a competent student of another culture, one must remain outside it, but outside in a particular way: one must become an outsider equipped with some - not all, but some - insider skills. These skills will come about only if first one lovingly accepts one's own particular personality and placement in the world. (Emerson 1996: 109)
According to Bakhtin, it is only from a position of responsibility for one's own uniqueness that one can enter into contact or dialogue with any unique Other - person, text, or culture. "Outsideness" in relation to a foreign culture is thus not an obstacle, as is often taken for granted, but, on the contrary, a precondition for creative understanding:
In the realm of culture, outsideness is a most powerful factor in understanding. It is only in the eyes of another culture that a foreign culture reveals itself fully and profoundly (but not maximally fully, because there will be cultures that see and understand even more). A meaning only reveals its depths once it has encountered and come into contact with another, foreign meaning: they engage in a kind of dialogue, which surmounts the closedness and one-sidedness of these particular meanings, these cultures. We raise new questions for a foreign culture, ones it did not raise itself; we seek answers to our own questions in it; and the foreign culture responds to us by revealing to us its new aspects, new semantic depths. Without one's own questions one cannot creatively understand anything other or foreign (but, of course, the question must be serious an sincere). Such dialogic encounter of two cultures does not result in merging or mixing. Each retains its own unity and open totality, but they are mutually enriched. (Bakhtin 1986: 7)
Such understanding of the importance of outsideness is far from self-evident in contemporary cultural studies. Instead, the approach which proclaims that "we should be that which we study" has gained wide currency. According to this doctrine, we should first and foremost study ourselves - women in Women's Studies, African Americans in African American Studies, hispanics in Hispanic Studies, etc. - since only my own 'I' can know how I feel and experience the world. Caryl Emerson recommends us instead to listen to the voice of Bakhtin, coming from the temporal and spatial "outside" of Russia of the 1920's and 30's:
Bakhtin would say, on the contrary, that we would learn more and better about ourselves if we set out to study the "non-I," something in the world that we were especially outside of. [...] The last thing we should do is cluster together with those who share our attributes and complaints, and we should avoid studying whatever it was we were born as. Rather, we should study that which we can work toward, what we can be born into. (Emerson 1996: 110-111)
Bakhtin's emphasis on outsideness, non-coincidence, and love for difference as prerequisites for creative understanding has puzzled certain theoreticians of cultural studies and sometimes produced obvious misinterpretations (Hirschkop and Shepherd 1989; cf. Emerson 1996:118-120). Especially his absolute indifference for questions of power has provoked Western readers, including Edward Said. Quite unjustly, Said discards Bakhtin's philosophy of dialogue as just one of numerous academic variations on the concept of 'interlocutor' which suggest "the calm as well as the antiseptic, controlled quality of a thought-experiment" (Said 1989: 210). If one actually wants to contextualize Bakhtin's thought, it is not the air-conditioned atmosphere of American academic seminars that comes to one's mind but rather that fact that Bakhtin during all his life (1895-1975) in Soviet Russia was a solitary - marginalized, exiled, crippled - who never saw the major part of his own texts published.
Since the travellers of Enlightenment elaborated the image of the dangerous and ambivalent Eastern Europe, and Bram Stoker metaphorically transformed and hyperbolized it in Dracula a century ago, many reports have been written on Eastern Europe "under Western eyes" (Malia 1999). The objectifying 'orientalistic' approach continued to be felt during the twentieth century, with adaption to the political circumstances of the Cold War; this is especially true of diplomats' reports and memoirs. On the other hand, the political tourism of sympathisers who consciously or unconsciously have suppressed their own point of view "for the other's sake" - or, more specifically, for another political ideology's sake - is a phenomenon of the last century which deserves special study (Caute 1988, Malia 1999).[2] Here, however, we would like to point out a third kind of travellers, who neither have looked for the Other in order to confirm his own, superior identity nor have tried to forget themselves in order to become mere "voices" of the other.
"One looks for what one lacks", says the Swedish novelist and critic Agneta Pleijel in a discussion on the rôle played by modern Polish literature in her own culture. Swedish literature, and especially Swedish poetry, has suffered from an abstract understanding of man's metaphysical isolation, which Pleijel sees as complementary to the political pragmatism ruling in society: "The political sphere is often so flat that poetry is forced out into the far outskirts, preferably into the uninhabited." Through the contact with Polish literature, Pleijel says, she gained an awareness of "features of my own country and its ways of thinking and writing which I don't think I would have managed without". One looks for what one lacks. Or, as Bakhtin says, entering into dialogue with a foreign culture "we seek answers to our own questions in it". The meaning of Swedish culture has become clearer in the confrontation with the Other, in this case the Polish Other:
In them [poets like Zbigniew Herbert and Wisława Szymborska] one finds an acuity of attitude, an urge to scrutinize morals and systems of thought, an awareness of the individual and the individual's responsibility [...] and a very concrete defense for human values, which is unusual in Swedish or Scandinavian poetry. In our culture, all tends to become much more empty and unobliging. Still we need it.
My theory of the complementary tells me that the history of Swedish power during the twentieth century has not favoured clearcut distinction and disagreement. Many poets have - quite naturally - stood on the side of power. The strong pragmaticism of power, its good efficiency, its seemingly good bureaucracy, have forced poets into realms where the benevolent but somewhat sticky hands of power have not reached: out in nature or into the soul. [...] But also here, for natural reasons, it is soft. The abrupt changes of Polish history and the impossibility of speaking without getting into conflict with power has favoured a harsher diction and clearer taking of stand. (Pleijel 1999: 13, my translation, L.K.)
Pleijel's dialogue with the other culture began without actual travelling, through reading of works of translators. But many have started by making the sometimes laborious journey to Eastern Europe in order to find what is lacking in their own culture. In 1960, Eugenio Barba, a young Italian student interested in stage design and theater direction, with experience from hitch-hiking and different trades, decided to go to Poland and study. The direct impulse for this decision, Barba recalls in his reflections on his Polish apprenticeship, was Andrzej Wajda's film Ashes and Diamonds (Barba 1999: 15). The purpose of going to Poland was to find what Barba felt was absent in Western European theater of those days: spiritual devotion, strong contrasts, expressive form. What he found in Poland was, however, not a ready model of culture which could easily be adopted or translated into his own cathegories. The encounter with Poland led to a total re-evalutation of everything that the young Italian left-wing student had learnt and accepted. Reality was different from what the facades promised, and the first impressions gave way to a desillusion where all previous theories, both political and theatrical, dissolved:
Everything which had previously fascinated me about socialist Poland had now become a ground for criticism. The theatres were crowded because the workers were obliged to go there. The interest in poets whose books were selling like hot cakes was proof that freedom was only attainable through literary fiction. Privileges for artists were proof of the discrimination and the unjust conditions in which the workers lived: Poland was a prison, where you could neither have a passport nor a travel abroad as could citizens in capitalist Europe. The secret police was omnipresent and the friendliness of a girl could conceal the interest of an informer. (Barba 1999: 25)
But behind the facades, Barba found not only oppression, bureaucracy and discrimination. There was also - in spite of, or in strange interdependence with, the grim reality - a spirit of cultural and personal devotion among Polish artists, who did not hesitate about the mission of their work. Barba's description of his journey into this Poland - through the"ashes" to the "diamonds", to paraphrase the title of Wajda's film[3] - is a fascinating example of someone's crossing the border into another culture and exposing oneself to its influence. After a time of introduction to the dynamic cultural scene in Warsaw, Barba became acquainted with the director Jerzy Grotowski in the little provincial town of Opole, and became his apprentice for a period of almost two years. Grotowski, who was to become a legendary guru of the independent, or "third theater" movement of the late 1960s and early 1970s, was still neither well known nor particularly appreciated in Polish theater circles. Barba took part in the laboratory work on the development of the actors' psychophysical skills and in the preparation of productions which would make Grotowski's "poor" theater famous in the West, such as Akropolis (after Wyspianski) and Doctor Faustus (after Marlowe). The journey into Poland also became a journey into the unknown:
I myself did not understand everything that happened in the work. But sometimes, in Akropolis, while watching a scene with its contrasting rhythms or its cruel details, my vision became double and an invisible veil of tears turned my gaze inwards, towards a secret and unknown part of myself. (Barba 1999: 35)
In due time, political circumstances forced Barba to leave Poland and become the prophet of Grotowski's theatrical New Testament in the West. Barba's fascinating testimony, many years afterwards, of the journey into Polish culture and his apprenticeship with the still unknown director in Opole can of course be seen as part of the final creation of Grotowski into a mythical founder, and of Barba as his true follower. But the concrete description of the Polish adventure, of the difficulties in entering another culture and at the same time into a completely new artistic vision, and finally of the understanding of the necessity of finding oneself in the encounter with the foreign, makes Barba's travelogue a most valuable document of cultural dialogue. Here, the implications of Mikhail Bakhtin's demand for "outsideness" as a pre-condition for understanding are shown in a multitude of aspects.
Although Bakhtin's dialogical thought does not respond easily to some questions ofcontemporary cultural studies, or offers questions as answers, it offers a productive framework for any reflection on cultural difference and exchange. Barba's traveloguememoir shows this in a text which contains little theoretical reflection on its own position. It is however possible to apply a dialogical approach in working with historical sources, a has been shown by Tzvetan Todorov in his now classical work on the Spanish colonisation of Mexico, The Conquest of America: the Question of the Other. In the epilogue to the book Todorov explains how he tried to evade both the danger of naïve siding with the other (cf. Emerson's approach of 'total intranslatability') and that of transforming the other to an easily manipulated object (cf. Emerson's of 'total translatability'):
I have tried to avoid two extremes. The first is the temptation to reproduce the voices of these figures "as they really are"; to try to do away with my own prescence "for the other's sake". The second is to subjugate the other to myself, to make him into a marionette of which I pull the strings. Between the two, I have sought not a terrain of compromise, but the path of dialogue. (Todorov1984b: 250)
With obvious reference to Bakhtin Todorov argues for "a dialogue in which no one has the last word, in which neither voice is reduced to the status of a simple object, and in which we gain advantage from our externality to the other". In an essay about French travelogues from Bulgaria, Todorov discusses the further implications of such an approach. Anticipating later studies of the construction of Eastern Europe, Todorov discusses the possibilities and limits of understanding. It is not uncommon to travel and see what you expect to see, as did the French visitors to Bulgaria. Neither is it difficult to observe how documents from such travels reveal more about the culture of the observer than about the Other. To understand, one must take a step outside one's own horizon and its onesidedness, and expose it to the point of view of the Other. Such experience, Todorov concludes, can be based on travelling but can also be achieved in an internal dialogue with another culture. What is necessesary is, as the emigré always has been forced to do, to see oneself as well as the Other from a double perspective:
Il ne suffit pas d'être autre pour voir: car, de son point de vue à lui, l'autre est un soi, et tous les autres sont des barbares. L'exotopie doit être vécue de l'intérieur; elle consiste en la découverte, en son coeur même, de la différence entre ma culture et la culture, mes valeurs et les valeurs. On peut faire cette découverte pour soi, sans jamais quitter le sol natal, en s'aliénant progressivement - mais jamais entièrement - de son groupe d'origine; on peut y accéder à travers l'autre, mais dans ce cas aussi il faut en être passé par une mis en question de soi, qui seul guarantit qu'on saura porter sur l'autre un regard attentif et patient. C'est en somme l'exilé, de l'interieur ou à l'exterieur, qui met toutes les chances de son coté [...] (Todorov 1984c: 384)


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[1] Cf. Lotman 1984: 231-236 on the westernization of Russian aristocratic life during the period of Peter the Great, which on the one hand accelerated the alienation of the aristocracy from the peasantry, and on the other hand introduced a "theatricalization" of the life of the aristocracy which applied different manners, clothing, etc. in the city of St. Petersburg and in its country estates.

[2] Certainly many of the best travelogues and reports from other cultures, in spite of the author's or reporter's explicit ambition to just "give voice" to the Other, are still read today thanks to the presence of a "double view" in the text, an interest in the light which the Other throws on the reporter's own culture. Classical examples of the report genre, different but all with a more or less audible "second voice", are Sergej Tret'jakov's A Chinese Testament: the Autobiography of Tan Shih-hua (1930, English transl. 1934, 1978), Oscar Lewis' The Children of Sanchez (1961), and Studs Terkel's Division Street (1967).

[3] Actually, Wajda's film, and Jerzy Andrzejewski's novel on which it was based, had taken the title from a poem by the Polish romantic poet Cyprian Norwid - just another example of the vitality and topicality of the great romantic poets in post-war Poland which Barba points out.

The article was first published as: ”In Search of Dracula, or the Journey to Eastern Europe”, in: Inga Brandell (ed.), State Frontiers: Borders and Boundaries in the Middle East, London: I. B. Tauris 2006, pp. 187-198.