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Refusal of the Shadow: Surrealism and the Caribbean
In 1932, at the peak of French colonialism, a group of Martiniquan students at the Sorbonne established a Caribbean Surrealist Group, and published a single issue of a journal called Légitime défense . Immediately banned by the authorities, it passed almost unnoticed at the time. Yet it began a remarkable series of debates between surrealism and Caribbean intellectuals that had a profound impact on the struggle for cultural identity. In the next two decades these exchanges greatly influenced the evolution of the concept of negritude, initiated revolution in Haiti in 1946, and crucially affected the development of surrealism itself.
This fascinating book presents a series of key texts—most of them never before translated into English—which reveal the complexity of this relationship between black anti-colonialist movements in the Caribbean and the most radical of the European avant-gardes. Included are René Ménil’s subtle philosophical essays and the fierce polemics of Aimé and Suzanne Césaire, appreciations of surrealism by Haitian writers, lyrical evocations of the Caribbean by André Breton and André Masson, and rich explorations of Haiti and voodoo religion by Pierre Mabille and Michel Leiris.
This fascinating book presents a series of key texts—most of them never before translated into English—which reveal the complexity of this relationship between black anti-colonialist movements in the Caribbean and the most radical of the European avant-gardes. Included are René Ménil’s subtle philosophical essays and the fierce polemics of Aimé and Suzanne Césaire, appreciations of surrealism by Haitian writers, lyrical evocations of the Caribbean by André Breton and André Masson, and rich explorations of Haiti and voodoo religion by Pierre Mabille and Michel Leiris.
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First published May 17, 1996
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About the author
Michael Richardson
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There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
February 22, 2016
Certainly focused on the more political/philosophical end of Surrealism, which I tend to appreciate more as an apparatus underlying literary works, but these applied-conceptual underpinnings are essential to the the long-term and continuing relevance of Surrealist thought. And of particular unique interest here in the hands of politicized artists and thinkers in Martinique and Haiti in the mid 20th century, whose relation to larger world political and art-historical trends doesn't tend to show up in the discourse much. Valuable.
November 2, 2008
This book was incredibly important to me when I was studying aesthetics, existentialism, colonialism, etc. I was especially impressed by the essays of René Ménil. In "Refusal", art, politics, and philosophy come together as one.
January 20, 2026
Until last week, if someone had asked me about surrealism, my answer would probably have been very limited. If I tried to move past its commercial image and figures like Salvador Dalí, I would maybe mention André Breton, and perhaps Alain Robbe-Grillet and The Erasers. I would describe surrealism as a relatively short movement that emerged out of Dada, later influencing filmmakers such as David Lynch. I would think of the unconscious, automatic writing, Freud—and that would be it.
I certainly would not have associated surrealism with anti-colonial movements, or with African and Caribbean writers. I did not know this history. I am not sure whether I was not supposed to know it, or whether I was simply never taught it.
If you had shown me the poems we read before introducing this book, I probably would not have recognized them as surrealist at all. I had never heard of Cahier d’un retour au pays natal by Aimé Césaire. At school, surrealism was taught as a strictly French movement, emerging from French society and culture, and later spreading to the rest of Europe. The Caribbean? Africa? No. I do not remember any teacher ever mentioning this, nor any textbook I read.
Because of this, the title of the book felt especially meaningful to me. Refusal of the Shadow does not just describe the book—it announces its central idea. It is a refusal of being unheard, unseen, and pushed to the margins.
Reading Refusal of the Shadow: Surrealism and the Caribbean was genuinely eye-opening. It shows how writing itself can become an act of resistance against colonial authority and power. It also helped me understand why Aimé Césaire’s work is so intense, so loud, and so full of anger—and where that anger comes from.
One of the most interesting ideas in the book is the use of surrealism as a tool of liberation. Surrealism challenges logic, reason, and “common sense”—the very tools that authoritarian systems use to justify power and legitimize colonial domination. By rejecting these frameworks, surrealism opens space for freedom. In this sense, the book reminded me of Foucault, especially in the way it treats history as discontinuous and argues that creativity emerges from rupture, suffering, and historical violence.
It also resonated with structuralist and Marxist critiques of colonialism. Colonial violence is not presented as an accident or an exception, but as structural—something produced by the system itself. Ideas such as the “white man’s burden” or colonial guardianship are exposed as mechanisms that legitimize domination and answer the question of why Europe claims authority, and why it insists on ruling.
Eventually, the book leads back to writing itself—to literature, poetry, and storytelling. It insists on the importance of narrative, and on the idea that writing alone can be an act of resistance. Writing can push back against censorship, silence, authority, colonial power, and the internalized idea of “France as the mother.”
For some colonized subjects, this idea of France as a maternal figure becomes internalized, almost unquestioned. The book works like a reminder—like removing cotton from one’s ears, or slowly lifting a blindfold. France is not the only mother. Africa is a mother too. The Caribbean is a mother. Martinique is a mother. Not only France.
In this way, the book exposes internalized colonialism and begins to undo it. It reclaims voice, imagination, and dignity. This is something that strongly connects, for me, to Senghor’s poetry as well—especially Camp 1940, where writing becomes a way to resist humiliation, to expose false freedoms, and to reclaim humanity through language.
I certainly would not have associated surrealism with anti-colonial movements, or with African and Caribbean writers. I did not know this history. I am not sure whether I was not supposed to know it, or whether I was simply never taught it.
If you had shown me the poems we read before introducing this book, I probably would not have recognized them as surrealist at all. I had never heard of Cahier d’un retour au pays natal by Aimé Césaire. At school, surrealism was taught as a strictly French movement, emerging from French society and culture, and later spreading to the rest of Europe. The Caribbean? Africa? No. I do not remember any teacher ever mentioning this, nor any textbook I read.
Because of this, the title of the book felt especially meaningful to me. Refusal of the Shadow does not just describe the book—it announces its central idea. It is a refusal of being unheard, unseen, and pushed to the margins.
Reading Refusal of the Shadow: Surrealism and the Caribbean was genuinely eye-opening. It shows how writing itself can become an act of resistance against colonial authority and power. It also helped me understand why Aimé Césaire’s work is so intense, so loud, and so full of anger—and where that anger comes from.
One of the most interesting ideas in the book is the use of surrealism as a tool of liberation. Surrealism challenges logic, reason, and “common sense”—the very tools that authoritarian systems use to justify power and legitimize colonial domination. By rejecting these frameworks, surrealism opens space for freedom. In this sense, the book reminded me of Foucault, especially in the way it treats history as discontinuous and argues that creativity emerges from rupture, suffering, and historical violence.
It also resonated with structuralist and Marxist critiques of colonialism. Colonial violence is not presented as an accident or an exception, but as structural—something produced by the system itself. Ideas such as the “white man’s burden” or colonial guardianship are exposed as mechanisms that legitimize domination and answer the question of why Europe claims authority, and why it insists on ruling.
Eventually, the book leads back to writing itself—to literature, poetry, and storytelling. It insists on the importance of narrative, and on the idea that writing alone can be an act of resistance. Writing can push back against censorship, silence, authority, colonial power, and the internalized idea of “France as the mother.”
For some colonized subjects, this idea of France as a maternal figure becomes internalized, almost unquestioned. The book works like a reminder—like removing cotton from one’s ears, or slowly lifting a blindfold. France is not the only mother. Africa is a mother too. The Caribbean is a mother. Martinique is a mother. Not only France.
In this way, the book exposes internalized colonialism and begins to undo it. It reclaims voice, imagination, and dignity. This is something that strongly connects, for me, to Senghor’s poetry as well—especially Camp 1940, where writing becomes a way to resist humiliation, to expose false freedoms, and to reclaim humanity through language.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews