Time, Memory, and Modernism in A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

By: Coach Zeyi

Time and memory are oft-explored ideas in English literature. How then did the modernist literary movement’s emergence in the early twentieth century inflect their treatment by contemporary writers? This influential play by Tennessee Williams provides an engaging case study in response to this question.

How might we conceptualise ‘modernist thought’ in literature?

Critics have viewed the modernist movement as a response to widespread global instability in the early 1900s. Events like the First World War and the Great Depression shattered perceptions of individual security and called into question totalising, idealist narratives propagated by authority figures the world over. Modernist thought reflects this suspicion of grand narratives by adopting a detachment termed by the writer Thomas Mann as the “pathos of the middle”.

“It glances at both sides … plays slyly and irresponsibly – yet not without benevolence – and is in no great haste to take sides and come to decisions [by committing to a totalising narrative]” (Mann, cited in Beebe, 1974; words in brackets my extrapolation). 

Such ambivalent attitudes translate uncomfortably into the realm of literature, which ironically associates itself with narrative. The resultant tension births subversive, ephemeral ‘narratives’ that tend to resist interpretation. Their ideological trajectories fall apart at the slightest touch, and any attempt by the reader at crystallising a sense of order is almost immediately challenged by textual contradictions. 

With regards to writerly craft, modernist writers unsurprisingly eschew established literary and technical forms. Stable archetypes are discarded in favour of shifting idiosyncrasies. Not even the grammar of the written word remains sacred, as in the case of modernist writer James Joyce who was an early proponent of stream-of-consciousness narration. Such narrative technique records the inner thoughts of characters as continuous flow, no matter how contradictory and illogical such an arrangement might appear.

“…what kind of flowers are those they invented like the stars the wallpaper in Lombard street was much nicer the apron he gave me was like that something only I only wore it twice better lower this lamp and try again so that I can get up early…” (Joyce, from Ulysses)

What might this mean for a modernist writer’s treatment of time and memory?

Prevailing contemporary narratives often adopted romanticised notions of time and memory. Time was viewed as forward-moving and linear; clear demarcations purportedly existed between past, present and future. For example, the contemporaries of the First World War merely termed it “The Great War” before the Second World War broke out, reflecting an optimism undergirded by the belief that ‘what happens in the past stays in the past’. Modernist writers look upon such narratives with suspicion. Notions of time underpin the structure of many literary texts, and such writers might infuse them with doubt and ambiguity. Stylistic features might also be utilised to blur the lines between past and present, or the flow of time itself be divested of linearity in favour of fragmentation or circularity. 

On the other hand, the concept of memory, being in its simplest form personal recollections of past events, was often presented in tandem with a romanticised view of time. Memory was seen as tied to the distant past, and therefore it could have no influence on the present. The personal quality of memory also implied that it could be rewritten at will by its beholder, a view harkening back to enlightenment-era narratives of progress. Unsurprisingly, modernist writers aim to confuse such totalising narratives. Memory may be presented as a haunting, psychological presence that permeates the minds of characters, or even as obtrusively physical manifestations that challenge its purported lack of substance.

Where might we locate a similar grand narrative revolving around time and memory in A Streetcar Named Desire (henceforth Streetcar)?

One may argue that Blanche’s actions represent a sustained attempt at cementing a grand narrative of personal virtue that runs counter to the flow of time. Even when surrounded by the “po[verty]” and “decay” (Sc I, p.1) of Elysium Fields, her first entrance onstage reveals how she clings on to a Southern Belle aesthetic associated with an idealised past. 

“She is daintily dressed in a white suit with a fluffy bodice, necklace and ear-rings of pearl, white gloves and hat, looking as if she were arriving at a summer tea or cocktail party in the garden district. [...] There is something about her uncertain manner, as well as her white clothes, that suggests a moth” (Sc I, p.3).

Note Blanche’s preoccupation with “white clothes”, where the colour “white” symbolically evokes notions of purity and refinement. In doing so, Blanche aligns herself with a distinctly Southern Belle aesthetic linked to archetypes of the genteel woman plantation manager. Despite the loss of Belle Reve stripping her of that role, Blanche clearly resists the facts of her present. Moreover, she positions herself as an invited guest to functions held in the “garden district”, where her adherence to the “garden” setting could indicate her belief in a fantasy of personal rebirth and a return to a prelapsarian state undergirded by the Southern Belle ideal. Such romanticised grand narratives surface through simile as Blanche is compared to a “moth” - a poignant romantic symbol of desire that reflects her longing to define herself on the basis of an idealised past.

Ultimately, this idealised past is illusory, as the play’s progression sees the gradual revelation of Blanche’s actual past - one marked by unscrupulous acts and sexual promiscuity. Yet, she continues attempting to further this grand narrative, which begets a ritualistic obsession with reinforcing an idealised self-image within the collective memory of those around her. While bathing in the Kowalski household, Blanche sings a “saccharine popular ballad” (Sc VII, p.70):

“‘It’s a Barnum and Bailey world, just as phony as it can be - But it wouldn’t be make believe If you believed in me!’” (Sc VII, p.71).

One might interpret the act of taking a bath as tantamount to the ritual act of Christian baptism which sanctifies the participant from sin. Hence, Blanche again asserts her virtue and appeals in tandem to her ‘listeners’ (the Kowalskis) to “believe” in her idealised reality. The “saccharine” (implying ‘sentimental’) nature of the ballad further encapsulates the romantic sentimentality underlying Blanche’s belief that memories of her past can be altered at will. 

In the end, Blanche’s grand narrative regarding time and memory can be summarised in the moment where Mitch confronts her about concealing the facts of her past:

“BLANCHE: I don’t want realism. [...] I’ll tell you what I want. Magic! [...] I try to give that to people. I misrepresent things to them. I don’t tell the truth. I tell what ought to be truth” (Sc IX, p.86).

As evidenced from the short, flustered sentences she uses, this quote sees Blanche vehemently reject the constraints of “realism” in favour of notions of time and memory that can be amended according to “what ought to be truth”. “Magic” thus functions as a symbol of the idealist agency that Blanche adopts as she reworks her past into an enduring narrative of personal virtue. 

How might Williams’ treatment of such ideas display a modernist suspicion of this narrative?

For one, Streetcar’s narrative progression repeatedly challenges Blanche’s purported grip on the flow of time. Rather than being a static image of Blanche’s Southern Belle gentility, time takes on a circular flow where Blanche’s corrupted past resurfaces repeatedly in the present action of the play. A key episode from Blanche’s past is her marriage to Allan Grey, which was tragically cut short following his suicide as a result of Blanche verbally condemning his homosexuality. Blanche remembers Allan as a “boy” who wrote “poe[try]” (Sc II, p.23), and it is therefore significant that the love affairs she undertakes in Streetcar can be read as replicating her romance with Allan. During her first meeting with Mitch, she is instinctively drawn to him due to an excerpt of poetry by Elizabeth Browning inscribed onto his cigarette case.

BLANCHE: Oh, is there an inscription? I can’t make it out. [He strikes a match and moves closer] Oh! [reading with feigned difficulty] ‘And if God chose, I shall but love thee better - after death!’ Why, that’s from my favourite sonnet by Mrs Browning! (Sc III, p.33)

The “feigned difficulty” of her reading the excerpt following Mitch’s attempt to assist her by “strik[ing] a match” foregrounds Blanche’s willing submission to Mitch as a possible future husband and provider. Her subsequent comment of “Why, [...] Browning!” is also framed as a compliment that shows her affinity with Mitch’s poetic interests. Despite her attempts at leaving her past behind, it is uncomfortably clear to the audience that Blanche still engages in courtship with poetically inclined men. 

A cruder example of time’s circularity with respect to the Allan Grey episode occurs moments before Blanche’s first date with Mitch. Here, she intercepts a “YOUNG MAN” (Sc V, p.56) collecting funds for a local newspaper and proceeds to confront him with sexual advances.

[The YOUNG MAN laughs uncomfortably and stands like a bashful kid. BLANCHE speaks softly to him] BLANCHE: Well, you do, honey lamb. Come here! [...] I want to kiss you - just once - softly and sweetly on your mouth” (Sc V, p.57)

Disturbingly, it is the childlike “bashful kid” posture of the Young Man that prompts Blanche to further her advances. The “soft[ness]” of her voice foregrounds her intentions to lull the Young Man into a false sense of security and in doing so coax him into an involuntary “kiss”. Blanche sees him as a “lamb” - a symbolic description of innocent youth that mirrors her marriage to Allan who was “just a boy” (Sc VI, p.66), thus revealing how the Allan Grey episode continues to intrude into Blanche’s present life in Elysium Fields. 

This circularity also persists in Blanche’s memory, where the repeated appearance of obtrusive psychological manifestations of past events emphasise the “phon[iness]” (Sc VII, p.71) of her attempts at reworking her memories in a favourable light. Examples include the “Varsouvania” polka music and the revolver “shot” (Sc IX, p.84)  that Blanche (and the audience) tangibly hears at various points in the play as a kind of psychological refrain. These auditory stimuli are significant because they replicate the circumstances of Allan Grey’s suicide; namely, the “Varsouvania” was the music that Blanche and Allan danced to on the night of his death while the revolver “shot” was Allan’s mode of suicide. By Streetcar’s penultimate scene where Stanley condemns Blanche for her “lies and conceit and tricks”, these tangible presences have intensified into “lurid [...] grotesque and menacing form[s]” (Sc X, p.94).

The night is filled with inhuman voices like cries in a jungle. The shadows and lurid reflections move sinuously as flames along the wall spaces (Sc X, p.95).

The coupling of the auditory (“inhuman voices”) and visual (“shadows”) here reflects a degree of intensification beyond the merely auditory embodied in the “Varsouvania” and “shot”. Notions of the “inhuman” and “cries in the jungle” imbue these psychological presences with a sense of incivility, and in tandem with the destructive image of “flames”, Blanche’s efforts at manipulating them in her favour are framed as futile. 

A discussion of challenges to Blanche’s grand narrative of personal virtue would not be complete without affirming Williams’ exploration of a distinctly masculine sense of disconfirming memory as embodied by Stanley. His presence is the “realism” that upsets Blanche’s “magic” (Sc IX, p.86), and this sense of opposition is heightened since Blanche’s romantic idealism has been portrayed in a feminized manner through the figure of the genteel Southern Belle. In contrast, Stanley’s second entrance onstage is characterised by overwhelming masculinity:

STANLEY throws the screen door of the kitchen open and comes in  [...] Since earliest manhood the centre of his life has been pleasure with women, the giving and taking of it, not with weak indulgence, dependently, but with the power and pride of a richly feathered male bird amongst hens (Sc I, p. 13). 

The forceful kinaesthetic image of “throw[ing] the screen door [...] open” and entering an apartment occupied by two women (Blanche and Stella) is a striking portrayal of male dominance. Being able to freely “[give and take]” “pleasure” from women foregrounds how Stanley’s sexual relations hinge on an empirical logic of possession that disconfirms the needs of the other sex. It is this masculine logic that gives Stanley’s opposition to Blanche's attempts at revising past memories a quality of brutal force. His relentless empiricism that materialises in “proof from the most reliable sources” (Sc VII, p.70) is the culmination of this brutality as he dredges up the facts of Blanche’s past in a conversation with Stella, namely, her stint as a prostitute operating out of the Hotel Flamingo and her expulsion from her teaching position on account of her pedophilia. As a symbolic presence of disconfirming memory, he ends off this conversation by asserting that “[Blanche’s] future is mapped out for her” (Sc V, p.74) (note again the language of empiricism in “mapped”) - that is, her attempts at cementing a favourable narrative for herself are futile since her future will forever be disconfirmed by her past. 

If “[h]er future is mapped out for her” can be interpreted as a vow that establishes Blanche’s future subjugation under the condemning force of empirical memory, Stanley’s rape of her at the end of the play is therefore a symbolic consummation of a twisted marriage ritual he initiates to dominate Blanche’s romantic narrative. It is also a symbolic relegation of Blanche into the very societal category she yearns to jettison - the promiscuous, unscrupulous woman - and it is fitting that the character who rapes her represents the Real. Moments before the rape, Stanley articulates the following lines as Blanche attempts to fend him off using a broken bottle-top.

Tiger – tiger! Drop the bottle-top! Drop it! We’ve had this date with each other from the beginning! (Sc X, p.97)

Stanley’s comparison of Blanche to a “tiger” reveals how he dehumanises her in relation to himself as a hunter might in relation to his quarry; he sees Blanche as prey that he has been stalking “from the beginning” (see also “I’ve been onto you from the start!” (Sc X, p.94)) – the language of time emphasising a sense of inevitability, and even, fate construed by the masculinist brute . This implication that Blanche’s romantic idealism was doomed from its outset is key, and it hints that her grand narratives regarding memory and time cannot be effectively sustained in a world governed by a distinctly masculine sense of disconfirming, empirical memory.