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choices, both novels reveal the ways in which historical reality is not something that happens just on the battlefield or in the government office. Rather, histori‑ cal reality comes into our homes and affects our personal lives in the deepest possible ways. Marginalized people may be more aware of this fact because it is pressed on them by violence and oppression, but it is true for everyone. Another attempt to find a common denominator in postcolonial literature is made by Helen Tiffin, who claims that the “subversive [anticolonialist] manoeuvr[e] . . . characteristic of post‑colonial texts” does not lie in “the construction or recon‑ struction” of national cultural identity, but rather in “the rereading and rewrit‑ ing of the European historical and fictional record” (95). Tiffin argues that, as it is impossible to retrieve a precolonial past or construct a new cultural identity completely free of the colonial past, most postcolonial literature has attempted, instead, “to investigate the means by which Europe imposed and maintained . . . colonial domination of so much of the rest of the world” (95). One of the many ways postcolonial literature accomplishes this task, Tiffin maintains, is through the use of what she calls “canonical counter‑discourse,” a strategy whereby “a post‑colonial writer takes up a character or characters, or the basic assumptions of a British canonical text, and unveils [its colonialist] assumptions, subverting the text for post‑colonial purposes” (97). Tiffin sees this kind of “literary revolution” (97) in, for example, Wide Sargasso Sea (1966) by Jamaican‑born writer Jean Rhys. Rhys’ novel, a postcolonial response to Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre (1847), “writes back” (98) to Brontë’s novel by, among other things, reinterpreting Bertha Mason, Rochester’s West Indian wife. Brontë’s novel portrays Bertha, the descendent of white colonial settlers, as an insane, drunken, violent, and lascivious woman who tricked Rochester into marriage and whom her husband must keep locked in the attic for her own and everyone else’s protection. In contrast, Rhys’ novel depicts Bertha, in Gayatri Spivak’s words, as a “critic of imperialism” (Spivak 271), a sane woman driven to violent behavior by Rochester’s imperialist oppression. Rhys’s narrative thereby unmasks the colonialist ideology informing Brontë’s narrative. And part of Jane Eyre’s colonialist ideology, we might add, is revealed when the novel associates Bertha with the nonwhite native population as seen through the eyes of colo‑ nialist Europe: Bertha’s face is a “black and scarlet visage” (Brontë 93; ch. 27; vol. II), and the room she inhabits is “a wild beast’s den” (Brontë 92; ch. 27; vol. II). In other words, according to the colonialist discourse in which Jane Eyre participates, to be insane, drunken, violent, and lascivious is the equivalent of being nonwhite. Tiffin notes that similar canonical counter‑discourse can be found, for example, in Foe (1988), by South African writer J. M. Coetzee, in the way the novel reveals the colonialist ideology of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (1719), an