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Year: 2013
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Bibliography of Postmodernism and Critical Theory
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Editors’ Note
Lisa Brawley
lbrawley@kent.eduStuart Moulthrop
samoulthrop@UBmail.ubalt.eduCo-editors
With this issue, we introduce an interactive annotated bibliography of postmodernism and critical theory. This bibliography began as a graduate student project in John Unsworth’s seminar on postmodern fiction and theory at the University of Virginia in the Fall of 1998. Students in that seminar contributed about 120 annotated entries on critical and theoretical works in the study of postmodernism. This database of annotated bibliograp hic entries has now been migrated to Postmodern Culture: readers of the journal are invited to register with the database and contribute entries of their own. We hope that, over time, this might develop into a valuable resource for students, theorists, a nd critics working in this area.
We also wish to draw attention to the return of the PMC prize, announced in our September issue. Each June, the editorial board of Postmodern Culture will choose an outstanding critical and/or creative work published in the journal during the previous volume year. The author of this work will receive $500 and special billing on our main page.
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Peripheral Visions
M. Klaver, r rickey, and L. Howell
Department of English
Universities of Calgary and Victoria
lhowell@mtroyal.ab.ca
rrickey@acs.ucalgary.ca
klaverm@cadvision.coE. Ann Kaplan, Looking for the Other: Feminism, Film, and the Imperial Gaze. New York: Routledge, 1996.
Looking for the Other responds to the charge that white feminist film theories, especially psychoanalytic ones, neglect issues of race. In this ambitious project, E. Ann Kaplan defends a psychoanalytic approach to the racialized subject through examinations of gender and race in mainstream and independent film. Targeted at liberal arts students, the text is a useful introduction to these issues within film, women’s studies, and postcolonial/cultural studies. Unfortunately, Kaplan sometimes sacrifices quality of critique for quantity, and subtlety of argument for scope, in an attempt to satisfy her audiences. The result is a text which ultimately surveys and summarizes more than it stakes out new ground in the ongoing debates about whiteness and feminist film theory.
The book is divided into two main sections. Part I, “Theories of Nation, Psychoanalysis and the Imperial Gaze,” primarily explores the male and imperial gazes in Hollywood film. Part 2, “Travelling Postcolonialists and Women of Color,” examines the ways in which independent film offers the alternative of “inter- and intra-racial looking relations.” Throughout, Kaplan argues by analogy, risking oversimplification of a number of key concepts. For example, Chapter 1, “Travel, Travelling Identities and the Look” depends on the assumption that race, like gender, operates through internalized binary oppositions. She offers examples from Fanon, DuBois, hooks, and Appadurai which support theories of “a network of diasporic black peoples dislocated around the globe in the late twentieth century who share experiences of the alienating gaze” (10). Kaplan’s theory layers colonialism on top of discourses of the gaze initiated by Laura Mulvey. Thus situated non-dialectically, racial difference becomes little more than another instance of split subjectivity. Combined with the constant deferral of her explanation to later sections in the book plus numerous editing errors, such oversimplifications undermine her argument.[1]
Chapter 2, “Theories of Nation and Hollywood in the Contexts of Gender and Race” surveys “male theories” of nations as modern, industrial concepts linked to the rise of literacy and popular culture (29). Kaplan continues her reliance on binary oppositions, countering these male ideas of nation with a feminine sphere of culture. Most significant for her later analysis of Hollywood film is the concept of nation as a fiction, and of America as a construct divided between European cultural allegiances and American national ones. Kaplan relies on Jane Flax to support a claim for a womanly perspective on global history, one in which “problems might not be framed as debates about First, Second or Third Worlds but rather in terms of ongoing struggles to connect or not connect with an Other,” to juggle public and private roles, to link local and global concerns, and “to make oneself a subject within national struggles” (46). These are important questions, and Kaplan offers a sampling of fascinating alternatives to the narrow conception of national identity at work in Hollywood film. However, we wonder why her discussion of these alternatives runs to three pages, in comparison with the eighteen or so pages of “male theory.” If it is because, as she states, “the problematic relation of ‘woman’ to ‘nation’… urgently needs more research” (46), we would add that the binary opposition of male nation to female culture also needs deconstructing.
In Chapter 3, “Hollywood, Science and Cinema: The Imperial and the Male Gaze in Classic Film,” Kaplan tackles D.W. Griffith’s Birth of A Nation, notably its anxieties about the black man’s rape of the white woman, to illustrate interlocking structures of masculinity and whiteness in the imperial gaze. According to her reading, stereotypes of lascivious black men and pure white women “image forth” white supremacy and male supremacy respectively. Through these stereotypes, the film appeals to Southerners to see themselves as part of an American nation preparing for World War I (68). Similarly, masculinity and imperialism collude in a series of 1930s ape movies–King Kong, Tarzan the Ape Man, and Blonde Venus. Devices such as the map of the “dark” continent penetrated by the explorer/hunter, the sexual objectification of the white woman, and the feminization and oversexing of the black man illustrate Hollywood’s continuing attempts to manage America’s sexual and racial anxieties. Kaplan also notes that these films may be seen as attempts to come to grips with national guilt about slavery, or to console “a generation of white males without sufficient opportunities for heroism” (74).
Kaplan also discusses interesting complications of the stereotypical view that the imperial gaze is solely male. In looking at Black Narcissus (1946) and Out of Africa (1985), she notes that “white women become the surrogates for men when there is a need to show male power waning” (81)–in this case British power in India. The white nuns in Black Narcissus are bearers of the imperial gaze on their mission into Nepal, but that gaze is destabilized by the orientalized sensuality of the place: the nuns’ repressed sensuality emerges at the same time that their strength and independence from men begins to crack; a heterosexual narrative asserts itself. Kaplan argues, following Laura Kipnis, that the construction of “colonialism as female megalomania” rationalizes colonialism’s failures (88). Here, Kaplan participates in ongoing critiques of white womanhood and its interlocking privileges as shown in the work of Jane Gaines, Mary Ann Doane, Rey Chow, Donna Haraway, and others.
How disappointing then, to read that the main difference between the stereotypes in Black Narcissus and the less offensive depictions in Out of Africa seems to be a matter of characterization: Karen Blixen “cares about [Africans] as individuals” and her “main servant is individualized” and allowed to return her look (89). Kaplan’s assumption that this treatment remains a viable alternative to stereotyping troubles us in its allegiance to liberal humanism. She notes that “something else is going on in these films in regard to images of white women” and wonders “how can [white] feminists enjoy their empowerment” through these images “at the expense of women of other colors?” (92). One answer may be the rewards and pleasures of individualism which structure the major liberation movements of the West, including white liberal feminism. Nevertheless, Kaplan makes an important contribution in Chapter 3 with her understanding that these films forge American identity through European colonial narratives.
Chapter 4, “Darkness Within: Or, The Dark Continent of Film Noir” further investigates the effect of psychoanalysis on American film when dealing with issues of “othering” that cross race and gender. The chapter starts by briefly describing the possibilities of psychoanalytic readings of film, especially the value of British transcultural psychiatry, and summarily explaining the racist, sexist, and homophobic origins of psychoanalysis. Kaplan then performs a close reading of Home of the Brave, Pressure Point, Candyman, and Cat People. Oddly, considering the chapter’s title, only the latter falls within the normal definition “film noir.” All four films use psychoanalysis within their plots; especially important to this reading is the claim that psychiatry is a “science,” the authority of which is either supported or destabilized by these films. Kaplan attempts to analyze the psychoanalytic readings both of and within these films, which all blur, or attempt to blur, characters’ race and gender. However, Kaplan’s readings rely heavily on plot and character description, possibly because, as Kaplan notes, these older films are likely not to have been seen by her readers.
Black and white interaction in mainstream film sets up Kaplan’s ensuing discussion of independent films. Before Part II, “Travelling Postcolonialists and Women of Color,” she clarifies her use of psychoanalysis and reads its use in film to construct the white subject. Kaplan argues that “the formation of the white subject as white, as it depends upon difference from blackness, is one area for study” (129). Though not theoretically innovative, Kaplan’s readings of film related to this question and her working through the problematics of psychoanalysis facilitate entry into the second part of Looking for the Other.
Kaplan asserts that Part II intends “to open a window on how women directors imagine and create fictional worlds about issues of sex, race and the media. And how, in so doing, they dramatically challenge Hollywood male and imperial gaze structures to begin the hard work of moving beyond oppressive objectification within the constraints of inevitable looking structures” (16). Kaplan selects Hu Mei, Claire Denis, Mira Nair, Pratibha Parmar, Alice Walker, Trinh T. Minh-ha, Julie Dash, and Yvonne Rainer for discussion in Part II because, though they all deal with sex, race, gender and class in “cinematic forms deliberately in opposition to classical commercial film” (16), they approach their projects differently.
Yet Kaplan only partially delivers on her promises for Part II. In Chapter 5 she explores the relationship between white theorists/theories and China. Stressing that cross-cultural exchange is possible both from West to East and East to West, yet not ignoring the power differential, Kaplan uses Trinh T. Minh-ha’s concept of “approaching” to assert that there is a way if not to “know” the Other, at least to “speak nearby.” In her discussion of the relationships between Western and Asian critics and their views toward Western readings of Asian culture, she summarizes the debate between Fredric Jameson and Aijaz Ahmad regarding the possibility of the West “knowing Chinese or Indian culture and politics (17).” Jameson’s construction of three worlds in which First-World texts are related to the public/private split while in Third-World texts all libidinal desires are politicized, is critiqued by Ahmad who posits only one postcolonial world constructed of economic, political, and historical links. Kaplan rereads this debate to show that both Jameson, particularly in his comments regarding allegory’s inherence in Third-World texts, and Ahmad, in underlining Western critics’ arrogant assumption that they can understand an Other culture through partial knowledge, make valuable contributions to the discourses of “knowing the other.” She locates herself between her readings of Jameson and Ahmad, but directs her criticism more strongly toward Ahmad, whose position she calls an “overreaction.”
From her assumed position of subject-in-between, Kaplan’s second focus in Chapter 5 addresses criticism of her 1989 article “Problematizing Cross-Cultural Analysis: The Case of Woman in the Recent Chinese Cinema.” She argues effectively that in this essay she attempted to position herself as an “outsider” whose readings might untangle one of many strands of meaning to be found in Chinese film texts. Included among Western critics censured for perpetuating cultural colonization, Kaplan reads Yoshimoto Mitsuhira’s criticisms as a reconstruction of Asia as feminine or victim. By turning to the complexities of subjectivity, as many feminists do, Kaplan stresses the possibility of showing “how resilient peoples are to such cultural and capitalist ‘invasions,’ and how they find strategies to divert their impacts” (152). Kaplan is constantly aware that histories of colonization and appropriation cannot be ignored. Her consistent attention to the complexities of the history, economics, and politics of intercultural “knowing” creates, at times, an apparently disjointed argument, but one worth teasing out by engaged readers.
Kaplan’s selection of Denis’ Chocolat, Parmar and Walker’s Warrior Marks, and Nair’s Mississippi Masala to search for an answer to the question “Can One Know the Other?” is most appropriate. All three non-American films illustrate her desire to explore the possibilities of inter-racial looking and to challenge the dominance of the male and imperial gazes. These challenges contribute to a form of looking which exemplifies a desire to know rather than to dominate. Kaplan astutely explores the processes of looking that occur between spectator and film and between characters within films. In these “looking relations,” Kaplan indicates ways in which women directors alter the subject-object binary; when traditionally subjugated characters look back, stereotypes are challenged, and the gaze, with its inherent anxieties and domination, becomes a mutual process of looking.
Kaplan states: “There has surely to be a way between the alternatives of an oppressive Western application of humanism to the Other and surrendering any kind of cross-cultural knowing” (195). She sees that for women travelling outside their cultures, the best way to accomplish cross-cultural knowing is “speaking nearby.” She explores Trinh’s Reassemblage and Shoot for the Contents with emphasis on ideas that inter-racial looking relations should be reconstructed as a meeting of multiple “I’s” with multiple “I’s” in the Other. For Kaplan, the women’s bodies that Trinh presents are not objectified but instead become sites for discussions of subjectivity, nationhood, and transnational feminism. She looks conscientiously at the work of Hu Mei, Denis, Parmar and Walker, Nair, and Trinh, all women “in postcolonialism travelling to foreign cultures” (216), revealing ways in which imperial and male gazes are and can be disrupted, finding new ways of knowing, of seeing, and of looking for the Other.
Chapter 8, “‘Healing Imperialized Eyes’: Independent Women Filmmakers and the Look,” continues to explore how women filmmakers rework the “look” in an attempt to redefine colonial images. Kaplan reads two of Julie Dash’s films, Illusions and Daughters of the Dust, as attempts to redefine audience perceptions of blacks in film and films’ assumptions about audience. Kaplan then moves on to examine Mi Vida Loca, a film on Chicana “gang girls,” by white director Allison Anders. Finally, she argues that Yamazaki Hiroko’s Juxta uses themes of generation and immigration to complicate racialized images.
Kaplan argues that these films do not confront the imperial and male gazes in an attempt to reverse or undo their effects, but instead involve themselves in an entirely different project: “Other films I call ‘healing’ because they seek to see from the perspective of the oppressed, the diasporan, without specifically confronting the oppressor’s strategies” (221). She suggests that these filmmakers occupy the position of the hybrid, furthering her argument for the subject-in-between. Caught between cultures, their films concern themselves in constructing “‘intra-racial’ looking relations rather than inter-racial ones” (222). Kaplan asserts that while white women suffer from “too much visibility” in Hollywood, black women remain largely invisible or consigned to a narrow range of stereotypes. Her inquiry into Dash’s Daughters exposes the construction of black images that step outside the Hollywood mainstream: Dash creates a strong intelligent matriarch to oppose the traditional “mammy” image. At stake in the idea of healing, therefore, is the possibility that seeing from the perspective of the oppressed produces new points of identification for film audiences.
Kaplan also notes that formal devices can be used to challenge imperial and male gazes. From film speed, to narrative structures, to genre mixing, these films often reposition their audiences in order to step outside the hegemony of Hollywood film. Kaplan reads all four of these movies, sensitively drawing out how this feat is accomplished. She also notes that these films do not necessarily share the same tones: some are celebratory while others are melancholic. The importance of these films is that they do not reproduce the imperial gaze, but rather strive to find power in “healing” its alienating effects.
In Chapter 9, “Body Politics: Menopause, Mastectomy and Cosmetic Surgery in Films by Rainer, Tom and Onwurah,” Kaplan detours from film criticism to medical discourse. Her review of plastic surgery texts reveals how parallel constructions of age or race become associated with disease and deformity. Relying on ideas of nation from Part I, she posits a norm of womanhood: young and white. Though we cannot argue against her notions of this norm, we do note that it relies on a collapse of Western thought into an exclusively American “look.” With this assumption, Kaplan reads Tom’s Two Lies and Rainer’s Privilege in terms of a conflict between an “authentic” immigrant body and the American body assimilated through surgical intervention. Her argument recognizes that the “casualties” of the American look need further attention.
Another important contribution is Kaplan’s argument that aging white women either fall into Hollywood’s typecast characters or do not appear at all. Always careful to acknowledge that these women do not lose all their privileges in aging, Kaplan does however point out that aging further complicates women’s positioning by the male and imperial gaze. By drawing affinities between menopausal white women and women of color, Kaplan invites further discussion of generational differences and their implications for women’s studies.
Kaplan’s research into plastic surgery and aging reveals intriguing concepts in relation to American film, but her sweeping statements often hinder her arguments. For example, she states, “It is in male interest to keep alive the myth that after menopause women have no particular interest and therefore can be passed over for younger women who still depend on men” (286). Like the “male theories” of Part I, the assumption of “male interest” once again collapses a complex argument into a traditional gender category. Throughout her book, Kaplan attempts not to essentialize various groups while arguing that dominant film does; occasionally she missteps and her statements reinscribe the generalizations which she seeks to critique.
The risk of reinscription is addressed in the “Afterword” as Kaplan attempts to negotiate the tricky gaps between white and non-white positions on the emerging field of “whiteness studies.” Cautioning her readers not to conflate varieties of alienation, she insists that it is essential that “one recognizes that whites are not necessarily reinscribing whiteness but taking the lead from the peoples whites have oppressed” (294; original emphasis). Is Kaplan prescribing a point of view here, or offering an anti-colonialist strategy? The ambivalence continues in the statement, “Because of white supremacy, it seems to me that it is the responsibility of whites to start the process of recognition of the Other as an autonomous subject” (299). Does this imply that the process has not yet begun outside of “whiteness studies”? Does the notion of responsibility imply a conferring of subjectivity or authority? We are uncomfortable with the vagueness of such “responsibility” because it implies that if whites do not begin this process of recognition, it will not be done at all. In fact, Kaplan hazards misrecognizing the Other when she concludes her book by asserting a belief “that black women may have an incredibly important role to play at this historical moment…. Hopefully, this is a moment when white women can listen” (301). Having just warned readers not to conflate varieties of alienation she subsumes all non-white women under the term “black women.” In this ostensibly conciliatory gesture, Kaplan falls back on a black-white binary that grounds her global survey in America.
Future discussions surrounding Kaplan’s new work will need to complicate its layered relations between race and gender by adding the undiscussed categories of class and sexuality. Her conception of the imperial gaze largely ignores the dynamics of capitalism within patriarchal and racist structures, and discussions of gay and lesbian contributions are cursory. Nevertheless, we applaud Kaplan’s commitment “to the idea… that the level of signification can impact on the imaginary and produce change in subjects reading or viewing texts” (xv). It is through this ability of texts to change subjectivity that Kaplan sees a possibility for prejudices based on race, ethnicity, color, age, sexual orientation, and gender to be deconstructed. For her, perhaps the best route to change is through the work of women directors of all colors (including white). The value of her text lies in the attention she pays to these women directors, their films, and their changing audiences.
Note
1. The editing errors are frustrating. For instance, in Chapter 1 Kaplan claims she will discuss six directors, though seven are listed (15-16); likewise, she announces that Anders’ Mi Vida Loca will be discussed in Chapter 6, but it appears in Chapter 8.
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If You Build It, They Will Come
Brian Morris
Department of English with Cultural Studies
University of Melbourne
b.morris@english.unimelb.edu.auJohn Hannigan, Fantasy City: Pleasure and Profit in the Postmodern Metropolis. London: Routledge, 1998.
Last year I found myself staggering down the very long sidewalk of the Las Vegas Strip in a somewhat disoriented state, an Antipodean on his first trip to the United States. There I was, during the middle of a scorching Las Vegas July afternoon, foolishly trying to walk from Circus Circus to the Luxor Hotel–a case of culture schlock perhaps? While this moment of pedestrian delusion was partially attributable to the intense desert heat, it was no doubt helped along by some of the “delirious” sights I passed on my foot journey. The structures facing on to the Strip, such as the extraordinary New York New York casino-hotel with its giant replicas of Manhattan buildings and associated landmarks (Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge) neatly wrapped up in a rollercoaster ribbon, present themselves to the contemporary would-be flaneur like purpose-built entries in a giant VR encyclopedia devoted to the subject of the postindustrial/postmodern city. Celebrated urban critic Mike Davis recently described the city as “the brightest star in the firmament of postmodernism” (54),1 and indeed Las Vegas has long provided theorist-tourists with a productive stomping ground for engaging with postmodern urban forms, experiences, and structures, which manifest themselves in this place with a peculiar luminosity and intensity.
Among the first to “discover” this exemplary postmodern landscape were the architects Venturi, Scott Brown, and Izenour, whose seminal manifesto Learning From Las Vegas (1972) provided the blueprint for a number of ongoing debates on postmodern aesthetics and the built environment. Almost three decades, however, have passed since that book was published, and Las Vegas itself now exudes quite a different kind of postmodernity. Regardless of whether you prefer the older and seedier Vegas or the more recent “Disneyfied” version, the city continues to exert a strong attraction with new residents, tourists, and cultural theorists (myself included in the latter of these two categories), who continue to travel there in ever increasing numbers. However, as Mike Davis has slyly noted, the philosophers who celebrate Las Vegas as a postmodern wonderland–presumably he is referring to Baudrillard?–don’t actually have to live there and deal with the city’s less appealing aspects. It’s an important critical point, yet as John Hannigan’s suggestive and welcome new book, Fantasy City: Pleasure and Profit in the Postmodern Metropolis, indicates, there is in fact no need for postmodern philosophers to live in Las Vegas because the chances are that many of the urban trends spectacularly visible there will be probably coming to a city near those philosophers soon (if they haven’t already done so). Centrally, Hannigan proposes that we are witnessing a new phase in the development of consumer societies: the introduction of an “infrastructure of casinos, megaplex cinemas, themed restaurants, simulation theaters, interactive theme rides and virtual reality arcades which collectively promise to change the face of leisure in the postmodern metropolis” (1). According to Hannigan, this development trend, which one finds in a heightened form in Las Vegas, will become a fully-fledged global phenomenon as we enter the new millennium. Certainly my own delirious pomo walk on the Las Vegas Strip was not framed just by an experience of the now “clichéd” tropes of simulation, hyperreality, and time-space compression, but also mediated by my own experience of a new casino-entertainment complex that had recently opened a hemisphere away in my home city of Melbourne.
Yet while Las Vegas may epitomize many of the elements of this new entertainment infrastructure in the city and is a regular reference point in Hannigan’s book (a pre-redevelopment image of downtown’s Fremont Street graces the cover), the neon capital is but just one stop on a much more ambitious urban tour which ranges across a large number of North American cities and also does a quick comparative circuit of select cities in the Asia-Pacific Rim. At its best, then, Hannigan’s book sketches out a complex differential history of a new kind of “uneven development” in which postindustrial cities are being both reconstructed and trying to differentiate themselves as centers or “hubs” of leisure and consumption.
In his introduction Hannigan defines “fantasy city” according to the following six features: it is organized around a marketable theme; it is aggressively branded; it operates day and night; it features what might be termed modular components; it is solipsistic in so far as it ignores surrounding neighborhoods; and it is postmodern. These features then prompt Hannigan to set up some central questions and problematics (some of which seem more useful than others):
Are fantasy cities the culmination of a long-term trend in which private space replaces public space? Do these new entertainment venues further entrench the gap between the haves and have-nots in the "dual city"? Are they the nuclei around which new downtown identities form or do they simply accelerate the destruction of local vernaculars and communities? And, finally, do they constitute thriving urban cauldrons out of which flows the elixir to reverse the decline of downtown areas or are they danger signs that the city itself is rapidly becoming transformed into a hyperreal consumer commodity? (7)
This last question is a pivotal one, for the author frames his overall inquiry within a general thesis (to which I shall return) that fantasy city is “the end-product of a long-standing cultural contradiction in American society between the middle-class desire for experience and their parallel reluctance to take risks, especially those which involve contact with the ‘lower orders’ in cities” (7).
As a means of plotting the trajectory behind contemporary manifestations of that “cultural contradiction,” Fantasy City strategically opens with a three-chapter section on the historical context of entertainment’s role in the development of the American city from the late nineteenth century to the present day, particularly as it manifests itself in spatial terms (downtown life versus that of the suburbs). Thus in his first chapter, Hannigan discusses the so-called “golden age” of urban entertainment that invigorated downtown city life in North America between the 1890s and 1920s and that provides a possible historical precedent for the contemporary emergence of “fantasy city.” Here the author traces the construction of the notion of a then new commercial leisure culture in the city that while representing itself as “public”–in the sense of it being democratic and affordable to all–still managed to maintain rigid socio-spatial barriers along class, race, and gender lines. This chapter seems especially important because it challenges nostalgic laments by those contemporary urban critics who yearn for an often idealized public realm. The second chapter in this section, entitled “Don’t go out tonight,” moves on to chart the slow and gradual decline of the popularity of central city entertainment precincts from the 1950s onwards, a decline connected to widespread suburbanization and the evacuation of downtown areas by the middle classes. Finally, in the third chapter, Hannigan charts a remarkable return of entertainment developments to the central city. This return begins in the 1970s with the building of downtown malls and festival markets and eventually consolidates and expands into “fantasy city” in the 1990s thanks to a proliferation of “new” forms and technologies such as themed restaurants, sports-entertainment complexes, I-Max theaters, and virtual reality arcades.
Having set up this useful historical context, Hannigan directs our attention to the attractions of contemporary Urban Entertainment Developments (UEDs) in a section on “Landscapes of Pleasure” which contains two chapters. In the first of these chapters Hannigan tries to outline the appeal of fantasy city to consumers and argues that this can be summarized in terms of four categories: “the siren song of seductive technology; a new source of ‘cultural capital’; a prime provider of experiences which satisfy our desire for ‘riskless risks’; and a form of ‘affective ambiance’” (10). The author also asks (in a rather insubstantial one and a half pages) how these new environments stack up as sites for the production of identities and lifestyles. The second chapter in this section takes a different tack by highlighting the vital “synergies” or convergences in fantasy city between previously segregated and distinct leisure/consumer practices such as shopping, entertainment, dining, and education.
This second section offers some tantalizing insights but is, I would suggest, a bit thinly spread in its coverage (relative to the other two sections of the book). While the material that Hannigan covers in this section is engaging, cogent, and relevant, it does seem to be somewhat uncertainly situated methodologically speaking. In particular, the structure of the book has much to indirectly say about the difficult interdisciplinary challenges faced by anyone writing in regard to the slippery signifier of “the postmodern city.” Studies of the city are going through a boom phase at the moment, riding high on a surge of interest in the problematics of space and place. That interest is spread across a diverse range of disciplines, a number of which feature in Routledge’s subject description on the back of Hannigan’s book: “Urban studies, Sociology, Urban geography, Cultural studies, Tourism.” Despite its invitation to interdisciplinarity, however, the style of the book will, I suspect, appeal more to those adhering to the traditions of the first two of those fields. In other words, while the subtitle of his book suggests an equal division of inquiry into “pleasure” and “profit” (which seems to be roughly analogous to saying “consumption” and “production”), Hannigan’s emphasis tends to fall rather too heavily on the production side of the equation. In this regard, then, Hannigan’s book seems to fit most into a tradition of urban analysis that is articulated in such classic works as David Harvey’s Postmodernism: An Enquiry into the Origin of Cultural Change (1990), itself a pivotal work much concerned with “the postmodern and the city,” and that while outlining a complex relationship between base and superstructure ultimately posits the latter as a reflection or symptom of the former.
Thus the final and lengthiest section, where Hannigan flexes his urban-sociological muscles to chart contemporary developments regarding entertainment and the city, stands out as the strongest and most coherent. Here the scope of the study and its considerable empirical evidence make the arguments particularly compelling. At the same time, in these latter chapters a potentially tedious reliance on a barrage of reports and statistics concerning the ownership of various developments, their building costs, and economic performance threatens to halt the momentum and flow of Hannigan’s argument. Fortunately, however, some relief is available in the form of an often illuminating series of mini-case studies of about one to three pages that are scattered throughout the book. For example, one such section discusses the failure of the Freedomland U.S.A. theme park in the 1960s, another charts the failure of a public-private partnership, while another considers the effect of the introduction of legalized gambling on the community of Gilpin County. These case studies engagingly ground some of the broader issues and trends with which Hannigan grapples.
In this third and final section of Fantasy City, Hannigan opens with a chapter outlining some the key corporate and entrepreneurial players (including the coalition of entertainment conglomerates and real-estate developers) in the leisure development game. This discussion dovetails smoothly with the following chapter, which addresses the increasing importance of private-public partnerships and focuses in particular on sports complexes. In the opening of this chapter, the author quotes the famous invitation from the baseball film Field of Dreams (1989): “If you build it, they will come.” While for my taste Hannigan may have not have explained this enough in terms of why consumers take up such an invitation, and the different kinds of value they might produce or experience in relation to these sites, he certainly offers a compelling and informative analysis of why city authorities find themselves under increasing pressure to “join forces with a corporate savior” in order to build projects that will hopefully “constitute an economic miracle”(129). How often, asks Hannigan, do taxpayers really get a reasonable return for their subsidies or regulatory concessions, what are the risks, and who is really “calling the shots” in this sort of urban development?
Hannigan then turns to Las Vegas and its transformation from a seedy mixture “of neon, glitter, blackjack and organized crime… [to a] booming entertainment center” (10). Here, he helpfully contrasts Vegas’s economic miracle with other more troubled gambling developments and teases out the implications and consequences of the recognition of gambling as the entertainment equivalent of a cash crop for economically struggling cities. Following this, in a chapter on the leisure revolution taking place “off-shore,” Hannigan takes us on a quick tour around a number of cities in the Asia-Pacific Rim. While his attempt to move beyond a North American focus is admirable, it is undermined by its whistle-stop nature and can’t really do justice to the specific entertainment histories of the countries. Chief among those differences is the spatialization of cities along class lines. Hannigan acknowledges this when he notes that unlike the American case, “the Asian middle class don’t regard a trip into the central city as a safari into a zone of crime and danger” (185). To his credit, this leads him to conclude that despite “the considerable American content of these new urban entertainment destinations… they are by no means carbon copies” (186).
Finally, in his concluding chapter on the future of fantasy city, Hannigan argues that the civic worth of urban entertainment developments hinges upon the ability of urban policy makers to be “proactive rather than reactive” participants in costly projects. In this same chapter Hannigan also reiterates his central argument that driving the production of fantasy city is the American middle-class desire “for predictability and security [that] has for a long time spilled over into the domain of leisure and entertainment” (190). I wonder, though, whether this is the most interesting conclusion to be drawn from the diverse range of case studies that the author presents to the reader. It appears to me that this component of Hannigan’s argument is an unnecessary generalization–must these new urban entertainment developments be grouped together as one coherent form that is constituted in relation to the motives of such a specific “public”? Perhaps it would be equally productive to explore how specific sites constitute themselves in order to attract “mixed” markets–and how and why, do different socially marked groups decide a certain site is worth patronizing (something that Hannigan’s studies admittedly attempt to do). In Melbourne, where I live, for example, one of the most interesting things about the new central city Crown Casino Entertainment Complex (the largest structure of its kind in the southern hemisphere) is precisely the way it tries to negotiate interactions between a necessarily diverse customer base. For example, while the “high rollers” and “whales” as they are known in gambling parlance may remain invisible thanks to private gaming rooms and private elevators, there is still a significant blend of middle-class, professional-managerial-class, and working class patrons in the “public” part of the casino. In terms of American developments, and particularly that of Las Vegas, Hannigan’s work encourages me to wonder about the distinctions that mark the different Vegas casino venues, and the question of who goes there versus say the more “low-rent” gambling town of nearby Laughlin on the Colorado River. Put another way, how do the operators of “fantasy city” attempt to manage the social production of difference at these sites and how do consumers negotiate those management strategies? “Build it and they will come” intones the mantra, but as a cultural theorist with an interest in the productivity of consumption I wanted to know more; specifically, who will come, why do they come, and how do you keep them coming back once they have already visited the place? These reservations aside, John Hannigan’s book is to be heartily welcomed as an excellent starting point–setting up as it does a stimulating range of questions–for the investigation of a topic that deserves to be foregrounded in studies of the city, entertainment, postmodernism, and urban culture.
Note
1. In this same chapter Davis argues that Las Vegas is in fact just an exaggerated version of Los Angeles.
Works Cited
- Davis, Mike. “Las Vegas Versus Nature.” Reopening the American West. Ed. Hal K. Rothman. Tuscon: U of Arizona P, 1998. 53-73.
- Harvey, David. The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change. Oxford: Blackwell, 1990.
- Izenour, Steven, Denise Scott Brown, and Robert Venturi. Learning From Las Vegas: The Forgotten Symbolism of Architectural Form. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1972.
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The Truth About Pina Bausch: Nature and Fantasy in Carnations
Lynn Houston
Department of English
Arizona State University
lynnmhouston@yahoo.comPina Bausch, Carnations. Perf. Tanztheater Wuppertal. Gammage Auditorium, Tempe. 22 October 1999.
Freud’s elision of body-mind also suggests that the private mental space accorded to “the self” on modern models of identity, the space of fantasy, is produced to some extent by the body’s being-in-culture. Slavoj Zizek notes that “at its most fundamental, fantasy tells me what I am to others”… That is to say, our fantasies, those wonderful or terrifying stories we weave about ourselves in our supposedly most private moments, are actually extensions of culture into that space formerly and mistakenly called “mind.” Zizek argues that fantasy has a “radically intersubjective character” insofar as it is “an attempt to provide an answer to the question ‘What does society want from me,’ to unearth the meaning of the murky events in which I am forced to participate.”
–Sharon Crowley, Rhetorical Bodies, 362.
Billed as ballet, Pina Bausch’s work is a choreography that prompts audience members who expect the tutus and pirouettes typical of traditional ballet to leave the theater. Bausch brings a critical consciousness to choreography and to representations of the body, a consciousness which she then places in dialogue with the history of ballet. Her work is a postmodern art especially inspired, it seems, by forces at play in psychoanalysis and its attempts to formulate the subject. In the piece Carnations, performed recently in Tempe,1 Bausch plays with the interaction between the stage and the audience, between the dancers and the spectators, so that the absence of traditional ballet and the audience’s expectations for it become the subjects of the ballet. Thus her piece becomes both a study in the violence of tradition and a commentary on the tradition of violence that pervades human interaction.
In Carnations, Bausch reveals a Borgesian sensitivity in her treatment of the uncanny that haunts the relationship between author and reader, and between performer and spectator, as she links the play of power in the gaze to other struggles for power in human relationships. In the refusal of her dancers to remain simply performers who exist just for the entertainment of the audience–Bausch’s dancers shout to us that their feet hurt–her art can be likened to Pirandello’s at its most surreal. Carnations powerfully brings into conjuction art, theory, and collective fantasy as it explores the struggle over institutional uses of power present in how we represent ourselves physically, expressionistically, gesturally, and in how we tell the stories that construct our subjectivity.
Bausch’s piece invokes moments in the history of psychoanalysis where the relationship between the patient and the psychoanalyst are critiqued, where the notions of cause and effect that support psycholanalytic discourse are examined and questioned, and where definitions of repression and the unconscious are advanced. Her piece resounds particularly strongly with the categories advanced by Lacan in “Function and field of speech and language,” the categories which he believes betray the amnesia of the unconscious, or, in other words, the spaces where the text of truth has been collected and stored. “The unconscious is that chapter of my history,” he states, “that is marked by a blank or occupied by a falsehood: it is the censored chapter. But the truth can be rediscovered; usually it has already been written down elsewhere….” (50). Bausch works with the categories proposed by Lacan that label spaces where the truth has been posited: the body, childhood memory, systems of signs, and tradition. She communicates with these categories, these cultural warehouses of truth, in order to excavate the idea of truth that must precede such a positioning, and in order to politicize the myth of the unconscious and of the “natural innocence” of humankind, as well as to show us the violence underlying–and masked by–these constructions.
As acknowledged in Sharon Crowley’s reading of Zizek (reading Lacan) found in the passage quoted at the beginning of this article, any notion of subjectivity must be rooted in a political economy of construction. Much contemporary theorizing about subjectivity dismisses the idea of a hidden “natural” self. It encourages, instead, the view that all ideas about subjectivity are always constructions, already constructions before we can even think of them, that these ideas are already built into a limited set of categories in which we can conceive of ourselves, and that they are the only tools with which we bring ourselves into being. These tools, these strategies of narration, which come from collective spaces, are already prescribed for us. Fantasy demythified can no longer exist as the realm of wild individualism, for it must be seen as a recognizable part of the textual structure readable by society. It is out of this dynamic, out of this search for the kernel of the self, that the fascination for fantasy comes. Bausch takes this dynamic apart at its seams, problematizing the categories recognizable to this system and satirizing the authoritative processes whereby deviation from the approved norms of this system of literacy is punished. Her piece presents fantasy as a springboard into something more dangerous, both as something imposed on us, and also as something that seems to respond to our search for an irreducible essence. It is here, in the way the structure of Carnations parallels the defense of the unconscious found in Lacan’s “Function and field of speech and language,” that Bausch’s work becomes politically relevant to postmodern ideas about the construction of subjectivity, for it is here that her departure from the tenets of earlier Lacanian psychoanalytic theory becomes most clear.But the truth can be rediscovered; usually it has already been written down elsewhere. Namely:–in monuments: this is my body… (Lacan 50)
Power, in Bausch’s Carnations, is examined in a variety of its incarnations. Her dance looks to the dynamics of the romantic relationship and to the context of food for the use of the body as a signifying medium. Bausch sees these as special situations in regard to manifestations of power. At one moment in the piece, for example, a man (like the referee in a boxing match) watches while sets of couples (representing relationships of varying nature) act out various forms of abuse on each other. The first set of couples says something to us about nature, human development, and repression. A woman comes out on stage with a bucket full of dirt and a pail and, while facing the audience with her eyes closed, begins spooning dirt on top of her head. Next, a man comes out on stage and, after spilling one pile of dirt on his own head, begins throwing dirt on top of the woman’s head. Finally the woman stops and begins running around the stage screaming (it is a primal sound). The referee comes to her and puts the microphone on her chest and we hear the sound of a heart beating. One of the other couples in this same sequence is constituted by a man and a woman (the heterosexual union). The woman in this couple runs from one side of the stage to the other side trying to escape the man. The man runs after her and each time he catches up he jumps on her back violently. The couple freezes and the referee puts a microphone to each of their chests. Since we hear the sound of a heart beating each time, it is possible that we are to note that this is not “art” (que “ceci n’est pas une pipe”) but that this is “reality.”
A later instance explores the sometimes mundane forms of power in the heterosexual relationship. A man stands next to a woman who is facing the audience. Her eyes are closed. The man is trying to force her to eat an orange that she doesn’t want to eat. He continues to try to persuade her, slice by slice, to eat the whole orange. She protests and then acquiesces each time. We do not know of any other objective, any other intention to his wanting her to eat the orange other than just to get her to do it. He counters her protests with a trite response, telling her that it is good for her. In not offering any other reason than this, Bausch plays with the habitual, with the rituals of custom, with practices for which we no longer remember the justification, traditions which are based on reasons we have forgotten, based on world-views that may no longer be relevant. We don’t know why we do it, we just know that we are supposed to do it. Bausch makes us wonder about the relationship of food and the body to the natural.
In the above situation, the statement made by Slavoj Zizek at the very beginning of this article would seem to speak about the violence done through fantasy (as infused and reproduced by tradition or that to which we are “accustomed”) not only to the “ideal” space of subjectivity, but also to the body of the subject herself, in these “murky events in which [she is] forced to participate.” While the intricacies of Bausch’s choreography suggest that appeals to nature are fruitless, since even what we perceive as nature, even the category “nature” itself, can only ever be a contrivance, in such a way that the act of naturalizing becomes too dangerously steeped in the forces of politics not to create in us the necessity of being aware of this history. While all of this is present in Bausch’s work, at the same time, in a move which mustn’t be read as doing that which she cautions us against, she reminds us that any theory, any art, must account for the body.But the truth can be rediscovered; usually it has already been written down elsewhere. Namely:–in archival documents: these are my childhood memories… (Lacan 50)
Many of the scenes in Carnations deal, at least on some level, with how childhood and adulthood coexist but yet remain somehow foreign to each other. Childhood, in being associated with a “natural” state, serves as that which has been erased in order to make way for the civilized being that is, supposedly, the adult. Here we have a tension between nature and civilization, or between the natural environment and industrialization, or, yet, in Blakean terms, between innocence and experience. Childhood, in being that which must give way to progress, is the realm of repression, and hence it is the past from which future fantasies will, supposedly, arise. At the climax of the dance, the Fall of mankind is reenacted amid chaos and confusion, amid the trampling of the flowers that filled the stage floor. But it possesses no transcendent significance. It is not the corruption of what used to be pure, but it is simply one among many of the violent breeches, of our glimpses into the horror of the pre-arrangement of form, into our inextricability from the Symbolic and the abuses it engenders. Carnations undoes the notion that violence is somehow a quality of a fallen world and points instead to nature and purity as that which has been constructed.
In this scenario, then, childhood is a period much like the space of the unconscious itself: “that chapter of my history that is marked by a blank or occupied by a falsehood: it is the censored chapter….” (Lacan 50). Repression and truth, here, are positioned in relation to one another in Bausch’s supposed affirmation of the existence of the unconscious, but not in the way that either Freud or the early Lacan meant it to exist. It exists, according to Bausch, because we are not conscious of how others have constructed not only ourselves but also our own memories of who we were in our “natural state” of childhood. This phantasmatic place must exist, she would add, as the space to which our awareness of the violence in which we participate has fled. Bausch’s representation of this tendency toward blindness, or refusals to see, is what puts her in tension with the psychoanalytic tradition, among others, in a way that echoes Nietzsche’s dismantling of the transcendental in “On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense”: “Truths are illusions about which we have forgotten they are illusions” (81).
In one scene in Carnations, the dancers, now seemingly children, are playing a child’s game called “Un, Deux, Trois, Soleil.”2 The oppressive power-structure of the game lends itself easily to a clear perception of the tremendous amount of yelling and abuse occurring among the children. Quite suddenly, one of the dancers emerges from the back of the stage and takes the position of mother. She is twice as tall as the others and her body is ill-proportioned: she has an elongated lower body and a small upper body. When she appears the violence becomes worse, as the child who had been abusing the other children now becomes the target for the mother’s wrath. The mother also figures as a malevolent Alice-in-Wonderland, a reference made plain not only by her elongated figure but also by her costume: long blond hair and blue dress.3
At the end of her piece, Bausch introduces confessional narrative into the performance. The dancers enter holding their arms above their heads in an arc, in what is perhaps the most easily recognizable stance of traditional ballet, and they begin to tell us stories about incidents in their childhood that made them want to become dancers. The dancers recount their subject-formation as non-traditional ballet dancers while performing the central gesture of traditional ballet. Here, in the making public of the private space of childhood recollection, Bausch’s piece seems again to take up the question of the coherent self and of the inability to posit the cause-and-effect relationship between childhood and adulthood that audiences seem to expect. Here, Bausch seems to come full circle by positing an incomprehensibility against which any enterprise rooted in language must struggles. She seems almost to invoke Hélène Cixous, who talks about the instability of stages of identity: “at the same time we are all the ages, those we have been, those we will be, those we will not be, we journey through ourselves… as the child who goes snivelling to school and as the broken old man… We: are (untranslatable). Without counting all the combinations with others, our exchanges between languages, between sexes….” (“Preface” to the Hélène Cixous Reader, xvii-xviii).But the truth can be rediscovered; usually it has already been written down elsewhere. Namely:–in semantic evolution; this corresponds to the stock of words and acceptations of my own particular vocabulary, as it does to my style of life and to my character… (Lacan 50)
Signs in Bausch’s Carnations enter into a relationship with the body in its potential as sign-maker or sign-producer, as in her use of sign language as dance. One of the first scenes in Carnations is that of a man signing the words to the song written by George Gershwin entitled “The Man I Love,” while at the same time the recording of this song made by Ella Fitzgerald is played. Associations with childhood scenes in the rest of the piece and with psychoanalysis create an impression of a homosexual fantasy of ideal love, or of the ideal partner-subject, at the same time that it denotes a sort of pre-verbality or inability to articulate the message in speech.
Bausch’s flowers, her pastel colors and twirling men, represent a narrative realm of the fantastical that in its apparent playfulness, its jouissance, permits the exploration of more dangerous, more violent themes. Lacan’s jouissance surrenders to violence so that what was once playfulness becomes grotesque, what was a masculinist aesthetic of play, of jocularity, becomes dangerous. In Bausch’s passport scenes (twice a man steps on stage to ask one of the dancers for his passport: “your passport, please”), what underlies the question of otherness, the command to demonstrate legitimacy as a subject, is an accusation of otherness whose impact on the life of the subject is displayed well by the dancers in their apparent gestures of dejection: moving slowly, looking back, they wait for a signal that would remove the imperative, but it never comes. In the second passport scene we are shown how this pre-scribed punishment is, in fact, carried out in the power to humiliate. In this scene the official makes the man do tricks like a dog, like a sub-human. He even has the commands translated by a bystander into the man’s own language, in an effort to assure that the man know and understand as fully as possible his own degradation.
Both passport scenes target men who are wearing dresses. It is certainly not a coincidence that these figures have been pointed out as not belonging, that an aspect of their subjectivity has caused them to come into suspicion, to be questioned. The question/command of authority marks an ideology that wishes to punish difference, wishes to identify it and humiliate it, and which includes the idea of difference, of not “amounting” (it “tarries with the negative,” if you will) in the very elaboration of itself as a system. It is by this process of conditioning that ideology reproduces itself, and it is in conceiving of this process as a passing of what is outside the self into the inside of the self that Lacan finds his idea for the birth of the subject, what he calls the mirror stage. What many Lacanians wish to argue is that Lacan does away with the Freudian conception of an interior being that gets projected outward and that Lacan prefers to view this process of subject formation as an internalization of a public conception of identity.But the truth can be rediscovered; usually it has already been written down elsewhere. Namely:–in traditions, too, and even in the legends which, in a heroicized form, bear my history… (Lacan 50)
Bausch’s Carnations, in questioning the genre of classical ballet, asks us to consider what enjoyment the dancer is supposed to have in presenting the piece for the viewing pleasure of the audience. Bausch’s dancers tell us their feet hurt, that if we want to see grand-jetés we can do them ourselves. We are not presented with the transcendental subject of classical ballet (except in shadowy profile when Bausch takes an opportunity to mock this tradition of dance). Bausch’s piece also asks us to consider what fun the audience is supposed to have in attending the ballet. How is it, she seems to ask, that the bodies of the audience are completely forgotten, that in being asked to watch the art of dance, the audience members are asked to forget themselves, their own bodies? Bausch proposes to resolve this dilemma at the same time she makes us aware of it. When her dancers ask the audience to stand up and perform a simple dance that includes four arm movements, we suddenly realize that we are making the motion of a hug around the space where a body should be, and the dancers then encourage us to give hugs to those around us. It is in this way that the body of the audience member is reinscribed into the performance.
Pina Bausch might, in fact, be seen as acting as a sort of therapist to her ballet audience in counseling us to rid ourselves of our expectations about what ballet should be. She prompts her audience to conclude that when we are confronted with art that doesn’t function as we think it should, the problem isn’t with the art but with our expectations, with the way we think about the art. In underscoring the humanity, the mortality of her dancers, Bausch’s art offers itself, then, not to mere enjoyment of beautiful forms, but to political reflection through a perception which no longer originates from the carefree attitude of a ballet-goer out for a night on the town, which no longer originates from the comfort of theater seats, but from a reversal of the gaze, from a space where the dancer becomes the one who watches and the erstwhile spectator becomes the spectacle. It is in this reversal that the truth in Bausch’s art can be found. By invoking fantasy (or the Imaginary) and playfulness (innocence, her field of one thousand carnations) in order to explore patterns of cruelty and subjection, her dance troupe, the Tanztheater Wuppertal, demythifies the fantasy of innocence, the collective cultural fantasy by which we wish to posit claims of a natural state, and thereby persists in reproducing the violence of the social.Notes
1. Carnations was originally performed in 1982. Pina Bausch’s Tanztheater Wuppertal made Arizona State University’s Gammage Auditorium one of the few stops on their Fall 1999 United States tour. A schedule of their upcoming performances can be consulted under the heading “spielplan” at the dance troupe’s homepage <www.pina-bausch.de>.
2. In this game the person who is “it” stands with his or her back to the group of children and turns around quickly after yelling the phrase, “un, deux, trois, soleil.” The other children have up until the time the one who is “it” turns around in order to sneak up on him or her. If one of the children is able to touch the person who is “it” before he or she turns around, then there is a winner, and the winner of the game becomes the next person to be “it.” If the child who is “it” sees any of the children moving when he or she turns around, then the child who was caught moving is sent back to the starting line and must begin again advancing on the one who is “it.”
3. This Bad Alice may also be a reference to the work of Luce Irigaray. Although Pina Bausch is not solely feminist in her agenda, her feminism cannot be mistaken in the context of the present discussion as a clin d’oeil in the direction of Irigaray, a pupil of Jacques Lacan whom he repudiated because of her feminist approach to psychoanalysis. One of her most famous re-readings of psychoanalysis, a feminist appropriation of Lacan’s idea of the mirror-stage, is “The Looking Glass, from the Other Side.”
Works Cited
- Cixous, Hélène. The Hélène Cixous Reader. Ed. Susan Sellers. New York: Routledge, 1994.
- Crowley, Sharon and Jack Selzer, eds. Rhetorical Bodies. Madison, WI: U of Wisconsin P, 1999.
- Derrida, Jacques. “Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression.” Diacritics 25.2 (1995): 9-63.
- —. “Freud and the Scene of Writing.” Yale French Studies 48 (1972): 74-117.
- Foucault, Michel. The History of Sexuality: An Introduction. Volume 1. 1978. Trans. Robert Hurley. New York: Vintage, 1990.
- Irigaray, Luce. This Sex Which Is Not One. 1977. Trans. Catherine Porter. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1985.
- Lacan, Jacques. Écrits: A Selection. 1966. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: W.W. Norton, 1977.
- Nietzsche, Friedrich. “On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense.” Philosophy and Truth: Selections from Nietzsche’s Notebooks of the Early 1890s. Ed. and trans. Daniel Breazeale. New Jersey: Humanities Press International, 1979.
- Zizek, Slavoj. The Plague of Fantasies. New York: Verso, 1997.
- —. Tarrying With The Negative: Kant, Hegel, and the Critique of Ideology. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1993.
- —. The Zizek Reader. Ed. Elizabeth and Edmond Wright. Oxford: Blackwell, 1999.
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Post-Avant-Gardism: Bob Perelman and the Dialectic of Futural Memory
Joel Nickels
English Department
University of California, Berkeley
joeln@uclink4.berkeley.eduReview of: Bob Perelman, The Future of Memory. New York: Roof Books, 1998.
There is a play on words somewhere in the title of Bob Perelman’s recent book of new poems, but what exactly is the substance and import of this wordplay? The Future of Memory: in this title, Perelman is suggesting that it is time to question the comfortable status “memory” has achieved as a source of poetic emotion. If memory is to have a future, he seems to be saying, then its uses and meanings must be rethought; and for this unregenerate Language poet that primarily means dissociating memory from the forms of lyric subjectivity that the term currently evokes. For memory to retain any living value, it must be prepared to extend itself beyond the individual world of confession and reminiscence and become the site where possible collective futures are negotiated. The Future of Memory therefore approaches memory not as the inviolable substance of individual identity, but rather as a function of ideologically charged social regulations. It is the place where concrete political practices express themselves as collective emotional dispositions; as such, it constitutes a network of shifting and contradictory values, which Perelman hopes to animate with a view to a more various and capacious form of sociality.
Perelman’s emphasis on memory sheds a great deal of light on the Language poets’ critiques of “persona-centered, ‘expressive’” poetry (Silliman et al. 261). In “Aesthetic Tendency And The Politics of Poetry,” the important contribution to Social Text which Perelman co-authored, for example, confessional poetry is aligned with a lyric disposition in which “experience is digested for its moral content and then dramatized and framed” (264). In this poetic tradition, “authorial ‘voice’ lapses into melodrama in a social allegory where the author is precluded from effective action by his or her very emotions” (265). However, it is important to note that the Language poets who authored this article distinguish themselves from the confessional tradition not through a wholesale rejection of the categories of self, memory, and experience, but rather through a poetically embodied critique of the specific forms of self, memory, and experience that confessionalism privileges. This is never a merely negative critique; on the contrary, it is one that attempts to broaden and reconstitute our understanding of subjective processes and their relation to the “beyond” of the subject. For instance, when the authors of “Aesthetic Tendency and the Politics of Poetry” compare their compositional practices to Coleridge’s “refusal to identify the I with the horizon of the ‘I,’ and thus with easily perceived moral categories” (266), when they recommend an “openness of the self” to “processes where the self is not the final term” (266), they are clearly proposing alternate models of subjectivity–models in which the “I” is in an animating and animated relation to the “not-I” (269). Perelman’s interrogation of the future of memory can therefore be understood as part of this larger ambition to multiply and complicate the forms of selfhood that poetry has at its disposal.
It is strangely appropriate, therefore, that The Future of Memory begins with a poem entitled “Confession.” Perelman admits in an interview that this is a provocative gesture, since confessional poetry has been the object of “great scorn” for the Language writers since the 1970s (Nichols 532). But again, this opening move is less surprising if we understand The Future of Memory‘s deep concern with problems of consciousness and subjectivity, and its consequent exploration of the forms of “poetic intentionality that oppose [themselves]… to the elision of consciousness that occurs in habitual constructions of belief” (Silliman et al. 266). This oppositional intentionality is expressed quite casually in the opening poem of The Future of Memory, in which Perelman assumes the confessional mode only to state: “aliens have inhabited my aesthetics for / decades” (9). In this succinct poetic statement, Perelman grounds himself mimetically in the camp images of postmodern public culture, while at the same time harnessing the utopian energy of this culture’s most characteristic fantasy: an “alien” form of life beyond the known horizons of current social formations. As he notes, this image confers a “transcendental gloss on the avant-garde by saying that it’s otherworldly, heavenly, in this case, alien” (Nichols 532). In other words, for Perelman the avant-garde is defined by its attempts to point beyond the horizons of the historical period to which it belongs; the essence of the avant-garde’s relation to historically futural modes of being therefore resides in its being captured or abducted by alien possibilities which express themselves unconsciously at the level of form. According to this model, poets do not heroically project themselves beyond historical determinacy, but are instead “inculcate[d]… with otherworldly forms” (Perelman, Future 11) whose import is necessarily opaque and un-masterable.
Clearly, Perelman’s dramatically fictional solution to the problem of avant-garde temporality is a joke that we cannot help but take seriously. Contained within it is a problem that has obsessed postmodernity: from what position might one inaugurate a contestatory relation to the meaning-systems of the present? Nevertheless, Perelman’s fantasy of an absolute Other lending the “naïve poet” its otherworldly agency calls attention to itself as a deus ex machina that saves the poet from phenomenological complexities that cannot be ignored for long (Future 11). Naturally, he acknowledges that there is “no Other of the Other”: “There’s no place from which to live a different life. So critical distance in that sense doesn’t seem possible. But what about provisional contingent critical distance within that world?… It doesn’t have to be outside that there’s a place for a fulcrum, it can be inside” (Nichols 536). Much of The Future of Memory can be understood as an attempt to anatomize the negotiatory practices capable of generating this “internal distance.” And to follow the “argument” of The Future of Memory we must be willing to imagine this space that is beyond the opposition of immanence and alterity. For Perelman, it is important that this space has an essentially futural character–in its first determination, it should be seen as a space in which the poet is actively lending himself to a possible future, whose contexts of understanding are necessarily unintelligible from his temporally anterior standpoint. The poet is to be imagined here as constantly operating on the margins of intelligibility, all the while trusting that his moments of incoherence are the formal harbingers of an emergent social configuration that will belatedly lend a coherence and practical intelligibility to his literary experiments.
There is thus a theory of historical time at work in The Future of Memory which is self-consciously in dialogue with Raymond Williams’s concept of emergent social formations. Perelman’s concept of avant-garde artistic practice hinges on the idea that the poet can make him/herself available to inarticulable “structures of feeling” which anticipate futural social practices. A historically anticipatory structure of feeling is defined by Williams as a “formation which, because it is at the very edge of semantic availability, has many of the characteristics of a pre-formation, until specific articulations–new semantic figures–are discovered in material practice” (Williams 134). This sense of poetry as the embodiment of historically proleptic half-meanings which an emergent historical community may “take up” with a view to practical action is essential to Perelman’s poetic method.1
A long poem entitled “The Womb of Avant-Garde Reason,” which serves as a centerpiece to The Future of Memory, gives life to this idea:

Here, Perelman is imagining the time lag that must take place between the composition of a poem and the various interpretive communities who will encounter the work in the future. He has faith that the process of temporalization that the text must undergo will allow future communities to realize the concrete practices that the amorphous half-meanings of his poem could be said to anticipate. He symbolizes this in the image of time sprouting legs and hands: changed historical circumstances will allow future readers to recuperate and lend propositional content to structures of feeling present in the poem only at the level of form. This will make possible a transliteration of poetic values into the everyday realm of “annoyances” and practical particulars. A “lien” is “a claim on the property of another as security against the payment of a just debt.”2 Perelman is saying that he has “given over” part of his being to the future, has surrendered his poetic property with the understanding that the future will “make good” the meanings that he has temporarily suspended, and that he cannot untangle by himself. But what form will this futural payback take? In what direction will the hermeneutic elaboration of Perelman’s text proceed? By the time one can ask these questions, the issue is already out of the poet’s hands: “others” are responsible for recasting the terms of Perelman’s text with a view to the future–one which, he hopes, will make possible “less destructive circumstances” and the “capacious translation between groups” (Nichols 538).
The “memory” Perelman evokes in The Future of Memory is therefore a combined function of both the poet and his temporally posterior interpretive communities. He is profoundly sensitive to what this essay will define in terms of a “cultural semantics.” The poet must be committed to “mutually contemplating the rhetorical force of–not words, but of historical sentences, phrases, genres” (Nichols 538). Existing beneath these macrohistorical semantemes, whose power to “interpellate and to stir up emotion” (538) Perelman alerts us to, there are the local articulative possibilities that he leads us to picture in terms of the shifting drives of Kristeva’s semiotic. Kristeva, we should recall, refers to anamnesis as the process whereby the semiotic is introduced into the symbolic in order to pluralize its significations (Revolution 112). For Perelman, the function of memory is similar. Its value resides not in its ability to provide the poet with Poundian historical exempla, which could serve as concrete existential alternatives to those provided by contemporary systems of value. Rather, memory refers to the process whereby poetic intentionality is capable of “carrying one back” to the level of a primordial sense of possible relations, similar to the condition of primary functional and social competence which characterizes infantile life. Here, then, we see the futural value of memory in The Future of Memory: memory is the function which enables the poet to inhabit a shifting and pre-articulate “social sense,” whose ability to lend itself to newly emergent social configurations aligns it with Williams’s structures of feeling.
Essential to the method and meaning of The Future of Memory, therefore, is the complex Kristevan thesis that our “intuitive” sense of possible social relations is rooted in the primordial regulation of our senses: a process that takes place when our affective and even our physical comportment toward others is first established in concert with symbolic (and therefore social) values which continue to hold sway throughout our adult lives. However, for Perelman, poetry is best suited to contest and complexify our social sense not when it strives to mimic the kinematics of the mother’s voice through a Kristevan “musicalization” of language. Rather, Perelman seeks to induct the reader into this primordial world of sense in a way that is necessarily and in the first instance disposed toward a constructive relation to a possible future. In other words, he establishes a relation to the world of “sense” not by amplifying the sound texture of his poems in order to evoke a Kristevan chora, but rather by precipitating a hermeneutic crisis that will force the reader to marshal all the values of emergent and half-cognized sense with a view to its various possible futural consummations.
“The future of memory” therefore designates a process that includes both the text as a document of sensed possibilities for affective recombination and the futural communities of readers whose concrete practices can lend these half-meanings a social intelligibility. The locus of memory’s futurality is therefore the mediating position of the reader–a reader who is continually “carried back” to the historically incipient senses of the text, while at the same time incorporating its primordial “feel” for new and capacious intersubjectivity into its concrete political strategies.
For Perelman, this mediative role of the reader is essential, because he strives to write a poetry that is socially prophetic yet escapes the phenomenological paradoxes of poetic “genius,” in which the writer is somehow capable of delivering a “message” which is “‘far ahead’ of its time” (Trouble 7). To be sure, poems such as “To the Future” partake of a general problematic of genius, in which the author lends his/her voice to futural possibilities that are unavailable to conscious articulation. In this poem, Perelman figures himself as writing “fake dreams” and “skittish prophecy” on the empty pages of books that have been “cleaned” in a kind of ideological laundromat (Future 40). Again, the ideological “distance” that the laundromat creates is of the same order as the alien visitation of “Confession.” Perelman emphasizes the absurdity upon which his own models of “genius” are founded, and yet allows their urgency to be registered beneath their kitschy exterior. In fact, his 1994 critical study, The Trouble with Genius, can be understood as an attempt to think through the paradoxes and necessities which such unstable moments of his own poetry express. In that text, he says of modernism: “While these works may have been written to express the originary, paradisal space where genius creates value, they do not travel directly to the mind of the ideal reader, the critic who accepts the transcendent claims of these works and the subsequent labor involved” (10). It is precisely by stressing the un-ideal character of the readerly function, therefore, that Perelman hopes to move beyond this modernist version of genius and the false models of pre-ideological “paradisal space” which his own laundromats of negativity parody.
To this end, Perelman focuses on what might be described as the “time lag” that exists between a text’s “signification” and the various interpretive “enunciations” the reader effects with respect to the values latent in the text. In this model, readership becomes the site of various mediations which serve to frustrate the seamless transmission of textual meaning to an ideal reader. As we have seen, the most important of these mediations has a historical provenance. The reader, for Perelman, is always historically futural–both in the sense that readership must inevitably come after authorship, and in the larger sense that this belatedness allows the reader to serve as a representative of all futural historical communities. This belatedness is essential, since he is writing for an audience that shares a set of social codes which is historically in advance of his own text. The fact that his text will only “realize” its meaning in the material practices to which these social codes correspond means that Perelman’s technical experiments can only emerge as socially “pre-formative” if a futural interpretive community belatedly accords them this status.
This is a significant departure from the modernist model of genius, because it means that it is ultimately up to “others” to determine the prophetic value of Perelman’s text, or to put the point more strongly, prophetic value is precisely what is missing from his text, and must be supplied by the interested and transformative readings that futural audiences will provide. It is therefore only by amplifying this “missing-ness” or incompletion in his text, while at the same time “calling out” to his audience’s sense of possible, but as yet undetermined, social practices, that Perelman can hope to be accorded a paradoxically belated proleptic significance. In this way, he abjures the totalizing centrality of properly avant-garde temporality, and institutes what he describes as a “post-avant-garde” poetic practice, which consists in an “acknowledgement that the social is all margins these days. Poetry–innovative poetry–explores this condition” (Nichols 542).
The Future of Memory employs this post-avant-garde poetic practice by calling out to be completed by the reader in various ways. One of Perelman’s most provocative gestures is his insertion of a darkened page into the middle of the volume–into the middle of another poem, in fact, which the piece of paper “interrupts.” This darkened page is entitled “A Piece of Paper,” and clearly evokes his desire to allow various external contexts of understanding to “intrude” upon his text and combine themselves with its meanings. The piece of paper is represented as “signifying others who speak and live or not they weren’t given air time and paper to ride this recursive point of entry” (71). The text’s blind spot is thus the existence of others as such, which Perelman can only virtually “presentify” in the image of a piece of paper coming from “without” the text and carrying alterity with it. When he invites the reader to “blink your blindness inside legibility” (71), he is hoping to extend our notion of textuality to include the unforeseeable acts of interpretation which his poem will elicit.
Another long poem, entitled “Symmetry of Past and Future,” expresses even more vividly the “post-avant-garde” dialectic that Perelman hopes to establish between text and reader:

The first thing to note here is that the facticity of the historical past is aligned with the facticity of Perelman’s own “plies of writing.” The pun on “executed” is important, since it suggests that the status of this textual and historical pastness as “already executed” serves to “execute,” or put to death, the agency of desire–a function allied with the movement of history and interpretation, as opposed to the fixity of official history and the written word. But in at least one case out of twenty, this execution has been granted a “reprieve”–something has been left “unwritten” in history (and in Perelman’s text) which calls out to the desire of the contemporary reader. This reader is oriented toward the “vanishing point” of the future; s/he thus occupies the site where the “blindnesses” of official history–its “missing” elements–can be “written into” an emergent meaning-system and rendered legible.
It is important, however, that the political desire of the contemporary reader is not free of a certain kind of facticity. Every attempt to move creatively into a possible future is performed against the backdrop of “involuntary memories” and psychological “reflexes” which limit the kinds of social relatedness that the contemporary reader can imagine and work towards. This explains why Perelman aligns this kind of historical “work” with the interpretive work that readers perform on texts. For him, the primordial world of “sensation” constitutes a kind of libidinal “text” whose emotional grammar is determined by the patterns of human relationality that hold sway during socialization. The attempt to expand this emotional grammar to include a more capacious form of collective relationality thus entails a return to this most primordial “text,” in the interest of elaborating and extending the “meanings” to which it is sensitive. And just as Perelman offers his own text as a document of inarticulate structures of feeling whose formal patterns (or “shapes”) he hopes will be rendered meaningful through the material practices which they anticipate, so does the world of “sense” constitute a half-written text which can be revisited with a view to renegotiating what makes “sense” in a given social formation.
In Perelman, then, we find a profoundly complex exploration of the historical determination of our deepest psychical structures and, more importantly, a reformulation of what it means to be avant-garde when this historicizing imagination is applied to the condition of the poet him/herself. Of course, this perspective is not new to Perelman or unique to him. Since at least the late 1970s, Language poetry has attempted to reconstitute the poetic avant-garde while remaining responsible to the theoretical complications of structuralist analysis and ideology critique. In fact, it is in his interventions from the early and middle 1980s that we find the meditations on sense and ideology most central to the strategies of The Future of Memory. In his contribution to the important Writing/Talks collection, appropriately entitled “Sense,” Perelman refers to an “invisible reified atemporal empire, this sense of decorum that’s backed by political power, that tries to define all language” (66). He is exploring here how the world of “sense” is determined and delimited by this ideological “empire,” but also how it can be imagined as a pre-semantic reserve which is capable of decomposing and temporalizing the illusive “atemporality” of reified social conditions. And as in “Symmetry of Past and Future,” the agency that is accorded “sense” is aligned with the interpretive mediations of textual meaning that historically situated readers embody.
A poem entitled “The Classics,” which was first published in Perelman’s 1981 collection, Primer, is included in his essay on “Sense,” and stands as a tripartite allegory of the origin of infantile consciousness, the transmission of textual meaning, and the dynamics of ideological interpellation and negotiation. As such, it usefully illustrates the basic conceptual relations between memory, textuality, and collective history that he animates in The Future of Memory:
In the beginning, the hand
Writes on water. A river
Swallows its author,
Alive but mostly
Lost to consciousness.Where’s the milk. The infant
Gradually becomes interested
In these resistances. (“Sense” 66)As a narrative of infantile consciousness, these first two stanzas suggest that at the beginning of life, “thought” is almost purely unconscious–it is figured as an instinctual, automatic hand, whose intentional marks are not registered by the fluid, unengravable medium of consciousness. As a narrative of the transmission of textual meaning, this would correspond to the modernist ideal that Perelman outlines in The Trouble with Genius: a pure and unmediated transcription in the reader’s mind of the author’s valuative systems.
Perelman explicitly draws this connection in his self-interpretation in “Sense”: “That’s Piaget’s theory that intelligence–it’s preprogrammed obviously, but–it gets triggered by the fact that you can’t find the breast very easily. So the sense behind here is of reader and writer being the infant, and the milk being meaning. The resistances are the words” (67). In other words, the author is the writing hand, the reader is the fluid medium of consciousness, and words are the “resistances” which interpose themselves between a pure authorial intention and an ideal reader. That is to say, words are the site of an irreducible mediation; they could be said to “get in the way” of an ideal transmission of authorial meaning to readerly consciousness. Instead of conveying a transparent meaning, words provoke an active process of “feeling out” meanings–an interpretive process which requires many half-conscious creative gestures, all oriented around enunciating the hidden or “ideal” meaning of the text in highly indeterminate ways. Similarly, “instinct” is the automatic hand that should lead the infant directly to the breast without any need for the mediations of half-consciously coordinated actions. But since the physical world presents “resistances” to the ideal, unconscious working of instinct, the infant must begin actively to “interpret” the world, in order to begin consciously coordinating its actions.
“Instinct” and “pure authorial meaning” are aligned here, then, because they are “preprogrammed” and should “ideally” produce subjects who are pure automatons: unconscious reflections of somatic drives or unalterable meaning-systems. The Future of Memory‘s concern with practices capable of generating critical “distance” from contemporary meaning-systems is thus clearly anticipated here. As we have seen in “Symmetry of Past and Future,” Perelman is concerned with a similarly “ideal” model of ideological preprogramming, in which ideology inscribes itself primordially as a kind of social “instinct,” determining human subjectivity even at the most basic level of “sense” or “sensation.” The consequences of this for Perelman’s own poetry are profound: he suggests that we should understand the transmission and assumption of authorial meaning as a moment within a larger process of ideological transmission–a process in which the subject assumes and “enunciates” the ideal “content” of ideology with an agency which could be described as having a hermeneutic provenance.3
In this sense of his own text’s implication in dynamics of ideological transmission, Perelman reflects Language writing’s awareness that the very legibility of a text depends upon the social meaning-system in which it exists.4 As Ron Silliman writes in “The Political Economy of Poetry,” “What can be communicated through any literary production depends on which codes are shared with its audience” (Silliman, Sentence 25). To make this point even more strongly, Silliman quotes Volosinov: “Any utterance is only a moment in the continuous process of verbal communication. But that continuous verbal communication is, in turn, only a moment in the continuous, all-inclusive, generative process of a given social collective” (22). This means that meaning as such is always implicated with the “generative process” of ideology; and this is a problem for writers who hope to assume an oppositional stance toward current social formations.
Perelman’s “solution” to this problem centers around a constitutive misprision which he sees as part and parcel of the reader’s relationship to ideology’s “message”:
Success is an ideal method.
For itself the sun
Is a prodigy of splendor.
It did not evolve. Naturally,
A person had to intervene.Children in stage C succeed.
Emotion is rampant. We blush
At cases 1 and 2. (“Sense” 67)In his prose commentary, Perelman alerts us to Quintillian’s tautological definition of clarity as “what the words mean” (“Sense” 67). But for Perelman the idea that words could “successfully” convey a transparent and universal meaning represents an impossible “ideal.”5 “Pure meaning,” perfect clarity, can only be conceived as an extra-human abstraction: a sun existing only “for itself,” removed from the processual “evolution” of syntax. In order for meaning to actualize itself, it must temporalize itself, subject itself to the interpretive interventions which language incites; it must constantly be reborn in a human world.
As a description of ideology’s perpetual re-birthing of itself in individual subjects, these passages are profoundly suggestive. Perelman suggests in these rather casually executed, but philosophically resonant, parataxes that if “ideology has the function of ‘constituting’ concrete individuals as subjects” (Althusser, Lenin 171), then concrete individuals simultaneously occupy a location where the subject(-matter), the discursive elaboration and performative accentuation of ideology, is negotiated. In Perelman’s developmental narrative in “The Classics,” therefore, as well as in his historical narratives in The Future of Memory, ideology is there from the beginning, as a kind of immanent textuality: an instinctual matrix which positions the subject in socially determined discursive fields. However, for Perelman the “content” or “meaning” of this ideological (sub)text is indistinguishable from the various interpretive enunciations it receives when its meaning is “realized” in the social being of individual subjects.6 This is important, since it means that ideology may be subjectively enunciated in ways that Bhabha describes as “catachrestic”–i.e., intentional or unintentional “misprisions” of ideology are always in danger of producing the embarrassing “bad subjects” referred to above as “cases 1 and 2.”7
Perelman hopes to introduce precisely such a transgressive enunciatory practice into the reader’s relation to his own text, but insofar as authorship and textual meaning are associated with the instinctual inscription by which ideology “textualizes” itself, he is faced with the difficulty of not being able to instantiate this transgressive practice “from the side of poetry.” Instead, a peculiar kind of memorial agency on the part of the reader is invoked:
Hidden quantities
In what he already knows
Eventually liberate a child
From the immediate present. (“Sense” 68)Again, the child here stands in, first, for the developmental subject as s/he becomes liberated from the automaticity of instinctual responses by actively assuming the functional patterns which were originally “lived” at a purely somatic level; second, s/he stands in for the subject of ideology, insofar as this subject, in its enunciative practices, gives shape to an imperative which in another essay Perelman jokingly expresses in profoundly voluntaristic terms: “I don’t want to be an automaton” (“First Person” 161); finally, s/he stands in for the readerly function, which can never be the automatic transcription of textual fact into objective meaning, but must rather express the irreducible mediation of interpretive enunciation.
This means, of course, that the “immediate present” of a unitary and inescapable textual meaning is as much a fiction as the unilateral “voicing” of ideology and the conative determinism of “instinct.”8 In each of the above cases, the mediacy of enunciation has always already corrupted the putative immediacy whereby the conative life of the subject, its ideological positionality and interpretive agency, could all be understood as direct and inevitable reflections of various somatic regulations, subject-positions, and semantic facta. The question that remains, then, is what these “hidden quantities” are, which allow for what Lacan describes as the “little freedom” of the subject in his/her comportment toward these various aspects of the Symbolic Order: i.e., the functional distribution of instinctual responses, the ideological totality of “effective discourse,” and the matrices of textual meaning.9
For the Perelman of The Future of Memory as much as for the Perelman of Primer, the answer resides in the “semiotic”–a primordial system of psychical “marks” which both forms the instinctual fundament of the symbolic, and exists as a labile force of “unsignifying” beneath its socially organized systems of value.10 In other words, what the subject “already knows” should be understood in terms of its participation in an ideological meaning-system, which can be imagined as a constellation of semantemes: discursive units that provide the most basic coordinates of what can “make sense” in a given culture. For Perelman, then, the “hidden quantities” in this semantic structure would be the even more primordial system of phonemes, which constitutes a semiotic reserve prior to, and yet organized by the horizon of possible meanings embodied in the semantemes. According to this analogy, the fact that individuals “automatically” sort the phonemic values they hear according to the lexical and semantic values with which their language-competence has made them familiar is the psycholinguistic parallel to a process of ideological automaticity.
In a 1980 essay entitled “The First Person,” Perelman quotes Jonathan Culler to help illustrate this point:
A speaker is not consciously aware of the phonological system of his language, but this unconscious knowledge must be postulated if we are to account for the fact that he takes two acoustically different sequences as instances of the same word and distinguishes between sequences which are acoustically very similar but represent different words. (150)11
The subject thus “already knows” how to make sense out of the pre-semantic semiotic elements which s/he encounters, but this knowledge is not conscious. In fact, in his juxtaposition of the above quote with another by Culler, which refers to the “variety of interpersonal systems” and “systems of convention” that define subjective functional operations (Perelman, “First Person” 151), Perelman means to stress that the “automaticity” that characterizes the individual’s relationship to the microcosm of individual speech-acts has its origin in the regulatory systems of a social macrocosm. However, Perelman’s notion is that if it were somehow possible to dwell at the level of the phoneme, and “consciously” to assume the seemingly instinctual movement from pre-semantic values to socially recognized meaning, one might be capable of multiplying the possible meanings of any individual speech-act in ways that are potentially contestatory. He provides the following gloss on the “hidden quantities” passage above: “My sense of connection here is: liberation from the present…. Somehow, the initial sense of the combinatorial power of language destroys this hierarchical frozen empire” (“Sense” 68).
If the transition from a phonemic sequence to a semantic ensemble to a socially guaranteed meaning is understood to occur immediately–i.e., according to the mythical temporality of Perelman’s “immediate present”–then the desemanticizing process whereby constituted meanings are allowed to dissolve into their phonemic “raw materials” offers the possibility of protracting the time lag which continually “liberates” the subject from what would otherwise be the mechanistic nightmare of semiotic unicity. In Perelman’s work up to and including The Future of Memory, the sense that it is possible to inhabit a semiotic space which is in principle separable from the social totality that organizes it into systems of meaning leads to an idealist agency that post-structuralism’s semiotic model of resistance has made familiar. He explains, in reference to one of his earlier talks, “I talked about Robert Smithson’s sense that if you stare at any word long enough, it fragments. You can see anything in it. It’s the axis of selection. We all have this file cabinet with a million cards. We can say anything” (“Sense” 75).
The phoneme thus comes to represent a space of radical non-identity, in which the semantic inheritances of a given social organization may be “broken down” and re-articulated. Perelman calls attention to the fact that it is only at a level beneath the signifier that this kind of absolute differentiation holds sway. In contradistinction to Saussurean linguistics, which stresses the fact that a signifier has meaning only in relation to another signifier, he references Jakobson’s idea that signifiers, while contrastive and significantly related, are already constituted as discrete ideational quanta: “Only the phoneme is a purely differential and contentless sign. Its sole… semiotic content is its dissimilarity from all other phonemes” (“Sense” 73).12 This is an important distinction, since for Perelman, the word is already heavily weighted with the values of socially organized meaning, whereas the phoneme is closer to what he describes in his essay as the physical world of “sense” (“Sense” 75). In other words, the perceptual ontology of language, the sonic texture of words, intimately tied to the physical coordination of the vocal apparatus, represents a pre-lexical universe of possible meaning, whose “contentlessness” ensures its status as a “beyond” of the constituted meanings that he hopes to challenge.
Of course, the alterity of the sensate, or the “semiotic,” with respect to the world of socially organized meaning, or the “symbolic,” is anything but pure, and should perhaps be designated as an “intimate alterity,” or extimité, to adopt Jacques-Alain Miller’s term.13 Kristeva’s work provides the most systematic articulation of this dialectic, and its importance has been registered by theorists of the Language movement since its inception. Famously, Kristeva’s chora is a modality of the semiotic which denotes the vocal and kinetic rhythms that primordially articulate instinctual functions “with a view” to their social organization. Kristeva writes:
We emphasize the regulated aspect of the chora: its vocal and gestural organization is subject to what we shall call an objective ordering [ordonnancement], which is dictated by natural or socio-historical constraints such as the biological difference between the sexes or family structure. We may therefore posit that social organization, always already symbolic, imprints its constraint in a mediated form which organizes the chora not according to a law (a term we reserve for the symbolic) but through an ordering. (26-27)
In other words, at the developmental phase when an infant’s instinctual responses are first becoming coordinated through its pre-linguistic interaction with the mother and the family structure, socially regulated symbolic positions are already ordering the infant’s pre-symbolic affective and motor dispositionality. This is important, since it means that the labile, pre-figurative world of the semiotic, which Perelman seeks to draw upon as an absolutely differential reserve of pre-symbolic and purely possible meanings, has already received the impress of symbolic agency, and the socially organized law which is its predicate. Even the semiotic beyond of the symbolic–the fractal world of phonemic distribution, sensorimotor articulation, sound as opposed to meaning–is subject to symbolic regulation, if not symbolic legislation.
In many ways, however, the undecidability of the semiotic, its combined determinacy and indeterminacy, its status as a primordial corollary of the symbolic which is nevertheless irreducible to the symbolic, is precisely what guarantees its value for a contestatory poetics such as Perelman’s. The semiotic emerges as a “moment” of the symbolic, which is somehow in excess of the symbolic–a moment which is therefore immanent in what we “already know,” but which represents the possibility of decomposing and reconfiguring “the known.”
In The Future of Memory and his recent critical work, Perelman is attempting to imagine ways that poetry could mobilize the semiotic with a view to such epistemological shifts. It is well known that for Kristeva, poetry is valuable because in it “the semiotic–the precondition of the symbolic–is revealed as that which also destroys the symbolic” (Revolution 50). In its amplification of the pre-figural rhythms and kinematics of language, poetry offers a glimpse of the dissolution of a symbolic whose unicity has become, in Kristeva’s terminology, “theologized.” This simultaneously sets in motion a process of resignification, in which the semiotic chora is raised to “the status of a signifier” (57), thereby rendering plural and multivalent the meanings that are allowed to accrue to any given constellation of linguistic performances.
It is important to stress this resignificatory moment in Kristeva, since it constitutes the difference between Kristeva’s dialectic of signifiance and what she calls the dérive: the “‘drifting-into-non-sense’… that characterizes neurotic discourse” (51). Likewise, in critical statements that anticipate The Future of Memory‘s strategies, Perelman is very careful to distinguish himself from what one might describe as purely “semiotizing” appropriations of Kristevan thought–ones that concentrate on pure “deterritorialization” and “decoding,” without the complementary re-assertion of emergent identities in what Kristeva calls the “second-degree thetic” (Revolution 50). In reference to the early formulations of poets such as Ron Silliman and Steve McCaffery, George Hartley can point quite casually to the “Reference-Equals-Reification argument” in which thetic signification as such is irremediably aligned with the values of existing ideological meaning-systems (Hartley 34). But far more complicated lines of enquiry into textual politics have been opened up from within the camp of Language poetry itself. Along with Perelman, Barrett Watten is at the forefront of this enquiry, interrogating how it might be possible to refer the moment of resignification beyond the immanence of Kristeva’s textual dialectic, and toward a more “total syntax” which would include a holistic social “situation” as the site of such a reterritorializing agency.14
In an essay entitled “Building a More Powerful Vocabulary: Bruce Andrews and the World (Trade Center),” Perelman engages precisely this debate by focusing on his fellow Language poet’s demand for “‘a structuralist anti-system poetics’… that would disrupt transparent reference” (119). Perelman writes:
Andrews recognizes the problem that his call for such subversion raises. By its processes of interchangeability multinational capital has already produced a radical dislocation of particulars. Marx’s “All that is solid melts into air” can in fact be read as saying that capitalism is constantly blowing up its own World Trade Centers in order to build newer ones. If this is true, then “to call for a heightening of these deterritorializing tendencies may risk a more homogenizing meaninglessness… an ‘easy rider’ on the flood tide of Capital.” (119)
Perelman is quoting from Andrews’s essay, “Constitution / Writing, Language, Politics, the Body,” which builds upon an earlier submission to the seminal “Politics of Poetry” number of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, in which Andrews called for a poetics of “subversion”: “an anti-systemic detonation of settled relations, an anarchic liberation of energy flows. Such flows, like libidinal discharges, are thought to exist underneath & independent from the system of language. That system, an armoring, entraps them in codes & grammar.”15 Perelman objects to the Kristevo-Deleuzian rhetoric of libidinal flow and “deterritorialization,” because he holds out hope for a semiotic process that could “join the center and make it more various” (“Building” 128), rather than foreclosing all “investment in present-tense collectivities” (126) in a desemanticizing process dangerously similar to the “flood tide of Capital” which it hopes to contest.
Again, one must note that both Kristeva and Deleuze are more complex than this anarchizing application of them might suggest; every Deleuzian decoding process has “conjunctive synthesis” as its dialectical complement,16 just as every Kristevan encounter with the semiotic drives is completed in its secondary thetic phase. But what Perelman demands we consider much more closely is how a textual practice might intervene in this dialectic in such a way that both its decoding and, most crucially, its recoding moments might embody a process of signifiance which does not merely pluralize meanings according to the expansionist and dispersive logic of capitalist production, but instead might offer a locale in which meanings may be contested in ways that are both determinate and politically transitive. In The Future of Memory, this requires that we go beyond the Kristevan dictum “musicalization pluralizes meanings” (Revolution 65) and instead begin to explore the historical relation of reader to text, the kinds of interpretive agency this relationship makes available, and the possibility that a text’s political semantics may ultimately be evolved in an extra-textual process very different from the historical avant-garde’s ambition to “sublate society into art” (Perelman, Trouble 4).
In fact, The Future of Memory‘s emphasis on political transformations that must occur beyond the text allows Perelman to resolve contradictions that remain aporetic and disabling in his prose work:
If language is made up of units, broken apart as all things are by capitalism, and if nothing new is created beyond the horizon of the phrase or the sentence, then these new, charged units would still depend on capital for energy to band together in momentary transgression…. To avoid this conclusion I think it is necessary to posit… a writer for whom the aesthetic sphere forms an autonomous space. Within this space, however, the notion of political art would be a metaphor if not an oxymoron. (“Building” 130)
Here, Perelman is registering the fear that the “resignificatory” moment that poetic texts make available must derive its coherence and epistemological valence from the larger social meaning-system in which these texts are situated. And unless one is to fall prey to what Peter Middleton calls the “linguistic idealism” inherent in the belief that avant-garde texts punctually and empirically reconstitute this system (Middleton 246), one must confront the proposition that even the most radical recombinative strategies necessarily leave the historical ground of their intelligibility uncontested.
In the above essay, reprinted in the 1996 The Marginalization of Poetry, Perelman’s impossible solution to this problem is to suggest that art could constitute an autonomous meaning-system, capable of challenging the current one without borrowing any of its terms. But such a phantasmal art-practice would necessarily be removed from the contemporary horizon of possible significations in a way that would render it perfectly unintelligible, and thus politically unviable. Notice, however, that in the above passage he allows room for an epistemological contingency that is not generated from an impossibly isolated creative locale, but partakes of a historical process of transformation which is beyond the horizon of merely textual agency. To rephrase Perelman, “if something new is created beyond the horizon” of the text–in other words, if an extra-textual process of social transformation makes available a new organization of socially coded meanings–then the “broken units” of his poetry could be resignified according to the values of a newly emergent meaning-system, and come to express the structures of feeling that predate this system’s concrete practices.17
This sense that a historically futural readership may be able to “charge” Perelman’s text in unforeseeable ways, and that the poet should therefore create enclaves of non-meaning in order to call out to these supplementary futural meanings, is what makes The Future of Memory such a brilliant and strange document of “post-avant-garde” poetic practice. The “memory” of The Future of Memory evokes the text’s ambition to carry the reader back to the pre-semantic level of Kristeva’s semiotic–the shifting territory where social meanings are pluralized and rendered fluid. Kristeva recognizes that meaningful social practice is impossible at this level, and therefore posits the “second-degree thetic,” which represents–at the level of the text and of the social dialectic which it “joins”18–“a completion [finition], a structuration, a kind of totalization of semiotic motility” (51). But The Future of Memory exceeds these formulations by insisting that the practical completion and structuration of the text’s semiotic processes cannot be performed by the text itself. Perelman, one might say, gestures beyond certain kinds of “linguistic idealism” by separating the practices of the text from the practices of society. And yet the responsibility of the text to a larger social dialectic is maintained in Perelman’s sense that poetry should dispose itself toward a collective future, and surrender its meanings over to futural communities whose concrete practices will constitute an extra-textual “thetic” phase in the significatory process.
This is why The Future of Memory so often offers itself as a kind of unconscious love letter to the future. The final passage from “Symmetry of Past and Future” is an eloquent example of the text’s solicitation of its unknown readers:Perelman is giving his love to the material circumstances of his futural readers, lobbing his poem into this unknowable future, in the hope that this world of particulars will confer a social legibility on his text’s illegibilities. It is important that “Symmetry of Past and Future” ends on a note of radical asymmetry, its incomplete final sentence and concluding comma imploring the reader to complete the poem with meanings unavailable to Perelman in his historically prior and epistemologically determinate condition. And as in the first passage we examined from this poem, this determinacy is figured as a form of embodiment here. He seems to be lamenting the fact that a “sense” of possible forms of affective relationality is always rooted in the psycho-somatic constitution of specific historical individuals. If “sense” were somehow capable of emancipating itself from the body, and thus from the various symbolic regulations that express themselves at the somatic level, then one’s sense of possible “social intersection[s]” and “interaction[s]” (Nichols 536) could develop itself in complete freedom from the restrictive symbolic positions which the current social formation has to offer.
The impossibility of this kind of freedom is indicated by the poet’s sense of his own body as an obstacle. His body represents the fact that “sense” is always an embodied possibility attempting to project itself toward the eternally futural “day” when sense will be able to legislate to itself the terms of its own most primordial constitution–in other words, the utopian day when our affective comportment toward each other will be able to create itself ever anew, without the “obsessive” historical work of symbolic revision and negotiation.Until that day–“a day that will / never die”–Perelman’s future is “the future of memory.”
Notes
1. In his “Language Poetry and Linguistic Activism,” Peter Middleton draws the connection to Williams by defining Language poetry as an emergent cultural formation, which “cannot fully comprehend itself within the available terms of the pre-existent social order, nor can it be fully comprehended from within that knowledge produced by the dominant order” (Middleton 244).
2. Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary, Second Edition.
3. The notions of “enunciation” and “time lag” are both derived from Homi Bhabha. In The Location of Culture, Bhabha references Stuart Hall’s use of the “linguistic sign as a metaphor for a more differential and contingent political logic of ideology: ‘The ideological sign is always multi-accentual, and Janus-faced–that is, it can be discursively rearticulated to construct new meanings, connect with different social practices, and position social subjects differently’” (Bhabha 176). Enunciation therefore refers to the process whereby “customary, traditional practices” are resignified in order to express “displacements and realignments that are the effects of cultural antagonisms and articulations–subverting the rationale of the hegemonic moment and relocating alternative, hybrid sites of cultural negotiation” (178). “Time lag” thus refers to the discursive space which opens up between Bhabha’s “hegemonic moment” of the ideological sign and the dialogic, contestatory processes of its “articulation” as discourse, narrative and cultural practice.
4. For example, the terminology of “social meaning-systems” and much of the terminology of this essay is derived from Bruce Andrews’s formulations, esp. the important “Total Equals What: Poetics and Praxis.”
5. Perelman writes: “when everybody understands what it’s saying, the words seem perfectly transparent and it all seems ideal” (“Sense” 67).
6. The conceptual framework for this account of ideology obviously owes much to Althusser’s well-known account of knowledge-production, but the emphasis on negotiation or re-inscription is decidedly post-Althusserian, and is represented most recognizably in recent works such as Tom Cohen’s Ideology and Inscription. In Althusser’s account of the three Generalities, contemporary knowledge-production “always works on existing concepts, ‘Vorstellungen,’ that is, a preliminary Generality I of an ideological nature” (184). However, for Althusser, there is always the possibility that knowledge qua “science” might come to “break with ideology” (191). For Cohen, and the intellectual milieu which guarantees his book’s legibility, this is no longer an option, and epistemological breaks of even the most radical order must be seen as revisionary re-inscriptions of the terms of extant ideology. For Cohen, then, “inscription” refers both to the way in which present knowledge production (Generality II) is determined (inscribed) by previous abstract generalities, and to the way it redefines (inscribes) the terms of this extant “raw material” with a view to the production of new concrete generalities (183). “On the one hand, inscription in this premimetic sense seems encountered as a kind of facticity, as the crypt of some reigning or deterritorialized law, once posited and installed. On the other hand, it is precisely in the non-site of inscription that the possibility of historical intervention and the virtual arise” (Cohen 17). But since the ideological process of “being inscribed” (4) is effective at the deepest levels of our being–in the ways we “narrate” our very “perception and experience” (17), it is difficult to know how and when it is possible for genuine “reinscription” to occur–i.e., the process whereby the “instituted trace-chain is disrupted, suspended” so that “alternatives to programmed historicist models can appear accessed” (17). For Cohen, however, the domain of “the aesthetic” represents a central site of “conceptual remapping,” which “is linked to a programming of the senses by mnemo-inscriptive grids” (11). This emphasis on the pre-figural world of “the senses” and the way in which this world is ideologically “programmed,” resonates very clearly in Perelman’s work, and helps contextualize his own sense of the poem as a site of “conceptual remapping.”
7. Again, the notion of “time-lag” is crucial to this understanding of catachresis: “I have attempted to provide the discursive temporality, or time-lag, which is crucial to the process by which this turning around–of tropes, ideologies, concept metaphors–comes to be textualized and specified in postcolonial agency: the moment when the ‘bar’ of the occidental stereotomy is turned into the coextensive, contingent boundaries of relocation and reinscription: the catachrestic gesture” (Bhabha 184).
8. On ideological “voicing,” see Bhabha’s “Signs Taken for Wonders” in The Location of Culture, especially “the voice of command” (116).
9. In “The Subversion of the Subject and the Dialectic of Desire in the Freudian Unconscious,” Lacan refers to the unconscious as a chain of signifiers which “insists on interfering in the breaks offered it by the effective discourse and the cogitation that it informs” (Lacan 297). However, “effective discourse” refers for Lacan not just to analytic discourse, but more profoundly, to the historically determinate “symbolic form” which it reproduces, and which guarantees its intelligibility (296). I mean to evoke this latter meaning here, whereby effective discourse is understood as an intersubjective knowledge-formation, derived from the historical punctuality of the Symbolic, and representing its various imaginary sedimentations.
10. Kristeva gives this particular valence to the term “un-signifying” in her Revolution in Poetic Language (65). The English term “instinctual,” which I use above, is Strachey’s translation of Freud’s trieblich. However, the naturalistic connotations of the English term risk foreclosing the sense of the drives’ availability to social regulation. Unfortunately, English has no corresponding word for the German evocation of “drive-ly” forces. See J. Laplanche and J.-B. Pontalis, The Language of Psychoanalysis.
11. Cited from Jonathan Culler, Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics, and the Study of Literature.
12. Cited from Roman Jakobson, Six Lectures on Sound and Meaning.
13. See Jacques-Alain Miller, “Extimité.”
14. See Barrett Watten, “Total Syntax: The Work in the World.” Watten’s interventions on this topic are many and various; especially important seems his recent attention to “emergent social meaning,” in which a formal dialectic of romantic particularity and contextual disjunction dynamizes and defamiliarizes a public sphere which is thereby called upon to revise and reformulate itself. See Brito’s “An Interview with Barrett Watten,” in which the private oppositionality of a graffito image is seen as “emerging from a blanketed and negated background into ‘saying something’ it can scarcely recognize” (21). For Watten, this emblematizes poetic practices in which “private language qualifies the public and creates a new ground on which instrumental meanings can be modified and redefined” (21). Also relevant are his recent articles, “The Secret History of the Equal Sign: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Between Discourse and Text” and “The Constructivist Moment: From El Lissitzky to Detroit Techno.”
15. Bruce Andrews, “Writing Social Work & Political Practice,” L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E 9/10 (Oct. 1979), unpaginated. The quoted passage appears on page 17 of the reprinted essay in Bruce Andrews, Paradise & Method: Poetics and Practice.
16. See Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. In this system, conjunctive synthesis corresponds to a function called the “celibate machine” which denotes the dialectical eventuation of “a new humanity or a glorious organism” (17).
17. This sense of intuited half-meanings which precede concrete practices is expressed in the great paradox of Marx’s introduction to the Grundrisse–i.e., that the simplest categories of politico-economic thought are only conceptually available once they have been complexified as the expression of manifold and juridically mediated concrete relations. For example, possession, in its abstract simplicity, is only available to thought once the complex system of property relations has been constituted as a concrete category in which “possession” denotes a host of possible relations between families, clan groups, masters and servants, etc. And yet, Marx speculates about conditions under which an abstraction may lead an “antediluvian existence” before it has become the expression of fully developed concrete relations (Marx 101). In such a case, “the simple categories are the expressions of relations within which the less developed concrete may have already realized itself before having posited the more many-sided connection or relation which is mentally expressed in the more concrete category” (102). This means that one might posit a moment of emergent simplicity in which liminally concrete relations could find expression only in pre-categorical figurative modes, or what Raymond Williams describes as “structures of feeling” (Williams, esp. 128-135). I would suggest that Perelman’s method takes shape as a self-conscious deployment of precisely such pre-conceptual forms of historical abstraction: forms that “call out” to the futural system of instituted, concrete relations which alone will render their import intelligible.
18. See Revolution in Poetic Language: “And thus, its complexity unfolded by its practices, the signifying process joins social revolution” (61).
19. I retain Perelman’s misspelling of “obsessiveness” in this passage, since this particular “illegibility” radiates poetic value, even in the absence of a readable authorial sanction. Perelman deletes the word in the revised version of the poem which appears in Ten to One: Selected Poems (216).
Works Cited
- Althusser, Louis. For Marx. Trans. Ben Brewster. New York: Verso, 1969.
- —. Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. Trans. Ben Brewster. New York: Monthly Review Press, 1971.
- Andrews, Bruce. “Constitution / Writing, Language, Politics, the Body.” L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E 4 (1981). Ed. Bruce Andrews and Charles Bernstein. Combined issue with Open Letter 5.1 (Winter 1982): 154-165.
- —. Paradise & Method: Poetics and Praxis. Evanston, IL: Northwestern UP, 1996.
- —. “Total Equals What: Poetics & Praxis.” Poetics Journal 6 (1986): 48-61.
- —. “Writing Social Work & Political Practice.” L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E 9/10 (Oct. 1979), unpaginated.
- Bhabha, Homi. The Location of Culture. London and New York: Routledge, 1994.
- Brito, Manuel. “An Interview with Barrett Watten.” Aerial 8. Washington, DC: Edge Books, 1995: 15-31.
- Cohen, Tom. Ideology and Inscription: “Cultural Studies” After Benjamin, de Man, and Bakhtin. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998.
- Culler, Jonathan. Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics, and the Study of Literature. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1975.
- Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Helen R. Lane. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1983.
- Jakobson, Roman. Six Lectures on Sound and Meaning. Trans. John Mepham. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1978.
- Hartley, George. Textual Politics and the Language Poets. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1989.
- Kristeva, Julia. Revolution in Poetic Language. Trans. Margaret Waller. New York: Columbia UP, 1984.
- Lacan, Jacques. Écrits: A Selection. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1977.
- Laplanche, J. and J.-B. Pontalis. The Language of Psychoanalysis. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1973.
- Marx, Karl. Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy. Trans. Martin Nicolaus. New York: Penguin Books, 1973.
- Middleton, Peter. “Language Poetry and Linguistic Activism.” Social Text 8.3-9.1 (1990): 242-53.
- Miller, Jacques-Alain. “Extimité.” Lacanian Theory of Discourse: Subject, Structure, and Society. Ed. Mark Bracher, Marshall Alcorn, Jr., Ronald J. Cortell and Francoise Massardier-Kenney. New York: New York UP, 1994. 74-87.
- Nichols, Peter. “A Conversation with Bob Perelman.” Textual Practice 12.3 (Winter 1998): 525-43.
- Perelman, Bob. “Building a More Powerful Vocabulary: Bruce Andrews and the World (Trade Center).” Arizona Quarterly 50.4 (Winter 1994): 117-31. Rpt. in The Marginalization of Poetry: Language Writing and Literary History. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1996. 96-108.
- —. “The First Person.” Talks: Hills 6/7. Ed. Bob Perelman. San Francisco: Hills, 1980.
- —. The Future of Memory. New York: Roof Books, 1998.
- —. The Marginalization of Poetry: Language Writing and Literary History. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1996.
- —. Primer. Berkeley: This, 1981.
- —. “Sense.” Writing/Talks. Ed. Bob Perelman. Carbondale and Edwardsville, IL: Southern Illinois UP, 1985. 63-86.
- —. Ten to One: Selected Poems. Hanover, CT: Wesleyan UP/UP of New England, 1999.
- —. The Trouble with Genius: Reading Pound, Joyce, Stein, and Zukofsky. Berkeley: U of California P, 1994.
- Silliman, Ron. The New Sentence. New York: Roof Books, 1985.
- Silliman, Ron, Carla Harryman, Lyn Hejinian, Steve Benson, Bob Perelman, Barrett Watten. “Aesthetic Tendency And The Politics Of Poetry: A Manifesto.” Social Text 19/20 (Fall 1988): 261-75.
- Watten, Barrett. “The Constructivist Moment: From El Lissitzky to Detroit Techno.” Qui Parle 11.1 (Winter 1997): 57-100.
- —. “The Secret History of the Equal Sign: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Between Discourse and Text.” Poetics Today (Winter 1999): 581-627.
- —. “Total Syntax: The Work in the World.” Total Syntax. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1985. 65-114. Rpt. in Artifice and Indeterminacy: An Anthology of New Poetics. Ed. Christopher Beach. Tuscaloosa: The U of Alabama P, 1998. 49-69.
- Williams, Raymond. Marxism and Literature. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1977.
-
“Hip Librarians, Dweeb Chic: Romances of the Archive.” A review of Suzanne Keen. Romances of the Archive in Contemporary British Fiction. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 2001.
Amy J. Elias
Department of English
University of Tennessee
aelias2@utk.eduSuzanne Keen. Romances of the Archive in Contemporary British Fiction. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 2001.
“Understanding, which separates men from brutes,” writes Suzanne Keen of Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene, “amounts to an enumeration of debts” (69). This statement asserts that in Spenser’s narrative world, comprehension of a state of social reality is possible through something called “understanding”; that such understanding results from uniquely human processes of ratiocination; and that this understanding can be produced only through a comprehensive training of the intellect that includes the study of history, defined as knowledge of the wisdom and ethical questing of previous human generations who have shaped the present. Examining the importance of historical knowledge to Spenser’s work is hardly shocking in the context of Early Modern studies, but encountering a critic who takes Spenser’s position as a starting point for a study of the post-imperial moment in British fiction gives one whiplash. Keen’s Romances of the Archive in Contemporary British Fiction does just this: it asserts that Spenser’s romance begins a tradition that, despite postmodernist countercurrents, remains vigorous and has even gained cultural force in the novels of the last few decades.
This is a (sub)genre study: the genre is the novel, the subgenre is detective fiction (with traces of the historical novel), and the sub-subgenre is the “romance of the archive.” Keen defines seven characteristics of the romance of the archive: it contains character-researchers, endowed with the corporeality and round psychology of the realistic novel; romance adventure stories, in which research features as a kernel plot action, resulting in strong closure, with climactic discoveries and rewards; discomforts and inconveniences suffered in the service of knowledge; sex and physical pleasure gained as a result of questing; settings and locations containing collections of papers; material traces of the past revealing the truth; and evocation of history, looking back from a post-imperial context (63).
The book’s thesis is that there has been a resurgence of interest in sleuthing in contemporary British fiction, but that this sleuthing has taken a special form: academic and non-professional researchers (“questers”) are main characters of novels, and the goal of these characters is to investigate the past through archival research. Their objective is to arrive at some truth about the past, and more often than not, after doing investigative research in libraries or private collections, they do indeed find this previously hidden truth. These “romances of the archive” thus are a traditionalist narrative rejoinder to the proliferation of mid- and late twentieth-century postmodernist experimental fiction. Keen complicates this thesis by arguing that these books form a conservative sub-genre that reflects the need to assert British heritage in the face of England’s traumatic loss of imperial and colonialist status in the late twentieth century. The romance of these novels–their construction of the researcher as “questor” and their frequent assertion through plot construction that it is possible to “seek and find solid facts, incontrovertible evidence, and well-preserved memories of times past”–is what links them to the Spenserian tradition of romance, as well as to detective fiction, gothic fiction, and conspiracy thrillers (à la John Le Carré).
Keen approves of these novels; it is clear throughout the study that she is not sympathetic with postmodernism’s insistent interrogation of cultural metanarratives. She is also distrustful of much recent “theory”: this is not a book participating in the (increasingly self-referential) theoretical conversation about postcolonialism and globalization. In this book, Keen does not feel compelled to make sweeping claims about British culture or global capitalism. She focuses her analysis on specific novels, and while working out the whys and wherefores of this fiction, she keeps theoretical musings to a minimum. The book is tightly focused on literature itself, making claims about literary history and using historical context to reveal rationales for literary construction.
However, Keen avoids being hermetically sealed within a formalist method, for she historicizes this British fiction in the context of post-Suez and post-Falklands political anxiety, debates about the teaching of history in British schools, and the real-world attitudes of contemporary British writers toward their homeland, toward history, and toward narrative. In her analysis of Peter Ackroyd’s work, she quotes from his papers, housed at the Beinecke Library at Yale University; when making claims about British history as an area study today, she quotes from documents relating contemporary controversies in England concerning the National Curriculum for History. Her twenty-one page bibliography attests to her fastidious research. Clearly, Keen has the kind of archival sensibility that she identifies in her subject. Romances of the Archive is itself a “romance of the archive” in many ways, a tour de force of literary criticism that assumes that answers can be found through the practice of rational critical investigation.
Keen recognizes that “even the fluffiest romances of the archive” are freighted with “political visions of contemporary Britain and its relation to its past” (60). While novels such as Barry Unsworth’s Sugar and Rum and Sacred Hunger complicate and criticize the British past, novels such as Peter Ackroyd’s Chatterton reveal “a fundamental romanticism” about history that values connections between the present and the past. At the other side of the continuum, a novel such as A.S. Byatt’s Possession defends British heritage against a postmodern attack on history. Thus these romances of the archive run the gamut from postmodernist critique to neo-conservative assertion of nationalist history. These
romances of the archive...show fictional characters endeavouring to come to terms with a British past unexpurgated of its rough patches. Gravitating to the gaps in school history, revisiting glorious episodes with a critical eye, and attempting to recuperate heritage sensations from periods rendered inert or shameful by academicians, romancers of the archive enact and criticize their culture's fascination with the uses of the past. (109)
Yet in the final analysis, Keen asserts, many of these contemporary British novels are epistemologically traditionalist, overtly supporting modern humanist values and repudiating the supposed “crisis in history”: “they unabashedly interpret the past through its material traces; they build on a foundation of ‘documentarism,’ answering the postmodern critique of history with invented records full of hard facts” (3). In addition, these novels often are politically conservative, reviving a Whig interpretation of history and rebuilding a nationalist pride in Britishness. While she has sympathy with their support of modern rationalism, Keen is much more skeptical and critical of these novels’ defensiveness about the British national past. With touches of acerbic wit, she often points out their ideological contradictions. For example, when discussing Byatt’s Possession, which pits theory-sodden and status-seeking American academics against English amateur researchers in a race to find valuable historical documents, she notes that Byatt writes as if British heritage were at stake: the amateur British sleuths represent pure, disinterested research that will serve as the basis of true British history and autonomy, both threatened by American materialism and cultural imperialism. Byatt therefore “plays the heritage card in defence of literary history. When she invokes the competing literature of American and postcolonial writers, Byatt places Britain and British writing in the sympathetic role of underdog. The fact that British libraries and museums still contain treasure troves gathered from around the world lies concealed, for Byatt does not invite closer scrutiny of the imperial history of collecting and acquisition” (60).
Keen is right to note that the Right’s attitudes toward the “postmodernists” closely resemble those found in romances of the archive: that is, they construct a new arena for the ancients vs. the moderns debate, pitting postmodernism against the keepers of the culture (what Keen would call the heritage preservationists). While in the 1980s this conservative contingent railed against secular humanists in the academy, in the 1990s and later they tended to decry the ascendancy of the “postmoderns,” who strip secular humanism of its utopian social action agendas and even of its basic assumptions about human agency, reality, truth, and meaning.
What Keen doesn’t consider as deeply is that these novels critique and re-present not just a politically conservative need to assert British heritage over academic history, but also the turn toward history and archival research in academic theory since the 1970s. Great Britain played a large role in the genesis of this trend. Fueled by the events of 1968, the turn to history was indebted to an influx of ideas from outlets such as the New Left Review; the growth of cultural studies at the Birmingham Center for Contemporary Cultural Studies (founded in 1964) under the influence of, first, social science inquiry and then, later, the Marxist work of Louis Althusser and the cultural studies work of Stuart Hall; and the cultural materialist work of Raymond Williams. Combined with the development of New Historicism and neo-Marxist (or poststructuralist Marxist) theories in the U.S. and the general “crisis in history” perceived in all disciplines but especially in history, the post-1960s academy on both sides of the Atlantic has fueled ferocious debates about history and repeatedly advocated that we return to it as the wellspring of understanding. In its poststructuralist forms, this theoretical return to history has implied that we can get some “truth” about history from our archival research, even if that truth is the truth about historical contingency. For Marxist theorists, this is not an implication but an imperative: Fredric Jameson’s injunction to “Always historicize!” asserts that there is a point to historical research, that digging in the archives leads to some real revelation about the past that is provisional only in the sense that it may be incomplete. Keen is justifiably skeptical about the ultimate significance of what transpires in the arcane world of academic theory. But this turn to history in influential British academic centers such as the Birmingham Center clearly needs to be credited with a certain real impact, not only in Britain but in universities throughout the world. And it needs, as well, to be differentiated from the “postmodernist perspectives on history” that Keen constructs as the antithesis of archival romance.
As the notion of an acting self was increasingly attacked by the notion of the constructed subject in post-1960s linguistic and Foucauldian theories, Marxist and other social justice theories scrambled to find a way to repudiate or modify the idea of social determinism of the psyche without relinquishing the idea of the economic and/or cultural determinism of lived experience. As the century drew to a close, even the more linguistic or seemingly formalistic strains of poststructuralism had turned back to the problem of self and ethics, worrying the paradox of (historically situated) ethical action in the face of subject construction. The Left was turning to history with a vengeance and puzzling out its own theoretical self-contradictions as a result. The confusing result was often that both the Left and the Right attacked postmodernism as the bogeyman of history and social justice (the Left calling it fascist and the Right calling it nihilist). Postmodernist theory became the Other to both sides of the political spectrum in the “theory wars.” The relationships among the turn to a traditional belief in history in romances of the archive, the coterminous return to a belief in historical research in academic Leftist theory, and the demand for a return to history by the conservative Right on both sides of the Atlantic could be elucidated a good deal more clearly in this study.
Keen’s book, however, not only gives useful readings of specific works of fiction but also posits a social significance for the rise of this particular subgenre at this particular moment in British history. Keen discusses fiction by Julian Barnes, A.S. Byatt, Penelope Lively, Barry Unsworth, Peter Ackroyd, Kingsley Amis, Lindsay Clarke, Lawrence Norfolk, Nigel Williams, P.D. James, Robert Harris, Peter Dickinson, Margaret Drabble, Alan Hollinghurst, Adam Mars-Jones, Robert Goddard, Stevie Davies, Derek Walcott, Keri Hulme, Amitav Ghosh, and Bharati Mukherjee. A dual focus on technique and thematic subject leads her to interesting linkages. For example, she links detective fiction to romance through their shared “questing for truth,” a claim that runs counter to many studies of detective fiction that regard it as the genre most aligned with realism and modernity, particularly in its assumptions that deductive logic and humanist values can solve the puzzles of the universe. The romance of the archive incorporates detective fiction’s rationalist questing but adds to it romance’s “theological, political, and personal frames of reference for making moral and ethical judgments about human behaviour” (157). For example, in her chapter “Envisioning the Past,” Keen discusses novels that scrutinize the archival past to re-evaluate expectations of gender roles and sexual orientation and concludes that these novels tend toward the uncanny and a libidinal narrative experimentation. In the last chapter, “Postcolonial Rejoinders,” she unflinchingly discusses how English writers often display a “nostalgia, defensiveness, and anxiety” about British colonial history that includes “regret about Britain’s decline in global status and annoyance at the complaints of postcolonial subjects” (215). These writers, she believes, attempt to manage the anxieties of the post-Falklands decades by offering a “reassertion of British glory” (230).
Keeping her focus tightly trained on realist literature and British literary history, Keen observes the psychology of contemporary British writers often ignored by critics trained on avant-garde or postcolonial fiction. Keen offers a study of the British realist novel in a post-imperial age, a discussion of the mainstream center rather than the postcolonial border. Her book is written clearly (this is a critical study that undergraduate students could actually read and understand) and could be used as the basis for a special topics course on contemporary British fiction, particularly in this subgenre. Romances of the Archive is a nuanced account of contemporary British fiction that analyzes the way that romances of the archive are indeed romances, incorporating presentism, antiquarianism, and humanist (even theological) values. What Keen’s own archival and critical quest has revealed–essentially, a new mode of literary nationalism–certainly deserves our further attention.
-
Adorno Public and Private
Steven Helmling
University of Delaware
English Department
helmling@UDel.EduA review of:
- Adorno, T.W. History and Freedom: Lectures 1964-1965. Ed. Rolf Tiedemann. Trans. Rodney Livingstone. Cambridge: Polity, 2006.
- —. Letters to His Parents: 1939-1951. Ed. Christoph Gödde and Henri Lonitz. Trans. Wieland Hoban. Cambridge: Polity, 2006.
- —, and Thomas Mann. Correspondence 1943-1955. Ed. Christoph Gödde and Thomas Sprecher. Trans. Nicholas Walker. Cambridge: Polity, 2006.
- Gerhardt, Christina, ed. “Adorno and Ethics.” Special issue of New German Critique 97 (Winter 2006).
When students excited by “The Culture Industry” or some other Adorno reading ask how to get a larger grip on Adorno overall, I finally have a good answer: History and Freedom, Adorno’s previously unpublished 1964-1965 lectures at Frankfurt. There are now several of these collections: in the 1960s, tape recorders were usually running when Adorno was speaking; and these lectures, addressed (from notes but without script) to undergraduates, are far more accessible than the self-consciously “difficult” writings addressed to fellow-adepts. Buzz on these lectures always mentions that they were given while Adorno was composing Negative Dialectics; History and Freedom is among the collections that can be read as a collateral draft of parts of that “late” work. Actually History and Freedom reprises Adorno’s whole career: the lectures continue the argument of Dialectic of Enlightenment (the opening lecture is called “Progress or Regression?”); along the way, two lectures elaborate the crucial early essay, “The Idea of Natural History,” and no fewer than four extend the hints in “The Actuality of Philosophy” on “the transition from philosophy to interpretation.” All of Adorno’s major career investments are here except “the aesthetic”: there are, indeed, many asides on art especially in the lectures on interpretation, but “the aesthetic” connects with the main theme mostly via Hegel’s “end of art.”
Oh, yes: Hegel. Hegel’s ubiquity in Adorno and Adorno’s conflictedness about him are evident even to beginners, but hitherto it needed hard-won expertise to discriminate Adorno’s near-idolatry of Hegel from his often angry critique of him. By contrast, History and Freedom compels Adorno to engage systematically with the major Hegelian themes: the [historicized] dialectic, universal and particular, identity and non-identity, objectivity and subjectivity, self-consciousness (both individual and collective), the World Spirit, the Absolute, conscience and law, race and nation. (Short version of the critique: Hegel too often ontologizes or absolutizes one term of a binary pair, thus reifying what he, of all people, should have kept fluid and “dialectical”; worse, Hegel’s lapse into this error is always in favor of the “universal” and against the “particular,” for the master and against the slave.) When Adorno mentions (without quoting) some “famous” remark from Hegel (or whomever), Rolf Tiedemann’s expert notes quote generously from the relevant sources, with invariably helpful comment–and, often, instructive pointers to dissonances with Adorno’s other writings. (Adorno here also gives his most straightforward evaluation of Kant.)
Advanced students, too, will find this collection (more than any of Adorno’s other lecture collections) a thrilling read, because even improvising for undergraduates, Adorno’s thinking aloud produces a Niagara of insight and provocation that overloads the most diligent attention. Adorno’s power to “ram every rift with ore” is as striking here as anywhere in his oeuvre. I have said this book is more accessible than Adorno’s “finished” prose; it is often more stirring as well, because more spontaneous and digressive, as well as more passionate in venting Adorno’s vibrant indignation at the course of the world, reprising and updating his chronic anxieties “after Auschwitz” and after Hiroshima.
Here as in Dialectic of Enlightenment Adorno diagnoses the devolution of “spirit” from Hegel’s dialectical joining of spirit and matter “objectively” (anticipating dialectical materialism) to positivism’s dichotomizing of the two, which renders “spirit” merely “subjective,” the disvalued term of an antithesis. In the problem of universal and particular Adorno elicits the agon of history and the individual. “Philosophy of History” in the West has presupposed “universal history”–an idealist and reifying concept that Adorno of course historicizes to yield the heuristic of a “technological rationality” which may usefully be staged as a single story, that of the “progress” from slingshot to atom bomb–with “progress” pointedly in scare-quotes. Technology promises universal mastery over nature even as it reduces millions of particular suffering individuals to servitude. “Domination” (Herrschaft) as universal “master” produces the “dominated” as particular “slave.” History promises universal freedom, but delivers instead universal compulsion, unfreedom.
In the final third of the course, Adorno pursues “Antinomies of Freedom” not anticipated in Dialectic of Enlightenment, often eliciting psychoanalytic overtones. “Enlightenment” since Spinoza has held that happiness is living “in accordance with Reason,” but even apart from the “dialectic of Enlightenment” sketched above, some obdurately bodily “impulse” intuits freedom as archaic and primordial, and thus irreconcilably at odds with administered modernity. Reason becomes the opposite of happiness, that chancy state that ratio can never “rationalize.” (Both German Glück and English “hap”-piness connect etymologically to chance or [good] luck.) The body experiences happiness as freedom from reason, freedom of and for “impulse” itself–a word whose connotations of irrationality Adorno charges with utopian voltages. Oddly, Adorno doesn’t cite the distinction, posited by his erstwhile Oxford colleague Isaiah Berlin, of “positive freedom” (freedom to participate in political life), as against “negative freedom” (freedom from unnecessary social constraints). But here as elsewhere Adorno’s thematic of “ego weakness” converts Nietzsche’s warnings about “the last man” from a portent for the future to a present condition, and in ways that resonate richly with Lacan and Zizek on the ways we learn to love our unhappiness. Adorno himself almost yields at moments to the premise that consciousness enlarges fruitfully only under the sting of unhappiness, though obviously the lectures as a whole assimilate freedom to happiness, however “broken” this “promise.” But in the closing lectures, a critique of Kant’s coercive categorical imperative, another universal master by which the individual is condemned (in Sartre’s phrase) to freedom, the “somatic impulse” of happiness has its analogue in morality as well, thus opening at least the possibility of a happy and moral futurity, a “not yet” worthy to be called “history.”
In his “Foreword ” to History and Freedom, Rolf Tiedemann observes that for Adorno, “freedom” is a problem “in the philosophy of history, rather than in moral philosophy where it has traditionally been found” (xvi). I cite the point by way of an introduction of the Winter 2006 New German Critique special issue on “Adorno and Ethics.” Adorno’s acid comment that “ethics” is “the bad conscience of morality” is a slam at ethics and morality both–he goes on to speak of “the blunt incompatibility of our experience with the term ‘morality’” (Problems 10)–and in History and Freedom, he asks whether good and evil can still mean anything for us, living as we do “[in] a kind of infernal reflection of the utopia of which Nietzsche had dreamt” in Beyond Good and Evil (History and Freedom 207). Almost half the New German Critique articles don’t address ethics at all; those that do mostly project ethics as a high ideal that “we” continually fail, especially “after Auschwitz,” to live up to. (“We” professionals? “We” practitioners of critique? “We” whose professional ethic should be to gag at the very phrase “professional ethics”?) The New German Critique ethicists fret over “the very possibility of an ethics,” finding (of course) for impossibility, and duly lamenting it. The problematizations are subtle and scrupulous, but they skirt the problem Adorno rubs raw, the corruption and illegitimacy of “ethics” at large. After Auschwitz?–no; since long before Auschwitz, and as cause, not as effect: after “administration,” doing ethics has become barbaric.
The “ethics” essays are led off by J.M. Bernstein’s “Intact and Fragmented Bodies: Versions of Ethics ‘After Auschwitz’.” Bernstein identifies four “lacunae” in Adorno’s attempt at a “philosophical” response to the Shoah, and finds these deficits supplied by Agamben’s Remnants of Auschwitz, “almost as if Agamben’s book were designed to fill in the missing arguments in Adorno’s account” (33). Besides Agamben, Bernstein takes bearings from Primo Levi and Hannah Arendt (a footnote explains that the essay is part of a larger attempt to reconcile Arendt and Adorno [35n7]); another waypoint is Foucault’s “modernity as biopolitics”–the claim not merely to power over subject populations, but of “administrative” sovereignty over biological process as such. Hence the “administrative” drive, in the camps, to reduce the inmates to “living dead”: to kill individuality and moral agency in advance of killing the “mere” physical bodies. Bernstein rewrites a famous sentence in the Dialectic of Enlightenment, putting “biopower” where the original had “enlightenment”: “biopower is mythical fear radicalized” (40, adapting the Jephcott trans. 11). Hence if Agamben’s account of “domination” is more philosophically coherent than Adorno’s, this achievement proves to be self-discrediting. “Biopolitics” requires a constitutive distinction of reason from bios, and in deconstructing this binary Bernstein shows that Agamben’s critique of it actually preserves its kernel of domination (reason as master, bios as slave). Thus does Agamben’s ethical argument compromise the very possibility of an ethics. Adorno partisans will think this a satisfying result, but it raises the question, Why adduce Agamben at all?–since the terms in which Bernstein sets up his argument are drawn rather from Arendt. Presumably Agamben is a foil for Arendt, setting the terms for Bernstein’s projected Arendt/Adorno rapprochement. Bernstein defaults to the Adorno premise that a properly philosophical response to the Shoah must resist the “dialectic of enlightenment” dynamic of domination. In Adorno, that means (at minimum) a response that owns affect, and on that ground, surely, Arendt is closer to Adorno than to Agamben. I can’t guess whether Bernstein’s pursuit of his theme will traverse the question of “philosophy and literature,” but his evocation of Primo Levi (in a moving passage from The Drowned and the Saved) seems a promising, if oblique nod toward “the aesthetic.”
Bernstein’s article is followed by Michael Marder’s “Minima Patientia: Reflections on the Subject of Suffering,” an eloquent inquiry, in implicit dialogue with Bernstein, into how, if at all, “we,” the living, can witness for the six million dead–questions that generate discussion of “ethics” and/as memory. Christina Gerhardt’s “The Ethics of Animals in Adorno and Kafka” reviews Adorno’s treatment of cruelty to animals, the relevant contexts from Kantian “Reason” (in which animals figure simply as the not-rational) to Freud’s account of totemism (which uncovers telling cathexes of animals in the unconscious), and Schopenhauer. The essay is more a survey than a critical discussion: the account of Kafka, for instance, makes nothing of the affective distance between the stories functioning within the “animal fable” paradigm (the ape of “Report to an Academy,” the dog of the “Investigations”) and that wholly original ordeal of guilty revulsion, “The Metamorphosis.” Alexander Garcia Düttmann, in “Adorno’s Rabbits; or, Against Being in the Right,” mounts impressive indignation on Adorno’s behalf against recent culture-wars detractors in the German press, and re-enacts Adorno’s protest against “domination” in all its forms (cognitive, affective, material, economic), in the proposition that “Being right . . . is not an ethical category”: insofar as philosophy is invested in being right, so much the worse, ethically, for philosophy.
The richest of the “ethics” essays is Robert Kaufman’s “Poetry’s Ethics? Theodor W. Adorno and Robert Duncan on Aesthetic Illusion and Sociopolitical Delusion.” Kaufman floats free of the straitening scruples of “philosophy” to demonstrate that “Poetry’s ethics”–the aesthetic at large–dramatizes the conflicting claims of is and ought “rather than, as might seem to be required in philosophy itself, abstractly deciding between them” (77). Kaufman is a professor of literature, with joint appointments in English and German; he offers close readings of key passages, almost always citing (and discussing) the German text as well as the translation, beginning with the first “after Auschwitz” quote and Adorno’s many variant restatements of it throughout the ensuing controversy. “Lyric” is a focus for Kaufman–references to his other articles suggest a book in progress–because lyric, untrammeled by the burdens of narrative and character, epitomizes one extreme of aesthetic “semblance,” a mimesis that maintains a dialectical non-identity with what it ostensibly offers a semblance of. A “semblance,” in short, that refuses “adaequatio” conceptions of representation, can “keep the difference” between (the terms of Kaufman’s title) “aesthetic illusion,” which “keeps determination and ethical possibility open for exploration,” and the “sociopolitical delusion” that “the poem itself is already an ethical or political act” (118).
Kaufman writes and argues with a daring that accepts the challenge of Adorno’s dictum (which he quotes [92]) that “The prudence that restrains us from venturing too far ahead in a sentence, is usually only an agent of social control, and so of stupefaction” (Minima Moralia 86). He pursues, for example, the “poetry is barbaric” meme via the “homeopathic” twists of “immanent critique,” to the point of turning Adorno’s initial scorn of a certain genteel denial of twentieth-century barbarism into a justification of an unflinching poetry of shock, of “semblance”-barbarism like Paul Celan’s. (A two-page coda features Duncan’s poem, “A Song From the Structures of Rime Ringing as the Poet Paul Celan Sings.”) Most daringly of all, Kaufman shares a story told him by his father, an Auschwitz survivor–and then interprets it, in just the way Agamben et al. would insist that “we,” whose witness can never be “authentic,” mustn’t do. On Kaufman’s (as on Adorno’s) showing, poetry’s ethics prove more flexible, more open, more ethical indeed, than philosophy’s; but Kaufman makes explicit the “ultimate [ethical] concern” (to recall Adorno’s under-acknowledged early mentor, Paul Tillich) that Adorno refused to declare in so many words. (As in the famous Hemingway passage about the words we don’t use anymore, refusal of the word attests commitment to the thing.)
Kaufman’s emphasis on Adorno’s language segues conveniently to two articles that touch on Adorno’s implicit “philosophy of language.” Gerhard Richter, in “Aesthetic Theory and Nonpropositional Truth Content in Adorno,” replies to Rüdiger Bubner’s indignant refusal of Adorno’s ethicizing (so to speak) of the aesthetic. Richter argues the case by reading the last section of Minima Moralia with close attention to the German and with many instructive dissents from the standard translation by Edmund Jephcott. As in Kaufman, Adorno’s “non-propositional” truth-claim refuses “adaequatio” in favor of a Messianically-tinted “mimesis of what does not yet exist, the negative traces of a futurity that can be neither predicted nor programmed in advance but that nevertheless inscribe themselves into the artwork and into the philosophy that enters a relation with that artwork, as a nonidentical and negatively charged otherness” (Richter 129).
Samir Gandesha defends Adorno in “The ‘Aesthetic Dignity of Words’: Adorno’s Philosophy of Language” against Habermas’s charge that Adorno remains stuck in a “philosophy of consciousness” by appealing to what he considers Adorno’s implicit philosophy of language. The argument is based on Adorno’s early “Theses on the Language of the Philosopher,” which Gandesha and Michael Palamarek have translated for the first time, in a forthcoming University of Toronto volume, Adorno and the Need in Philosophy. (The translation is not included here.) Adorno writes that “all philosophical critique today is possible as the critique of language,” a dictum that Gandesha calls “programmatic for his philosophy as a whole” (139) and that he connects with the early Wittgenstein’s adviso that “all philosophy is critique of language” (Tractatus 4.0031). He likewise assimilates Horkheimer and Adorno’s diagnosis of the “entwinement of myth and enlightenment” to the later Wittgenstein’s campaign against the “bewitchment” of thought by language. Gandesha’s effort (in which the defense against Habermas recedes) is to situate Adorno vis-à-vis not only Wittgenstein early and late but also vis-à-vis Heidegger, by the light (mostly) of the contemporaneous “Idea of Natural History” (in which Heidegger is the implicit adversary) and “Actuality of Philosophy” (in which it’s the Vienna-circle Wittgenstein). As for the later Wittgenstein, Gandesha finds unacknowledged rapprochement in “The Essay as Form” and in “Words from Abroad.” But Gandesha passes over Adorno’s dissents from Wittgenstein on clarity and on remaining silent, and from Wittgenstein’s adherence, early and late, to the “adaequatio” ideal, which would rule out critical negation (Kaufman’s “semblance,” Richter’s “mimesis”). Adorno does not share Wittgenstein’s aspiration to “leave everything as it was.”
I come at last to the two essays that come first in the New German Critique special issue. Detlev Claussen, in “Intellectual Transfer: Theodor W. Adorno’s American Experience,” wants to overturn the received view of the “mandarin” Adorno holding his nose through his forced exile in vulgar America. This meme is in the air, as witness David Jenemann’s Adorno in America (U of Minnesota P, 2007)–but whereas the American Jenemann stays modest in his claims, to avoid any appearance of grabby over-reach, Claussen, a German, stages the “American Adorno” as an affront to his countrymen, who take their proprietary title to Adorno too complacently for granted. “Simply put: without America, Adorno would never have become the person we recognize by that name” (6). Indeed, he might not have adopted that name; Claussen’s freshest suggestion is that Adorno dropped “Wiesengrund” (in 1942 in California) not to minimize his Jewishness (the usual conjecture) but to downplay his Germanness. (But see below.) Claussen overstates his case regarding Adorno’s absorption of American social-science research methods: Adorno’s indictments of positivism and empiricism, early and late, attest that his work on Paul Lazarsfeld’s Radio Project and The Authoritarian Personality only intensified his disdain of quantitative “research.” Perhaps Claussen argues the point more persuasively in his recent (as yet untranslated) 2003 biography, but as a short essay, the case seems more a provocative “exaggeration” than a worked-out attempt to convince.
Martin Jay’s “Taking on the Stigma of Inauthenticity: Adorno’s Critique of Genuineness” is less concerned to rehearse (again) Adorno’s critique of Heidegger, Jaspers, et al., than to pursue subtle contrasts between Adorno and Walter Benjamin on, e.g., “aura.” The famous peroration of Benjamin’s “Mechanical Reproduction” essay–where fascism aestheticizes politics, communism politicizes art–is usually taken proscriptively; hence Adorno’s differences with Benjamin on “aura” (etc.) have been extensively discussed, but almost always on political grounds. Jay is alert to the politics, most interestingly with the suggestion that “authenticity” as a subtext of fascist racism prompted Adorno and Benjamin to valorize “the stigma of inauthenticity” (Jay adapts his title from Minima Moralia 154) on behalf of those condemned in Nazi-speak as “rootless cosmopolitans.” But by coming at these issues via “authenticity,” Jay illuminates the aestheticization sustaining that fetish. Especially illuminating is Jay’s articulation of “authenticity” with “mimesis.” As a conformity-imperative on behalf of authenticity, mimesis simply is ideology; but Jay also discerns along lines similar to Richter’s and Kaufman’s (above) a critical and negative mimesis that foregrounds its dissonance from “what is,” thus (in Jay’s words) “resisting identity thinking and the preponderance of the subject over the object,” and promoting a “passive receptivity that avoided domination of otherness” (21). To that extent mimesis has the potential to function not as the repetition but as the critique of “what is,” and not despite its “inauthenticity” but because of it. Hence the stakes in “taking on the stigma of inauthenticity.” (Jay also confronts a contradiction most commentators ignore: for all his sneers at “authenticity,” Adorno can evoke it honorifically in praise of artworks that realize these critical potentials. Jay deftly explains the terminological aspects of the question–i.e., the range of terms that English translates as “authenticity”: Authentizität, Eigentlichkeit, Echtheit–without reducing it to them.)
I picked up the Adorno-Mann correspondence expecting light on the Doctor Faustus collaboration, and I salivated over the early letter in which Mann woos Adorno, explaining what kind of novel he has in mind, and what kind of help he wants, but the actual work took place in real time when Mann and Adorno lived within easy reach of each other in Los Angeles, and by page 18 Doctor Faustus is already in print. (There are appendices reprinting Adorno’s two memos on how to characterize particular works by “Adrian Leverkuhn,” Mann’s composer-protagonist; these are apparently the principal documentary remains of the collaboration.) The reviews and controversies following Faustus‘s publication prompt some interesting exchanges, but the interest of these letters lies elsewhere. (I place Schoenberg’s pique at Mann’s novel, whose protagonist is credited with the dodecaphonic system Schoenberg himself invented, among the “elsewhere.”) Mann and Adorno exchange worries about the emerging Cold War; about Germany’s “recovery” from the war, especially its numbed and, both agreed, morally deficient posture toward (or away from) the genocide; about the German future and the question of their own return (or not) to Germany. Mann swore never to return; when he finally left California, it was to end his days in Switzerland. Adorno’s 1949 Frankfurt University stint as visiting lecturer was intended as a reconnaissance, but receptive students, a sense of duty as a public intellectual, and his unforeseen home-coming emotions (not to mention the rise of HUAC and McCarthy in America) started him thinking of returning for good. His first letter from Frankfurt to Mann makes a rich complement to the one he wrote his mother (see below).
Throughout, Mann and Adorno are exchanging current work: on Adorno’s side, Philosophy of New Music (Mann had read the Schoenberg sections in draft while writing Faustus, but the Stravinsky sections were new to him), Against Epistemology, In Search of Wagner, and numerous essays, reviews, radio talks, etc. Mann sent along The Holy Sinner, The Black Swan, and drafts of Felix Krull, as well as various essays and lectures. The back-and-forth, as each comments on the other’s latest work, is intellectual exchange of a very high caliber. (The extensive discussion of Wagner [92-7] is particularly rich.) There is, however, almost no disagreement between these two, and such differences as there are, they express in the mildest possible terms. Mann was ever the canny literary diplomat, but an Adorno who pulls his punches is something new.
Here is the largest interest (or guiltiest pleasure?) of these letters, the keyhole they open onto the personal relations of these two. For Mann, Adorno is (initially) an intellectual whose musical expertise he needs and whose continuing allegiance he wants; his praises of Adorno’s works can feel more than a little overdone. It helps, of course, that Adorno is an admirer from the beginning. Adorno, for his part, finds himself dealing for once with more than an equal: with a great and politically committed literary artist and cultural icon. (Mann’s Nobel came in 1929, when Adorno was 26.) Mann clearly had, and kept, the upper hand. Adorno saw that association with Mann could greatly boost his own prestige. Doesn’t Adorno compromise principle (not to say, make his own Faustian bargain) in agreeing to serve Mann’s basic premise–Schoenberg as the proto-Nazi Faust?–for Adorno thought Schoenberg the preeminent modernist good guy; wouldn’t he have preferred a Wagner-like protagonist for Mann’s Faustus? or a Stravinskian “reactionary” (see Philosophy of New Music)? Mann’s view of Wagner was aesthetic (à la early Nietzsche) rather than political; insofar as Mann and Adorno both took bearings from Freud, Mann sees Wagner as aesthetically potent in ways Freud helps confirm, Adorno as ideologically symptomatic in ways Freud helps diagnose. In any case, when Mann announces that he is writing a memoir about the composition of Faustus, Adorno is thrilled that his backstage role will get a curtain call, a prospect Mann played up while the book (Story of a Novel) was in progress. In the event, Adorno would be disappointed: Mann’s praise was fulsome, but (Adorno thought) understated his contribution. And of course Adorno had to swallow his spleen; he could never confess to Mann how slighted he felt.1
Mann, as accredited culture-hero, can address Adorno with magisterial aplomb; Adorno, by contrast, is as usual (indeed, more than usual) anxious to dazzle. Story of a Novel isn’t the only case in which Mann seems almost to toy with the feelings of his admirer; consider also the issue of Mann’s “modernism.” Mann was a touchstone of modernism for Adorno; of anti-modernism for Adorno’s adversary in debate, Lukács–so of course Adorno sought to win the protean, shape-shifting Mann to the “modernist” side, away from the Lukácsean “demand for realism” (103). This push-pull is the subtext of a late exchange that begins when Mann confides his despair over Felix Krull, a comical picaresque of horny youth he had left unfinished decades earlier; resuming it now, at age 77, alas! he can’t find the right style, is uncertain of his genre, can’t reconcile the conflicts…. The letter is clearly fishing for encouragement, and Adorno is positively gallant in response: Mann’s past accomplishment has brilliantly reinvented genres, evaded the old-fashioned “will to style,” drawn power from dramatizing, not reconciling, tensions–assurances, of course, encoding an undeclared manifesto for (Mann’s) modernism. You can’t help imagining Mann’s Mona Lisa smile when, in a later letter, he shakes his head over Waiting for Godot in terms Lukács would applaud (“I cannot help feeling some anxiety for the society that finds acclaimed expression in such a work,” etc. [107]).
The head-games are of an altogether different kind in Adorno’s Letters to His Parents. To his public, Adorno was a virtuoso of unhappy consciousness; en famille, he’s a virtuoso of cheery exuberance–allowing that “virtuoso” connotes a certain willfulness. To his parents Adorno ever remained the adored only child, the star family performer and perpetual center of attention–but in these letters, Adorno must keep everyone’s spirits up during a maximally anxious period: the flight from Nazism and adjustment to a new and exigent life in a strange land. There is almost too much to discuss here, so let me simply list some principal interests of these letters. First, the candor and Gemütlichkeit of the family atmosphere: the abundant endearments and pet-names; gossip about family and fellow exiles; health complaints; and anxieties about the fate of dear ones (and property) left in Europe. Adorno’s parents devotedly read all their son’s work, and when (just once), the assiduousness falls short, Adorno’s protest is plaintive and loud–“Though . . . I can also understand that your weary old heads want to have some peace . . . Even the simplest things in life are just so damned dialectical” (165). Adorno’s father was the intellectual parent, and intellectual interest falls off after his death (8 July 1946), to which Adorno reacts with a classic, and eloquent, spasm of survivor guilt (258-59) well worth comparison to his published meditations on the Shoah.
To his mother, Adorno confesses his erotic turmoils–three of them: one, the disquieting reappearance of an old flame; one a heady but harmless infatuation with a charismatic beauty; and one a full-blown (but unserious) infidelity. If you only browse this book, don’t miss letter #83, a comic masterpiece in which Adorno boasts of his smitten-ness and of the charms of the sublime object, which are such as to arouse the cloddish hoi polloi to envy and hatred–“just like our theoretical writings” (139)! (Greta’s reaction to these adventures is not recorded here.)
Another fascination is Adorno’s running commentary on war news–e.g., the first letter after 1 Sept. 1939 swings between foreboding and sarcasm, in anxious hope that the whole thing may prove a drôle de guerre and end quickly. There is no reaction at all to Pearl Harbor, though America’s entry into the war had been a consummation devoutly to be wished. By late 1943 Adorno has become unrealistically optimistic about victory, consistently underestimating how long it would take, even as he remains apprehensive about fascist currents in America. We glimpse the effects of “enemy alien” restrictions: curfew (monitored by unannounced drop-ins from police); miles-from-home limits; travel permits from the FBI; worries about possible “evacuation” (i.e., internment). To his father Adorno blames his name-change (the loss of the patronymic Wiesengrund) on a stupid bureaucratic error.
These letters also give a vivid sense of the collaborative relationship with Horkheimer, especially of the degree to which Adorno was the one who set the words on paper, not only in their co-authored work but in much that is credited to Horkheimer alone, which Adorno edited, revised, rewrote–ghost-wrote, to put it no more strongly. Adorno briefs his parents on the inception and progress of what would eventually become Dialectic of Enlightenment. He also fumes about the research projects (especially the “Studies in Prejudice” reported in The Authoritarian Personality) whose quantitative method he disdains, but whose reputation-making power he is determined to make the most of.
I’d always assumed Adorno’s 1941 move from Manhattan to Los Angeles galled him; not so: he disliked New York, and raved about the Riviera-like beauties of Southern California. Most touching is his recurrent wonder, despite the provincialism and vulgarity, at the fundamentally democratic culture of America: bureaucratic encounters are friendly as they would never be in Europe, and even the police who showed up unannounced to check curfew compliance were amiable and courteous. (That was then, this is now.) In November 1949, Adorno’s triumphant return to the family’s war-ravaged home-town (Frankfurt) generates poignant accounts of the ruins, both architectural and human.
We’ve been in something of an Adorno boom for some time now. Books, articles, and special issues of journals (like New German Critique‘s) continue to appear; even more auspiciously, important works like History and Freedom are being translated and published. (What I want next is Adorno’s first Habilitationschrift, a neo-Kantian reading of Freud that Adorno withdrew when it lost the support of Hans Cornelius, his advisor. In later years Adorno would veto its publication.)2 Some of Adorno’s “canonical” works are even being re-translated: just in the last few years, we’ve had Dialectic of Enlightenment translated anew by Edmund Jephcott, and Philosophy of New Music by Robert Hullot-Kentor, and Hullot-Kentor is reportedly at work on a retranslation (long overdue) of Negative Dialectics. There is also a loosening of the strictures against interest in Adorno’s personal life. High-minded disdain of “the personal” is widespread in our highbrow culture; it has been consistent, however diversely motivated, from the New Criticism to la nouvelle critique and beyond; and it’s a disdain that Adorno, virtuoso of the hairshirt, might seem to epitomize. But predictably enough, Adorno’s centenary year (2003) announced the arrival of what we might call the moment of biography. In Germany, three of them have appeared. Detlev Claussen’s Der Letzte Genie remains untranslated, but as for the two now available in English, Lorenz Jäger’s Adorno: A Political Biography is a culture-wars screed; Stephan Müller-Doohm’s Adorno: A Biography is a reverential academic monument; neither gives any sense whatever of Adorno as a personality. Nor have the hitherto available letters: Adorno’s correspondence with Benjamin, despite the mutual affection between them, stays on a remarkably stratospheric plane of high-minded intellectualism. I would expect the correspondence with Horkheimer to be warmer and more personal, but it remains untranslated. Only the just-published letters to Berg have hitherto given us any flavor of Adorno’s humor, lustig very much in the Viennese manner. The letters reviewed here give us a more lively sense than any we’ve had so far (in English, at least) of what the private Adorno was like as a social being and as a family man. Of course the “personal” isn’t the only interest of these letters: as we’ve seen, Adorno’s commitment to his work was of an intensity to fuse public preoccupations with the personal ones. But “the personal” as such in Adorno proves to hold surprising fascinations of its own. If the letters to Mann suggest something of the degree to which the public Adorno’s hairshirt mortifications, all the guilt of history and the agonies of “after Auschwitz” granted, also had their springs in predictable personal ambitions and vanities, the letters to his parents disclose a real, and attractively “happy” surprise that I, at least, never anticipated: how lively and mercurial a sprite capered under the hairshirt.
Notes
1. For a strongly pro-Adorno account of further details–side-by-side comparisons of Adorno’s memos with Mann’s published text, anti-Adorno invective from Mann’s family after the great man’s death, Adorno’s reaction to slighting remarks about him that Mann had written in letters to others–see Müller-Doohm 314-20.
2. Der Begriff des Unbewußten in der transzendentalen Seelenlehre [The Concept of the Unconscious in the Transcendental Theory of the Psyche] (Philosophische Früschriften 79-322); for details of the episode and a brief account of the dissertation, see Müller-Doohm 103-6.
Works Cited
- Adorno, T.W., with Max Horkheimer. Dialectic of Enlightenment. Trans. Edmund Jephcott. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2002.
- —. Minima Moralia. Trans. E.F.N. Jephcott. London: Verso, 1974.
- —. Philosophische Frühschriften. Theodor W. Adorno. Gesammelte Schriften, Band 1. Ed. Rolf Tiedemann. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1996.
- —. Problems of Moral Philosophy. Ed. Thomas Schröder. Trans. Rodney Livingstone. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2001.
- Müller-Doohm, Stephan. Adorno: A Biography. Trans. Rodney Livingstone. Cambridge: Polity, 2005.
- Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Trans. D.F. Pears and B.F. McGuinness. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1972.
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MLA SESSION ANNOUNCEMENT Special Session #344, Friday 28 December, 1:45-3:00 PM Grand Ballroom East, Hyatt Regency (1990 MLA Convention, Chicago, Illinois, 27-30 December 1990) "Canonicity and Hypertextuality: The Politics of Hypertext" Session leader: Terence Harpold, University of Pennsylvania Panelist 1: Ted Nelson, Autodesk, Inc.: "How Xanadu (Un)does the Canon" Panelist 2: Stuart Moulthrop, Univ. of Texas/Austin: "(Un)doing the Canon I: The Institutional Politics of Hypertext" Panelist 3: Jay David Bolter, UNC Chapel Hill: "(Un)doing the Canon II: Hypertext as Polis and Canon" For more information, contact: Terence Harpold 420 Williams Hall University of Pennsylvania Philadelphia, PA 19104 Bitnet: Internet: _______________________________________________________ VERSE: JOHN ASHBERY'S INFLUENCE Susan M. Schultz and Henry Hart invite submissions for a collection of essays on the subject of John Ashbery's influence on contemporary poetry. Essays may address Ashbery's influence on particular poets or on the climate of contemporary poetry more generally (e.g., his influence on the Language movement, New Formalism, etc.). Two copies of abstracts are due 15 November; two copies of your essays by 15 December to Susan Schultz at the Department of English, University of Hawaii-Manoa, 1733 Donaghho Road, Honolulu, Hawaii 96822. _______________________________________________________ THE CENTENNIAL REVIEW Edited by R.K. Meiners The Review aims to be a journal of cultural study, more concerned with the relationships among disciplines and their social implications than with any single discipline. It seeks to publish the best work available from both younger and established scholars. Ethics in the Profession Volume XXXIV, No. 2, Spring 1990 Guest Editor: Stephen L. Esquith Locating Professional Ethics Stephen L. Esquith Politically Cases and Codes: Challenges for Michael S. Pritchard Teaching Engineering Ethics Called to Profess: Religious and David H. Smith Secular Theories of Vocation The Ethics Boom: A Philosopher's Michael Davis History Pricing Human Life: The Moral Leonard M. Fleck Costs of Medical Progress Faith and the Unbelieving Ethics Judith Andre Teacher Professional Ethics, Ethos, and William M. Sullivan the Integrity of the Professions Bioethics and Democracy Bruce Jennings Subscription Rates: $10/year $15/two years Foreign Postage--$3/year Single Issue: $3 Please make your check payable to _The Centennial Review_. Mail to _The Centennial Review_, 110 Morrill Hall, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI 48824-1036 _______________________________________________________ NEW DELTA REVIEW _New Delta Review_ seeks poetry, fiction, and black-and- white artwork. Eight-year-old journal has published primarily modern work; now we're climbing up the levee to see what's on the postmodern side. Show & tell: show us your best and tell us why. 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Though MAGAZINE's primary focus will be journalistic, it will also address other magazine-publishing matters of economic (management, marketing, circulation, production, research), technological, historical and social importance. In sum, MAGAZINE will explore the history, current state and future prospects of the American Magazine. Among the topics included will be: magazine editorial trends and practices; journalistic and management norms in magazine publishing; evolving magazine technologies (those currently in use and new ones envisioned); the economics of magazine publishing, including the economic factors influencing magazine content; the history of magazines; the role of magazines in social development; educational issues related to teaching magazine journalism; "laboratory" magazine-project concepts and resources; and studies and research exploring the issues above. The conference will be moderated by Professor David Abrahamson of New York University's Center for Publishing, where he teaches the editorial segments of the NYU Management Institute graduate Diploma Course in Magazine Publishing and the Executive Seminar in Magazine Editorial Management. He is also the author of two teaching texts, "The Magazine Writing Workbook" and "The Magazine Editing Workbook." The MAGAZINE Hotline is scheduled to begin October 1, 1990. Magazine publishing professionals, magazine journalism educators, scholars and students, and other individuals interested in magazine issues are encouraged to participate. The MAGAZINE Hotline is sponsored by New York University's Center for Publishing and Comserve (the online information and discussion service for the communication disciplines). 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However, if you have any immediate ideas, suggestions or questions about the Hotline, please contact David Abrahamson, at: abrahamson@acfcluster.nyu.edu or 3567652@mcimail.com or 165 east 32, NY 10016. _______________________________________________________ A Screaming comes across the wires--the list, PYNCHON. Its purpose is the discussion of and exchange of information about Thomas Pynchon and his writing. Appropriate topics range from serious critical discussion through esthetic opinions to apocryphal stories and unsubstantiated sightings (or non-sightings). Simon Fraser University does not have a LISTSERVER, so I have kludged together a group with remote addresses. To join the list send a request to me (E-mail USERDOG1@SFU.BITNET or USERDOG1@CC.SFU.CA). Because of the nature of the kludge, I need a name, or pseudonym if you prefer, as well as your Email address. The list is unrestricted, its just that I have to add members manually. List address: PYNCHON@SFU.BITNET or PYNCHON@CC.SFU.CA Jody USERDOG1@SFU.BITNET or USERDOG1@CC.SFU.CA -
Postface: Positions on Postmodernism
What follows is a written exchange among the editors about the contents of the first issue of Postmodern Culture. It is called a “postface” because it is meant to be read after the other items in the issue; we hope it will serve as a preface to discussion among other readers.
Eyal:
Several of the works in this issue imply that there is a dynamic relationship between the decentered individual or event generally celebrated by postmodernity and some governing ideal, a hidden ground that operates through these texts. Kipnis, for instance, argues finally not only that the body is a text, or that intellectual history has a body, but also that there are “moments in the social body”– intellectual constructs which organize history as an idea, more than just the sum of its parts. She shows an interest in “TRANSITION,” and not just in particulars, and those transitions–which are explicitly staged in her medium–imply some organizing principle.
Elaine:
I find it provocative to consider whose bodies, and what relationships between them, are represented in these essays. For example, Kipnis’s narrative movement back and forth from Marx to his maid Helene to late twentieth century teenage girls suggests, to me at least, a feminization of Marx’s body (feminists have argued that women’s bodies are sites for masculine writing, but here, Marx’s body, like the anorectic’s, occupies the position of tablet for cultural text)John:
I’d agree that Kipnis is making a connection between particular male bodies and particular female bodies as “tablets for cultural text,” but I’m not sure the movement between particulars amounts to the projection of a “governing ideal, a hidden ground” that Eyal sees here. It strikes me that many of these writers (Acker, English, Kipnis, even Yudice) emphasize the rude eruptions and crude particulars of the body in a way that is anything but idealizing. And while I agree with the idea that Kipnis, and others in this issue, want to see history as having a meaning, I don’t think this necessarily involves each of these authors in a commitment to an “ideal,” or to a teleology. I think that Kipnis, Ross, hooks, and others try to establish a context, rather than a ground, for the particular.
Eyal:
That may be what they would say. It’s a popular position–and one that Larsen takes to task. He writes that Marxist thought criticizes Enlightenment values by offering “particular universals” (15): reason is time-bound, but it is universal at any point in time because of “the social universality of the proletariat” (6). Larsen uses this claim to indict postmodernism– which he reads much as you do here, John–as promoting contexts that are not grounds; he charges that postmodernists appeal to irrationalism instead of recognizing the claims of Marxist universals, and their irrationalism then allows them to deflect the charge against capitalism (7, 9).
Elaine:
As a feminist reader responding to these essays, I find myself struggling with the very tension we are talking about–between attention to the particular and a yearning, to use hooks’s word, for a transcending idea, a narrative which helps me evaluate what I read. hooks begins her essay by telling us that she is a black woman at a dinner party (which one other black person is attending). This is certainly a context, but in the end when she tells us about talking with other black people about postmodernism, context attains a kind of transcendence–hooks’s “authority of experience.” Likewise, Yudice’s focus on bulimia seems driven by a desire to understand the body’s participation in larger designs and meanings.
Eyal:
There is a similar impulse in several of these works. Yudice moves from class and gender to “the mystic” (5); hooks returns to “yearning” as the common condition (9); Schultz finds in Bernstein’s poem an “elegiac tone” (10); and Acker says that she is a romantic and projects that romanticism in her stand as artist- against-the-dead-world.
John:
Acker does sound like an idealist when she asks whether “matter moving through forms [is] dead or alive,” and she sounds romantic when she asserts that “they can’t kill the spirit.” But the transcendence she describes at the beginning of her narrative is transcendence within language: “when I write, I enter a world which has complex relations and is, perhaps, illimitable. This world both represents and is human history, public memories and private memories turned public, the records and actualizations of human intentions. This world is more than life and death, for here life and death conjoin.” Perhaps she fails in her stated desire not to have a voice (as Schultz argues the Language Poets do), but it seems to me that her piece is not only about “the artist against the world,” but also about the contact between the writer and the world–an unpleasant contact between a fragmented individual and the monolithic forces behind property law, involving a struggle over language, and the right to language.
Elaine:
Many of the writers here (Schultz, English, hooks, Beverley, Ross) illustrate the power of culture (rather than of the individual) to determine our use of language and the creation of texts. Schultz’s point about McGann’s classification of the contributors to Verse–that the difference between “Language writing, properly so called” and “language-centered writing” appears to be a matter of big names vs. lesser knowns– raises the issue of politics within academic writing (a criticism that may be relevant to the project of creating this journal). But what Schultz’s review accomplishes, and what Ross, Beverley, and hooks suggest we should attempt, is an interrogation of authorities. These writers believe such a practice can make a difference.John:I think Larsen would say that the interrogation of authority is not in itself the practice that will make a difference; he feels, as Eyal pointed out, that liberal critiques of authority ultimately serve the interests of authority by helping to “displace or pre-empt” revolutionary political practice. On the other hand, the authors you mention all aim at something beyond critique or interrogation. Ross, for example, argues directly against the idea (expressed in Larsen) that cultural authority is monolithic, because he wants to persuade us that change is possible: “capitalism is merely the site, and not the source, of the power that is often autonomously attributed to the owners and sponsors of technology” (37). Larsen’s rejoinder is to ask “Where has imperialism, and its attendant ‘scientific’ and cultural institutions, actually given way and not simply adapted to the ‘new social movements’ founded on ideals of alterity?” (29).
Eyal:
On the whole, the writers in the issue value those who, like themselves, oppose the authoritarian tendencies of society. Social power resides in architecture and we fight it with music (Beverley); political repression is enforced by manipulating our collective image of the body and we fight it with dietary negativity–obesity, bulimia, anorexia (Yudice); society uses “viral hysteria” and the “Computer Virus Eradication Act” to restrict access to technology and information, and we fight it with countercultural hacking (Ross); the publishing establishment enforces copyright and we fight it by acknowledging the intertextual transgression implicit in all artistic practice (Acker). These writers are looking for a place from which to criticize the impulses to power which they uncover in the social text–but then any critical position is bound within that text.
Elaine:
Critical positions may be bound within the social text, but as we said earlier, some of these writers appear to be in two places at once, positioned in a particular historical political struggle but casting their writing beyond the particular toward some larger claim or understanding. In any case, the difference in our readings of these writers suggests that postmodernism remains fertile territory within which writers can explore new positions, and I find this encouraging. We hoped that Postmodern Culture would provide a place for experimentation, for opening discussions, for dialogue. In some of our early explorations of what the journal could or should be (and do), we expressed a hope that we could dis-establish the practice of admitting only those who speak our language or who position themselves as we do. In fact, we hoped that the medium itself would encourage us to think of our writing as constituted both from the writer’s position and from the readers’. Such thinking (about writing and reading) can lead to further experimentation within the academy, in culture, and with/in those relationships fostered through Postmodern Culture. How much difference we make remains to be seen.
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Vacation Notes: Haute-Tech in the Hautes-Montagnes
Jim English
University of Pennsylvania
Even to a fan like me, the Tour de France seems a pretty weird sporting event. By the standards of contemporary spectator sport, there is something almost laughable in a three-week-long bicycle race that is so elaborately staged and involves so much apparatus and so many people, yet offers so few moments of real excitement. Race organizers are aware of this, and have lately been attempting to bring the event better into line with the contemporary sporting scene. But to judge by this year’s Tour, which two friends and I followed during its final week through the Pyrenees, these attempts to improve or normalize the race are only making it stranger. While we certainly enjoyed the race as a race, we found ourselves enjoying it even more as a sort of comedy of cultural contradictions. The recent efforts to “modernize” what remains basically an old-world, pain-oriented, macho sport (its traditional off-season counterpart is boxing) have created some bizarre incongruities. The commercial packaging and the “look” of the Tour have been dramatically altered by the introduction of new technologies, but the mythology of the sport, along with the activity itself–the actual physical demands made on competitors–have scarcely changed since the turn of the century. More and more one is confronted with disconcerting asymmetries between the “modernized” Tour de France and a cycling culture whose material and mythological elements resist modernization.
One such material element is the bike rider’s derriere. For the second year in a row, an apparently secure victory was imperilled in the closing days by a saddle boil, reminding everyone that despite impressive recent developments in clothing and hygiene technologies, there has been little success in containing eruptions of the lower bodily stratum: a rider’s sore bottom can still become the focal point and the decisive factor of the whole colossal production. It’s easy to be misled in this regard by today’s aerodynamic, miracle-fiber uniforms, which have a cleaner, zippier look than the old suits and, with their shiny surfaces, make far more effective billboards for team sponsors. But the fact is that inside this state-of-the-art gear there is not only perspiration, blood, and puss but also sometimes urine and even diarrhea. Seven consecutive hours of racing will induce unhappy effects in even the best dressed of competitors.
Like the uniforms, the bikes too keep getting sleeker, more reliable, more specialized and rational in design. But this only accentuates the extreme unreliability of the riders, who this year seemed more than ever uncertain of their abilities and confused about their roles. Consider Claudio Chiappucci, a second-rank rider for the struggling Carrera Jeans team. Judged a non-contender, Chiappucci was permitted a substantial lead on the opening stage, and then spent the entire race losing time to rivals while hurling insults at them for lacking his “panache.” Yet this apparent mediocrity held on for an impressive second place and very nearly became the first rider in modern times to “steal” a Tour de France. Pre-race favorite Raul Alcala, a brilliant natural climber, was all bulked up this year to improve his strength on the flats. His weight training seemed to be paying off, and for the first week everyone was in awe of the new, more muscular Alcala. But as soon as the race hit the mountains, this aura of invincibility dissolved and, as one rider remarked at Mont Blanc, Alcala suddenly just seemed “big and slow like a dirigible.” The other rider who came to the race with a new and more robust physique was defending champion Greg LeMond. But in this case no one was intimidated by the extra poundage. With his cutting-edge aerodynamic equipment and flawless position on the bike, the blimp-like LeMond had been a comical sight all season, putting in performances that can only be described as embarrassing. “I worry more about my grandmother,” 1987 Tour winner Stephen Roche said at one point this spring. Yet LeMond proved against all evidence to be the fittest rider in the race, and produced a beautifully economical victory. As so often happens, the French cycling press was reduced in the end to explaining the race in terms of “miracles.” While technological developments have succeeded in virtually eliminating the wild card of mechanical failure, oddsmakers are still losing their shirts on the Tour and sportswriters are still narrativizing it as spiritual quest.
Of course this is, for many, the whole appeal of the event, that it forces riders past known limits, past the point of predictability. The cumulative strain of stage racing actually makes the riders ill; by the final week you can hear collective coughing and wheezing at the crest of quite modest inclines. Under these conditions a rider’s form is so fragile that even a proven champion can, as they say, “crack” or “explode” at a crucial moment. Indeed, such moments are for aficionados the race’s main attraction. “Suffering” is the established god term of the French cycling vernacular. For diehard Tour fans, the only spectacle that matters is that of the body in pain. (The male body, that is. Though a women’s race has been part of the Tour for a decade, few fans have accepted the idea of a woman stage racer. This year organizers finally gave up and, despite the near certainty of another French victory by the great Jeannie Longo, abolished the Tour Feminin.)
To take part in these pain-fests, fans are willing to suffer a bit themselves. To catch the finish of the decisive 16th stage at Luz-Ardiden in the Pyrenees we had to negotiate an enormous traffic jam at the base of the climb, hike fifteen kilometers uphill in near- record heat, wait three hours for the race, and then hike back down again through the exhaust fumes and honking horns of a traffic jam that now extended from the top of the mountain to the center of Lourdes, 35km away. All this to see a few small clusters of contenders shoot past, followed by perhaps a half hour’s worth of intermittent stragglers. It is difficult to explain to non-Tour fanatics why five hundred thousand people would put up with so much for so little, some of them actually camping out at the summit days in advance, staking their ground at Luz- Ardiden while the race was still in Marseilles. For Tour fans, the point is simply to be there, not just for social reasons (as is the case in small villages en route) but in order to share in some measure the lived space of the riders during their moments of suffering. Even to know the final outcome of the stage is not as important as experiencing simultaneously with the riders themselves the terrain, the weather, the exact force of the obstacles that must be overcome. A particularly difficult stretch of road two or three kilometers from the summit, or an haute-categorie climb at some much earlier point in the race–any spot where a key contender is likely to “crack”–will attract nearly as many fans as the finish area itself.
But this determination simply to be there at all costs is not really what Tour organizers desire in a spectator, and the fans who made the trek up to Luz- Ardiden–variously French, Bearnaise-French, Basque, and Spanish, but overwhelmingly low-income farmers and laborers–do not represent an ideal mix from the standpoint of prospective sponsors. The predominance of “peasants” is one bottom-line disadvantage to the sport’s old-world ethic of suffering. Another is that high levels of sickness and pain in the Tour can only be secured by long (sometimes week-long) stretches of utterly routine, and in themselves uninteresting, softening-up stages. And while it’s true that a body at the breaking point has a certain marketability, in the grand calculus of advertising a 22-day sporting event configured around two or three moments of extreme anguish (for which, moreover, there can be no charge of admission) leaves plenty of room for commercial adjustments.
Hence the recent efforts to “modernize” the Tour, of which the increasing emphasis on equipment innovation and technological advantage is just one sign. Another and more telling sign was the giant “television” (actually a collapsible scoreboard-type screen mounted in a mock-TV cabinet) that was perched at the very summit of the Luz-Ardiden climb. The mountain is so barren, and rises so steeply to such a sharp peak, that this mammoth symbol of the “new” Tour de France was clearly visible four and five kilometers down the road. As the riders made their way over the fearsome col de Tourmalet, the last hurdle before the Luz, all eyes, binoculars, and telescopic camera lenses were trained on this impressive publicity gimmick from Antenne 2, the official channel of the Tour. It was quite a sight: half a million people clustered densely together atop a magnificent mountain in the Pyrenees, all watching TV. From our naked-eye perspective at the 2km mark, the screen itself looked blank: the scene resembled nothing so much as pilgrims come to make sacrifice before some great and impassive idol, their TV-God. But the real moment of truth arrived when the first of the riders came charging past. With the actual race now taking place before their eyes, many people continued to watch the simulation. And who can blame them? If we had been closer, or had brought binoculars, we would have done the same. A bike race on a TV screen is far more “watchable” by the measure of contemporary sports entertainment than is the erratic parade of men in pain that constitutes a bike race on a mountain side.
And of course this is what is really at stake in “modernizing” the Tour; altering patterns of consumption, reshaping the practice of spectatorship. The new parameters of the route, to which fans are already growing accustomed–fewer ultra-high-mileage days, fewer marathon climbing stages, more half-stages, more intermediate sprints for bonus points, etc.–are not just increasing the proportion of watchable to unwatchable moments, but re-presenting the whole race as something you watch rather than something you do. Persuading mountaintop spectators to keep their eyes on the box rather than the road is only an incidental step in this process of modernization. The main thing is to persuade a new and more “contemporary” audience, the chic boutique owners in the Marais, for example, or the yuppies who are buying condos out at La Villette (French for Silicon Valley)–all those upscale Parisians whose only contact with the race is the annoying jam of tourists along the Champs Elysees during the ceremonial final stage–that the Tour de France is for them, too. That it’s fun to watch!
Whether this marketing strategy can ever really succeed with a “peasant sport” so strikingly ill-suited to the demands of commercial television is not at all certain. When the Tour rolled through the Alps this year there was a stylish young Parisian in the lead, yet organizers were unable to translate this into anything remotely resembling “Tour fever” in Paris. And their inability to sell the Tour Feminin, perhaps the boldest modernizing step of all, is another sign that their effectivity is far from unlimited. Nonetheless, that giant TV screen atop Luz Ardiden did represent genuine change. The Tour de France is already being practiced differently by its fans, and the transformation of cycling culture is likely to continue even if it doesn’t pay off in the end for the sponsors. And although there’s nothing to regret in the Tour’s shedding of its pseudo-spiritual, macho- masochistic character, we can hardly celebrate the emergence of one more frameable, watchable sports- entertainment package. Personally, I take heart from the Tour’s caricatural American twin–perhaps the first truly postmodern bicycle race–the Tour de Trump. Even a thoroughly banalized Tour de France can still exceed the organizers’ intentions and leave space for some saving cultural comedy.
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Voicing the Neonew
Susan M. Schultz
University of Hawaii-Manoa
“Postmodern Poetries: Jerome J. McGann Guest -Edits an Anthology of Language Poets From North America and the United Kingdom,”Verse 7:1 (Spring, 1990): 6-73.
Postmodern poetry, especially Language poetry, is coming in from the cold. Not so long ago, postmodern poets published their work exclusively in small journals and disseminated it through small presses. Their radical differences from members of the Deep Image, Confessional, New York, and New Formalist schools probably condemned them to the margins of the publishing and the teaching worlds. But so, it seems, did their desire not to take part in (or to be co-opted by) that world. The climate is changing, however; a poetic greenhouse effect has lured well-known Language poets, among them Bob Perelman and Charles Bernstein, into the academy. Susan Howe has a book forthcoming from the well-established Wesleyan University Press. And the generally conservative pages ofVerse, a journal published in Great Britain and the United States, have opened to their “neonew” (the word is Perelman’s) attack on traditional versifying. The shepherd for this latest assault is Jerome McGann, long a lobbyist (or apologist, depending on your sympathies) for Language poetry.
Language writing is at once post-structuralist and interested in history, power, and leftist ideology. Language poetry bears an acknowledged debt to the Modernists’ style, if not their substance; it also shores fragments against ruins, although it means to revel in that fragmentation. This issue ofVerse seems geared more toward the demands of the initiated than toward those of the merely curious; as McGann notes in his introduction, no anthology of postmodernist poetry is complete without postmodernist prose (these writers, like the Modernists, are poet- critics). The lack of a critical background hurts, as does McGann’s teasing introduction. I will dwell a bit on the introduction, because its paradoxes seem to me central to the movement that McGann describes in it.
If editors are a species of literary parent, McGann is a benevolent father who neither instructs his progeny nor leaves them to fend entirely for themselves. His introduction takes the middle ground between these options, hinting at purpose, yet refusing at all turns to name it. And a tenuous middle ground it is, at least for readers not already privy to postmodernism’s concerns–and perhaps also for those who are. For McGann does not so much mediate between the reader and the texts that follow as write an introduction that consistently fails to introduce. His various indeterminacies would not be so frustrating were he not to promise something more specific. “[T]he aim here is to give a more catholic view of the radical change which poetry has undergone since the Vietnam War” (6). “From a social and historical point of view, this collection aims to show certain features of the contemporary avant-garde poetry scene which are not apparent in [other collections]” (7). McGann never makes clear what he means by “radical change” and the “certain features” that distinguish his anthology from those that come before (Ron Silliman’sIn the American Tree and Douglas Messerli’s 1987,Language Poetries, An Anthology).
McGann’s prose imitates the postmodern poetries he has chosen, and begins to define them by unravelling the kinds of definitions that we still like to believe govern the selection-process for any anthology. Curiously, however, McGann subscribes to his own set of definitions. According to McGann, these are not just Language poems, though “all the writing here is language-centered, whether the work in question is ‘Language Writing’ properly so-called (e.g., the selections from Hejinian, Bernstein, and McCaffery) or whether it is not (e.g., the selections from Howe, Bromige, or D.S. Marriott).” The secret to the difference between Language writing and language-centered writing lies, one assumes, in the names here mentioned. Rather than witness the move from the “authority” of Blake and Shelley to the nonauthoritative postmodernist realm of language, we move from one set of Big Names to another. The proclaimed gulf between “vision” and “language,” the Romantics and the postmoderns, is not so wide after all.
McGann’s introduction, then, for all its principle of uncertainty, violates its own code. For McGann describes postmodern poetry as poetry in which “The [decentered] I is engulphed in the writing; not an authority, it becomes instead a witness, for and against” (6). This jibes with Charles Bernstein’s attack on poetic voice in “Stray Straws and Straw Men,” inThe L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Book: “‘The voice of the poet’ is an easy way of contextualizing poetry so that it can be more readily understood . . . as listening to someone talk in their distinctive manner” (LB 41). This emphasis on voice “has the tendency to reduce the body of a poet’s work to little more than personality.” And finally, “Voice is a possibility for poetry not an essence” (42). Several of the poets in this issue go to fascinating lengths to disrupt our expectation that we will be hearing poetic voices. Their strategies are often formal; the disjunction between form and content has become as much a critical standard these days as the New Critical junction was some forty years ago.
The most dramatic attempt to deflect us into language, away from the poet, is by Tina Darragh, in her sequence, “Bunch-Ups.” Darragh gives us four rectangular boxes in which she has drawn long pipe-shaped lines; it’s as if the reader looked at what she knew was the page of a book, but found that the lines were empty of words. At the bottom right section of each page, the lines “bunch-up”; below them one sees the portions of several lines of what looks like the OED: a number here, the beginning of a Latin term there, parts and wholes of English words. The piece effectively dramatizes the way in which the reader of a dictionary becomes–at random–the writer of an incomplete text. As she has written elsewhere, “Reading the definitions is like reading a foreign language developed specifically for English” (LB 108). And yet readers suspicious that nothing any writer sets down is, in truth, random will note that the seemingly haphazard glimpses from a dictionary that she gives us are in fact fragments about the self, about a network, a definition that includes a reference to “sense,” and one that reads “post in a statio” and is the 17th, archaic sense of a word. She makes connections, in other words, between dictionaries and selves, between networks of language and of people; her final fragment also suggests historical depth, even as it argues against the possibility of understanding history.
There are other notable attempts to foreground language and downplay the author, instances when, as Bernstein puts it, “the writing itself is seen as an instance of reality / fantasy / experience / event” (LB 41). Christopher Dewdney, for example, whose “source text” is a museum catalogue, describes his method as follows: “InThe Beach,The City,The Theatre Party andThe Self Portrait source lines alternate with interference lines which are generally permutations of the adjacent source lines. The permutation lines echo the line before at the same time as they preview the line after them. This profoundly skews the semantic valences of most of the reading subsequent to the first interference line (which is the second line in these four poems) [two of which are printed here]” (21). The two poems printed here reminded me very much of John Ashbery’s “Finnish Rhapsody” (fromApril Galleons), which Ashbery based on the repetitive style of theKalevala. But Dewdney’s procedure is, in its way, more radical; where Ashbery writes, and then rewrites his own text, Dewdney’s contribution to a pre-existing text is his “interference” in it.
Bob Perelman’s poem “Neonew” experiments with stanzas, the shapes of which are reflexive of the shape of history. Each section, until the end of the poem, is numbered “1,” which reminds us that history exists always in the present. In the second section “1” Perelman writes about the way in which a change in spelling affected the “poor Tatars.”
backwards into the body into the body of the poor
the body of the poor Tatars
body of the poor Tatars Roman
of the poor Tatars Roman history
the poor Tatars Roman history intercalated an
alphabetic letter
Tatars Roman history intercalated an alphabetic
letter they continue Tartars
Roman history intercalated an alphabetic letter
they continue Tartars of fell
Tartarean nature to this day (41)Political power does not just give the victors the power to rewrite history; it also governs the empire’s spelling books. As Foucault knew, power operates everywhere, even when its effects seem accidental. Perelman’s limited text is also an open one, because it eschews poetic “voice” in favor of “writing” (like Derrida, Language poets reverse the traditional narrative, according to which voice precedes writing). In his talk, “The Rejection of Closure,” Perelman notes that, “The open text often emphasizes or foregrounds process, either the process of the original composition or of subsequent compositions by readers, and thus resists the cultural tendencies that seek to identify and fix material, turn it into a product; that is, it resists reduction and commodification” (quoted in Hartley, 38). This conception of the text is radically utopian; are we not able to describe the passage about “poor Tatars” in story-form? Can we not “interpret” this poem as we do “closed” texts? I suspect that we can, and that what Perelman–like any good poet–gives us is a new style in which to say what we already know. That the style is impersonal–that it does not reflect back on a subjective “I”–aligns it with the Modernism of T.S. Eliot and Marianne Moore. That this impersonal style works in the service of leftist politics does distinguish Perelman and his cohorts from the “great Modernists.” Thus, the line: “‘polis is eyes’ ‘O say can you see’ ‘police is eyes’,” conveys the sweep of history from the Greek polis to the United States, and joins them through the connection of sight and authority.
Yet McGann’s reliance on names to define postmodern poetries is revealing–not for anything it tells us of McGann, but for what it tells us about this –and other–anthologies of postmodern verse. Many of these poets do have recognizable styles. In that sense, to paraphrase Stevens, every disorder depends on there being an ordering consciousness in the background. If not voices, then, these poets have idiosyncratic ways of placing words on the page, individual means to distort syntax and to break “the basic assumptions of bourgeois subjectivity,” as George Hartley phrases it in his cogent book on the Language poets (34). As Bernstein writes, “The best of the writing that gets called automatic issues from a series of choices as deliberate & reflected as can be” (43). Or, one might add, the best of postmodern writing issues through the filter of a mind that makes choices.
Charles Bernstein and Lyn Hejinian, identified by McGann as “proper” Language poets, and Susan Howe, an “improper” Language poet, all write with a lyricism that argues against the “decentered I”–or at least works in tension with it. Bernstein’s “Debris of Shock/Shock of Debris” is a collage of mixed cliches (like mixed metaphors) that engages political concerns:
Never
burglarize a house with a standing army,
nor take the garbage to an unauthorized
junket. (69)He satirizes the capitalist’s conflation of art with money, authority with seductiveness, as well as his “style,” which formalizes capitalist politics:
Yet it is the virile voice of authority, the
condescending
smugness in tone, that is thrilling. What
does it matter that he hasn’t any . . .
“Creative
goals and financial goals are identical: we
just
have different approaches on how to research
those goals, and we have different
definitions
of risk.” (71)Yet the comedy of pastiche that Bernstein creates melts into a lyricism that recalls John Ashbery’s “Soonest Mended,” where that poet moves abruptly from talk of brushing one’s teeth to a lush Keatsian conclusion. We move from satire to a sense of loss:
The salt
of the earth is the tears
of God, torn for
penitence at having created this plenitude
of sufferance. So we dismember (disremember)
in homage to our maker, foraging
in fits, forgiving in
forests, spearing what we take
to be our sustenance: belittling to rein things
in to human scale. A holy land parched
with grief & dulled
envy. The land is soil
& will not stain; such
hope as we may rise from. (73)Here lyricism operates against what we think of as lyrical vision; this is a post-apocalyptic, post-Romantic vision. It is not Bernstein’s only register, and yet the elegiac tone of the poem–the poet’s grief for a wasted earth–suggests a new direction for postmodern poetry. Such poetry might acknowledge more fully its double desire to be jarring and lyrical, iconoclastic and reverential, skeptical and faithful to what land we have left. It might at least tease us with the possibility of an integrated self, even as it testifies to its loss, and the dangers of our nostalgia for it.
Let me add that there are moments of good fun in this anthology. After all, the deconstruction of established canons and styles is more often Dionysian than Apollonian. Consider David Bromige’s “Romantic Traces,” which proclaims its purpose in empurpled Keatsisms:
It is time I pledge some vows,
apart from those, that is, I’ve taken to the
lyre,
to be as true to it as chainsaw is to boughs
ready to make a widow the next forest fire–
and suddenly I hear I’m to be retired
for failing to accumulate sufficient fans
and denied a seat with the Olympians
because I sang and wrote when by democracy
inspired! (51)Now that poets like Bromige and his fellow postmoderns are “accumulating sufficient fans,” anthologies such as this one should provide an important link between poets and whatever “common readers” remain.
Works Cited
- Andrews, Bruce and Charles Bernstein, eds. The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Book. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1984.
- Hartley, George.Textual Politics and the Language Poets. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1989.
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Postmodernism and Imperialism: Theory and Politics in Latin America
Neil Larsen
Northeastern University
My remarks here1 concern the following topics of critical discussion and debate: 1) the ideological character of postmodernism as both a philosophical standpoint and as a set of political objectives and strategies; 2) the development within a broadly postmodernist theoretical framework of a trend advocating a critique of certain postmodern tenets from the standpoint of anti-imperialism; and 3) the influence of this trend on both the theory and practice of oppositional culture in Latin America. So as to eliminate the need for second-guessing my own standpoint in what follows, let me state clearly at the outset that I will adhere to what I understand to be both a Marxist and a Leninist position as concerns both epistemology and the social and historical primacy of class contradiction. In matters philosophical, then, I will be advancing and defending dialectical materialist arguments. Regarding questions of culture and aesthetics, as well as those of revolutionary strategy under existing conditions–areas in which Marxist and Leninist theory have either remained relatively speculative or have found it necessary to re-think older positions–my own thinking may or may not merit the attribution of ‘orthodoxy,’ depending on how that term is currently to be understood.
(1)
One typically appeals to the term ‘postmodern’ to characterize a broad and ever-widening range of aesthetic and cultural practices and artifacts. But the concept itself, however diffuse and contested, has also come to designate a very definite current of philosophy as well as a theoretical approach to politics. Postmodern philosophy–or simply postmodern ‘theory,’ if we are to accept Jameson’s somewhat ingenuous observation that it “marks the end of philosophy”2–arguably includes the now standard work of poststructuralist thinkers such as Derrida and Foucault as well as the more recent work by ex-post- Althusserian theorists such a Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, academic philosophical converts such as Richard Rorty and the perennial vanguardist Stanley Aronowitz. The latter elaborate and re-articulate an increasingly withered poststructuralism, re-deploying the grandly dogmatic and quasi-mystical “critique of the metaphysics of presence” as a critical refusal of the “foundationalism” and “essentialism” of the philosophy of the Enlightenment. These two assignations–which now come to replace the baneful Derridean charge of “metaphysics”–refer respectively to the Enlightenment practice of seeking to ground all claims regarding either truth or value in terms of a self-evidencing standard of Reason; and to the ontological fixation upon being as essence, rather than as relationality or ‘difference.’
Postmodern philosophy for the most part adopts its “anti-essentialism” directly from Derrida and company, adding little if anything to accepted (or attenuated) post-structuralist doctrine. Where postmodernism contributes more significantly to the honing down and re-tooling of poststructuralism is, I propose, in its indictment of foundationalism–in place of the vaguer abstractions of “presence” or “identity”–as the adversarial doctrine. It is not all “Western” modes of thought and being which must now be discarded, but more precisely their Enlightenment or modern modalities, founded on the concept of reason. Indeed, even the charge of “foundationalism” perhaps functions as a minor subterfuge here. What postmodern philosophy intends is, to cite Aronowitz’s forthright observation, a “rejection of reason as a foundation for human affairs.”3 Postmodernism is thus a form, albeit an unconventional one, of irrationalism.
To be sure, important caveats can be raised here. Postmodernist theoreticians often carefully stipulate that a rejection of reason as foundation does not imply or require a rejection of all narrowly ‘reasonable’ procedures. Postmodernity is not to be equated with an anti-modernity. Aronowitz, for example, has written that “postmodern movements” (e.g., ecology and “Solidarity” type labor groups) “borrow freely the terms and programs of modernity but place them in new discursive contexts” (UA 61). Chantal Mouffe insists that “radical democracy”–according to her, the political and social project of postmodernity–aims to “defend the political project [of Enlightenment] while abandoning the notion that it must be based on a specific form of rationality.”4 Ernesto Laclau makes an even nicer distinction by suggesting that “it is precisely the ontological status of the central categories of the discourses of modernity and not their content, that is at stake. . . . Postmodernity does not imply a change in the values of Enlightenment modernity but rather a particular weakening of their absolutist character.”5 And a similarly conservative gesture within the grander irrationalist impulse can, of course, be followed in Lyotard’s characterization of “paralogy” as those practices legitimating themselves exclusively within their own “small narrative” contexts, rather than within the macro-frames of modernist meta-narratives of Reason, Progress, History, etc.6
Two counter-objections are necessary here, however. The first is that any thoughtful consideration of claims to locate the attributes of reason within supposedly local or non-totalizable contexts immediately begs the question of what, then, acts to set the limits to any particular instance of “paralogy,” etc.? How does the mere adding of the predicate “local” or “specific” or “weakened” serve to dispense with the logic of an external ground or foundation? Cannot, for example, the ecology movement be shown to be grounded in a social and political context outside and ‘larger’ than it is, whatever the movement may think of itself? If reason is present (or absent) in the fragment, does not this presence/absence necessarily connect with the whole on some level? If, as one might say, postmodernism wants to proclaim a rationality of means entirely removed from a rationality of ends, does it not thereby sacrifice the very “means/ends” logic it wants to invoke, the very logical framework in which one speaks of “contexts”? I suggest it would be more precise to describe the measured, non-foundationalist ‘rationalism’ of postmodernism as simply an evasive maneuver designed to immunize from critique the real object here: that is to preserve “Enlightenment” as merely an outward and superficial guise for irrationalist content, to reduce “Enlightenment,” as an actual set of principles designed to govern consciously thought and action, to merely the specific mythology needed to inform the project of a “new radical imaginary” (Laclau,UA 77).
Clearly, there is a complete failure–or refusal– of dialectical reasoning incurred in postmodernism’s attempted retention of an Enlightenment ‘micro’- rationality. And this brings up the second rejoinder: postmodern philosophy’s practiced avoidance on this same score of the Marxist, dialectical materialist critique of Enlightenment. Postmodern theory, virtually without exception, consigns something it calls “Marxism” to the foul Enlightenment brew of “foundationalism.th” Marxism is, in effect, collapsed back into Hegelianism, the materialist dialectic into the idealist dialectic–or, as Aronowitz somewhat puzzlingly puts it, the “form of Marxism is retained while its categories are not” (UA 52). But in no instance that I know of has a postmodern theorist systematically confronted the contention first developed by Marx and Engels that “this realm of reason was nothing more than the idealized realm of the bourgeoisie.”7 I think perhaps it needs to be remembered that the Marxist project was not and is not the simple replacement of one “universal reason” with another, but the practical and material transformation of reason to be attained in classless society; and that this attainment would not mean the culmination of reason on earth a la Hegel but a raising of reason to a higher level through its very de-“idealization.” Reason, then, comes to be grasped as a time-bound, relative principle which nevertheless attains an historical universality through the social universality of the proletariat (gendered and multi-ethnic) as they/we who–to quote a famous lyric–“shall be the human race.”
But again, postmodern irrationalism systematically evades confrontation with this critique of Enlightenment. It typically manages this through a variety of fundamentally dogmatic maneuvers, epitomized in the work of Laclau and Mouffe–who, as Ellen Meiksins Wood has shown,8 consistently and falsely reduce Marxism to a “closed system” of pure economic determinism.
Why this evasion? Surely there is more than a casual connection here with the fact that the typical postmodern theorist probably never got any closer to Marxism or Leninism than Althusser’s left-wing structuralism and Lacanianism. One can readily understand how the one time advocate of a self-enclosed “theoretical practice” might elicit postmodern suspicions of closure and ‘scientism.’ Indeed, Althusser’s ‘Marxism’ can fairly be accused of having pre-programmed, in its flight from the class struggles of its time and into methodologism, the subsequent turn-about in which even the residual category of “theoretical practice” is deemed “foundationalist.”
But this is secondary. What I would propose is that postmodernism’s hostility towards a “foundationalist” parody of Marxism, combined with the elision of Marxism’s genuinely dialectical and materialist content, flows not from a simple misunderstanding but, objectively, from the consistent need of an ideologically embattled capitalism to seek displacement and pre-emption of Marxism through the formulation of radical-sounding “third paths.” That postmodern philosophy normally refrains from open anti- communism, preferring to pay lip service to “socialism” even while making the necessary obeisances to the demonologies of “Stalin” may make it appear as some sort of a “left” option. But is there really anything “left”? The most crucial problem for Marxism today– how to extend and put into practice a critique from the left of retreating “socialism” at the moment of the old communist movement’s complete transformation into its opposite–remains safely beyond postmodernist conceptual horizons.
Postmodernist philosophy’s oblique but hostile relation to Marxism largely duplicates that of Nietzsche. And the classical analysis here belongs to Lukacs’ critique of Nietzschean irrationalism inThe Destruction of Reason, a work largely ignored by contemporary theory since being anathematized by Althusserianism two decades ago. Lukacs identifies in Nietzsche’s radically anti-systemic and counter- cultural thinking a consistent drive to attack and discredit the socialist ideals of his time. But against these Nietzsche proposes nothing with any better claim to social rationality. Any remaining link between reason and the emancipatory is refused. It is, according to Lukacs, this very antagonism towards socialism–a movement of whose most advanced theoretical expression Nietzsche remained fundamentally ignorant–which supplies to Nietzschean philosophy its point of departure and its principal unifying “ground” as such. “It is material from ‘enemy territory,’ problems and questions imposed by the class enemy which ultimately determine the content of his philosophy.”9 Unlike his more typical fellow reactionaries, however, Nietzsche perceived the fact of bourgeois decadence and the consequent need to formulate an intellectual creed which could give the appearance of overcoming it. In this he anticipates the later, more explicit “anti- bourgeois” anti-communisms of the coming imperialist epoch–most obviously fascism. This defense of a decadent bourgeois order, based on the partial acknowledgement of its defects and its urgent need for cultural renewal, and pointing to a “third path” “beyond” the domain of reason,10 Lukacs terms an “indirect apologetic.”
Postmodern philosophy receives Nietzsche through the filters of Deleuze, Foucault and Derrida, blending him with similarly mediated versions of Heidegger and William James into a new irrationalist hybrid. But the terms of Lukacs’ Nietzsche-critique on the whole remain no less appropriate. Whereas, on the one hand, postmodernist philosophy’s aversion for orthodox fascism is so far not to be seriously questioned, its basic content continues, I would argue, to be “dictated by the adversary.” And this adversary–revolutionary communism as both a theory and a practice–assumes an even sharper identity today than in Nietzsche’s epoch. Let it be said that Lukacs, writing forty years ago, posits an adversarial Marxism-Leninism more free of the critical tensions and errors than we know it to have been then or to be now. If, from our own present standpoint,The Destruction of Reason has a serious flaw, then it is surely this failure to anticipate or express openly the struggles and uncertainties within communist orthodoxy itself. (Lukacs’ subsequent allegiance to Krushchevite positions–by then, perhaps, inevitable–marks his decisive move to the right on these issues.) But the fact that postmodern philosophy arises in a conjuncture marked by capitalist restoration throughout the “socialist” bloc and the consequent extreme crisis and disarray within the theoretical discourse of Marxism, while it may explain the relative freedom from genuinely contestatory Marxist critique enjoyed by postmodern theorists, in no way alters the essence of this ideological development as a reprise of pseudo-dialectical, Nietzschean “indirect apologetics.”
This becomes fully apparent when one turns to post-modernism’s more explicit formulations as a politics. I am thinking here mainly of Laclau and Mouffe’sHegemony and Socialist Strategy, a work which, though it remains strongly controversial, has attained in recent years a virtually manifesto-like standing among many intellectuals predisposed to poststructuralist theory.Hegemony and Socialist Strategy proposes to free the Gramscian politics linked to the concept of “hegemony” (the so-called “war of position,” as opposed to “war of maneuver”) from its residual Marxian ‘foundationalism’ in recognition of what is held to be the primary efficacy of discourse itself and its “articulating” agents in forming hegemonic subjects. And it turns out of course that “socialist strategy” means dumping socialism altogether for a “radical democracy” which more adequately conforms to the “indeterminacy” of a “society” whose concept is modeled directly on the poststructuralist critique of the sign.
The key arguments ofHegemony and Socialist Strategy–as, in addition, the serious objections they have elicited–have become sufficiently well known to avoid lengthy repetitions here. What Mouffe and Laclau promise to deliver is, in the end, a revolutionary or at least emancipatory political strategy shorn of ‘foundationalist’ ballast. In effect, however, they merely succeed in shifting the locus of political and social agency from “essentialist” categories of class and party to a discursive agency of “articulation.”11 And when it comes time to specify concretely the actual articulating subjects themselves,Hegemony and Socialist Strategy resorts to a battery of argumentative circularities and subterfuges which simply relegate the articulatory agency to “other discourses.”12
Ellen Meiksins Wood has shown the inevitable collapse ofHegemony and Socialist Strategy into its own illogic as an argument with any pretense to denote political or social realities–a collapse which, because of its very considerable synthetic ambitions and conceptual clarity perhaps marks the conclusive failure of poststructuralism to produce a viable political theory. But the failure of argument has interfered little with the capacity of this theoretical tract to supply potentially anti-capitalist intellectuals with a powerful dose of “indirect apologetics.” The fact that the “third path” calls itself “radical democracy,” draping itself in the “ethics” if not the epistemology of Enlightenment, the fact that it outwardly resists the “fixity” of any one privileged subject, makes it, in a sense, the more perfect “radical” argument for a capitalist politics of pure irrationalist spontaneity. And we know who wins on the battlefield of the spontaneous.13 While the oppressed are fed on the myths of their own “hegemony”–and why not, since “on the threshold of postmodernity” humanity is “for the first time the creator and constructor of its own history”? (Laclau, UA 79-80)–those already in a position to “articulate” the myths for us only strengthen their hold on power.
(2)
In my remarks so far I have emphasized how contemporary postmodern philosophy’s blanket hostility towards the universalisms of Enlightenment thought might merely work to pre-empt Marxism’s carefully directed critique of that particular universal which is present-day capitalist ideology and power. Does not the merely theoretical refusal of the (ideal) ground serve in fact to strengthen the real foundations of real oppression by rendering all putative knowledge of the latter illicit? When Peter Dews criticizes Foucault for his attempt to equate the “plural” with the emancipatory, the remark applies to more recent postmodern theory with equal force: “the deep naivety of this conception lies in the assumption that once the aspiration to universality is abandoned what will be left is a harmonious plurality of unmediated perspectives.”14 In light of this perverse blindness to particular universals, postmodernism’s seemingly general skepticism towards Marxism as one possible instance of ‘foundationalism’ would be better grasped as a specific and determining antagonism. Is there an extant, living–i.e., practiced–philosophy other than Marxism which any longer purports to ground rational praxis in universal (but in this case also practical-material) categories? We are saying, then, that postmodern philosophy and political theory becomes objectively, albeit perhaps obliquely, a variation of anti-communism.
It might, however, be objected at this point that postmodernism encompasses not only this demonstrably right-wing tendency but also a certain ‘left’ which, like Marxism, aims at an actual transcendence of oppressive totalities but which diverges from Marxism in its precise identification of the oppressor and of the social agent charged with its opposition and overthrow. Under this more “practical” aegis, the axis of postmodern antagonism shifts from the universal versus the particular to the more politically charged tension between the “center” and the “margin.” Such a shift has, for example, been adumbrated by Cornel West as representing a particularly American inflection of the postmodern. “For Americans,” says West,
are politically always already in a condition of postmodern fragmentation and heterogeneity in a way that Europeans have not been; and the revolt against the center by those constituted as marginals is an oppositional difference in a way that poststructuralist notions of difference are not. These American attacks on universality in the name of difference, these 'postmodern' issues of otherness (Afro-Americans, Native Americans, women, gays) are in fact an implicit critique of certain French postmodern discourses about otherness that really serve to hide and conceal the power of the voices and movements of Others.15
Among instances of a “left” postmodernism we might then include certain of contemporary feminisms and the theoretical opposition to homophobia as well as the cultural nationalisms of ethnic minority groups. The category of the “marginal” scarcely exhausts itself here, however. Arrayed against the “center” even as also “concealed” by its discourses and “disciplines” are, in this conception, also the millions who inhabit the neocolonial societies of the ‘third world.’ Hence there might be a definite logic in describing the contemporary anti-colonial and anti-imperialist movements of the periphery as in their own way also “postmodern.”
It is this “marginal” and “anti-imperialist” claim to postmodernity which I now wish to assess in some depth. In particular I propose to challenge the idea that such a “left” movement within postmodernism really succeeds in freeing itself from the right-wing apologetic strain within the postmodern philosophy of the “center.”
The basic outlines of this “left” position are as follows: both post-structuralism and postmodernism, as discourses emergent in the “center,” have failed to give adequate theoretical consideration to the international division of labor and to what is in fact the uneven and oppressive relation of metropolitan knowledge and its institutions to the “life-world” of the periphery. Both metropolitan knowledge as well as metropolitan systems of ethics constitute themselves upon a prior exclusion of peripheral reality. They therefore become themselves falsely ‘universal’ and as such ideological rather than genuinely critical. The remedy to such false consciousness is not to be sought in the mere abstract insistence on “difference” (or “unfixity,” the “heterogeneous,” etc.), but in the direct practical intervention of those who are different, those flesh and blood “others” whom, as West observes, the very conceptual appeal to alterity has ironically excluded. As a corollary, it is then implied that a definite epistemological priority, together with a kind of ethical exemplariness, adheres to those subjects and practices marginalized by imperialist institutions of knowledge and culture.
Among ‘first world’ theorists who have put forward this kind of criticism perhaps the best known is Fredric Jameson. In his essay “Third World Literature in the Era of Multi-national Capitalism” Jameson argues that “third world texts necessarily project a political dimension in the form of national allegory: the story of the private individual destiny is always an allegory of the embattled situation of the public third world culture and society.”16 Third world texts, then–and by extension those who produce them and their primary public–retain what the culture of postmodernism in the ‘first world’ is unable to provide, according to another of Jameson’s well-known arguments: a “cognitive map”17 equipped to project the private onto the public sphere. As such, these peripheral practices of signification consciously represent a political bedrock reality which for the contemporary postmodern metropole remains on the level of the political unconscious. (It should be pointed out of course that Jameson’s schema is largely indifferent in this respect to the modernism/postmodernism divide.) What enables this is the fact that the third world subject, like Hegel’s slave, exhibits a “situational consciousness” (Jameson’s preferred substitute term for materialism). As “master,” however, the metropolitan consciousness becomes enthralled to the fetishes which symbolize its dominance.
An analogous but weaker theory of the marginal as epistemologically privileged is to be found in the writings of Edward Said. InThe World, the Text and the Critic, for example, Said chastises contemporary critical theory, especially poststructuralism, for its lack of “worldliness”–by which he evidently means much the same thing designated by Jameson’s “situational consciousness.” What is needed, according to Said, is “a sort of spatial sense, a sort of measuring faculty for locating or situating theory”18 which Said denotes simply as “critical consciousness.”The World, the Text and the Critic ultimately disappoints in its own failure to historically or “spatially” situate such “critical consciousness,” but given Said’s public commitment to Palestinian nationalism it wouldn’t seem unreasonable to identify in his call for “worldliness” a prescription for “third-worldliness.”
Both Jameson and Said–the former far more openly and forthrightly than the latter–violate central tenets of postmodernism, of course, insofar as they posit the existence of a marginal consciousness imbued with “presence” and “self-identity.” That is, they appear to justify an orthodox postmodernist counter-accusation of “essentialism.” Lest this should be thought to constitute a final incompatibility of postmodernism for an anti-imperialist, post-colonial standpoint, however, it is imperative to mention here the work of Gayatry Chakravorty Spivak. Foreseeing this difficulty, Spivak has (in her critical reading of the work of a radical collective of Indian historians known as the “subaltern studies group”) sought to justify such “essentialism” as a strategic necessity, despite its supposed epistemological falsity. The radical, third world historian, writes Spivak, “must remain committed to the subaltern as the subject of his history. As they choose this strategy, they reveal the limits of the critique of humanism as produced in the west.”19 Spivak, that is to say, poses the necessity for an exceptionalism: a conceptual reliance on the “subject of history,” which as a poststructuralist she would condemn as reactionary and “humanist,” is allowed on “strategical” grounds within the terrain of the “subaltern.” It begins to sound ironically like the old pro-colonialist condescension to the “native’s” need for myths that the educated metropolitan city- dweller has now dispensed with–but more on this below.
Even if the “marginal” cannot be proved to enjoy an epistemological advantage, however, its very reality as a ‘situation’ requiring direct action against oppression can be appealed to as politically and ethically exemplary. Thus, in her very poignant essay entitled “Feminism: the Political Conscience of Postmodernism?” (UA 149-166) the critic and video artist Laura Kipnis proposes that feminism, seemingly entrapped between the “textualist” (i.e., modernist) aestheticism of French poststructuralist critics on the order of Cixous, Irigaray, etc., and North American liberal reformism (another case of “essentialism”), adopt “a theory of women not as class or caste but as colony” (UA 161). The efforts of a Rorty or a Laclau to salvage “Enlightenment” by ridding it of foundationalism and leaving only its “pragmatic” procedures would, in this view, be too little too late. For Kipnis, as for Craig Owens,20 postmodernism denotes what is really the definitive decline of the “West” and its colonial systems of power. If those marginalized within the center itself, e.g., women, are to rescue themselves from this sinking ship they must model their opposition on the practice of non-Western anti-colonial rebels. Referring to the 1986 bombing of Libya, Kipnis writes: “When retaliation is taken, as has been announced, for ‘American arrogance,’ this is the postmodern critique of Enlightenment; it is, in fact, a decentering, it is the margin, the absence, the periphery rewriting the rules from its own interest” (UA 163).
An analogous proposal for third world revolt within the conceptual terrain of postmodernism has been issued by George Yudice. Against the postmodern ‘ethics’ formulated by Foucault as an “aesthetics of existence”–manifesting itself, e.g., in the liberal comforts of pluralism–Yudice suggests finding an ethical standard “among the dominated and oppressed peoples of the ‘peripheral’ or underdeveloped countries.”21 As a mere “aesthetic” the postmodern “explores the marginal, yet is incapable of any solidarity with it” (UA 224). Yudice terms this marginal ethic an “ethic of survival” and points to the example set by Rigoberta Menchu, a Guatemalan Mayan woman who has recorded her experiences as an organizer for the Christian base community movement against genocidal repression.22 “Menchu, in fact, has turned her very identity into a ‘poetics of defense.’ Her oppression and that of her people have opened them to an unfixity delimited by the unboundedness of struggle” (UA 229). In Menchu’s ethical example we thus have, so to speak, the subversive promise of “unfixity” a la Mouffe-Laclau made flesh.
Yudice is not the first to attempt this particular inflection with specific reference to Latin America. The “liberation theology” which guides Menchu’s practice as a militant might itself lay some claim to represent an indigenously Latin American postmodernism–“avant la lettre” insofar as Foucault and his followers are concerned. The philosophical implications of liberation theology have been worked out by the so-called “Philosophy of Liberation,” a intellectual current which developed in Argentina in the early 1970s. As recounted recently by Horacio Cerutti-Guldberg,23 “Philosophy of Liberation” set out explicitly to formulate a uniquely Latin American doctrine of liberation which would be “neither a liberal individualism nor a Marxist collectivism” (LAP 47). Rather, it would set itself the goal of “philosophizing out of the social demands of the most needy, the marginalized and despised sectors of the population” (LAP 44). This in turn requires, according to exponent Enrique Dussel, a new philosophical method–known as “analectics”–based on the logical priority or “anteriority” of the exterior (i.e., the marginal, the Other) over totality.24 “Analectics” are to supplant the “Eurocentric” method of dialectics. As Cerutti-Guldberg observes:
Dialectics (it doesn't matter whether Hegelian or Marxist, since analectical philosophy identifies them) could never exceed "intra-systematicity." It would be incapable of capturing the requirements of "alterity" expressed in the "face" of the "poor" that demands justice. In this sense, it would appear necessary to postulate a method that would go beyond (ana-) and not merely through (dia-) the totality. This is the "analectical" method which works with the central notion of analogy. In this way, analectical philosophy would develop the "essential" thinking longed for by Heidegger. Such thinking would be made possible when it emerges out of the cultural, anthropological "alterative" Latin American space. This space is postulated as "preliminary in the order of Being" and "posterior in the order of knowledge" with respect to the "ontological totality." It is constituted by the poor of the "third world." (LAP 50)
In Dussel’sPhilosophy of Liberation the logic of going “beyond” the totality ultimately leads to explicit theology and mysticism. “What reason can never embrace–the mystery of the other as other–only faith can penetrate” (Dussel 93). But the “analectical” method has received other, non- theological formulations in Latin America, most notably in the case of the Cuban critic Roberto Fernandez Retamar, whose theoretical writings of the early 1970s25 were aimed at refuting the possibility that a “universal” theory of literature could truthfully reflect the radical alterity of “Nuestra America.” This is argued to be so not only as a result of the unequal, exploitative relation of imperial metropolis to periphery–a relation which is historically evolved and determined and thus subject to transformation–but because all notions of universality (e.g., Goethe’s, and Marx and Engels’ idea of aWeltliteratur) are fictions masking the reality of radical diversity and alterity.
One should point out here that Retamar’s philosophical authority is Jose Marti and certainly not Derrida, Deleuze or Foucault, whom, had he been aware of them at the time, Retamar would almost surely have regarded with skeptical hostility. Dussel and the various Latin American philosophers associated with “Philosophy of Liberation” have obvious debts to European phenomenology and existentialism, especially Heidegger and Levinas. But here, too, a philosophical trend in which we can now recognize the idea of postmodernity as a radical break with Enlightenment develops out of what is perceived at least as a direct social and political demand for theory to adequately reflect the life-world of those who are, as it were, both “marginal” and the “subject of history” at once. One can sympathize with the general impatience of Latin American critics and theorists who see in the category of the “postmodern” what appears to be yet another neo- colonial attempt to impose alien cultural models. (Such would probably be Retamar’s conscious sentiments.) But the example of the “analectical” critiques of Dussel and Retamar shows, in fact, that the intellectual and cultural gulf is overdrawn and that all roads to postmodernism do not lead through French poststructuralism.
(3)
Do we then find a Latin American culture of postmodernism linked to these particular conceptual trends? I would argue–and have argued elsewhere26— that the recent proliferation in Latin America of so- called “testimonial” narratives like that of Rigoberta Menchu, as well as the fictional and quasi-fictional texts which adopt the perspective of the marginalized (see,inter alia, the works of Elena Poniatowska, Eduardo Galeano and Manlio Argueta), give some evidence of postmodernity insofar as they look for ways of “giving voice” to alterity. Significant here is their implicit opposition to the more traditional (and modernist) approach of “magical realism” in which the marginal becomes a kind of aesthetic mode of access to the ground of national or regional unity and identity. One could include here as well the general wave of interest in Latin American popular and “barrio” culture as an embodiment of ‘resistance.’
But our direct concern here is with the ideological character of the conceptual trend as such. Does the move to, as it were, found post-modernism’s anti-foundationalism in the rebellious consciousness of those marginalized by modernity alter orthodox postmodernism’s reactionary character?
I submit that it does not. Basing themselves on what is, to be sure, the decisive historical and political reality of unequal development and the undeniably imperialist and neo-colonialist bias of much metropolitan-based theory, the “left” postmodernists we have surveyed here all, to one degree or another, proceed to distort this reality into a new irrationalist and spontaneist myth. Marginality is postulated as a condition which, purely by virtue of its objective situation, spontaneously gives rise to the subversive particularity upon which postmodern politics pins its hopes. But where has this been shown actually to occur? Where has imperialism, and its attendant “scientific” and cultural institutions, actually given way and not simply adapted to the “new social movements” founded on ideals of alterity?
Jameson, whose argument for a third-world cognitive advantage points openly to an anti- imperialist nationalism as the road to both political and cultural redemption from postmodern psychic and social pathologies, speaks to us of Ousmane Sembene and Lu Hsun, but leaves out the larger question of where strategies of all-class national liberation have ultimately led Africa and China–of whether, in fact, nationalism, even the radical nationalism of cultural alterity, can be said to have succeeded as a strategy of anti-imperialism. As Aijaz Ahmad remarked in his well-taken critique of Jameson’s essay, Jameson’s retention of a “three worlds” theoretical framework imposes a view of neo-colonial society as free of class contradictions.27
Spivak’s move to characterize the “subaltern” as what might be termed “deconstruction with a human face” only leads us further into a spontaneist thicket– although the logic here is more consistent than in Jameson and Said, since the transition from colonial to independent status itself is reduced to a “displacement of function between sign systems” (Spivak, 198).
Kipnis, whose attempt to implicate both textualist and reformist feminisms in a politics of elitism and quietism has real merits, can in the end offer up as models for an “anti-colonial” feminism little more than the vague threat of anti-Western counter-terror from radical third-world nationalists such as Muammar Khadafy. We recall here Lenin’s dialectical insight inWhat is to be Done? regarding the internal link between spontaneism and an advocacy of terrorism. Yudice’s counter-posing of a third world “ethic of survival” to a postmodern ethic of “self- formation” possesses real force as itself an ethical judgement and one can only concur in arguing the superior moral example of a Rigoberta Menchu. But where does this lead us politically? Those super- exploited and oppressed at the periphery thus become pegged with a sort of sub-political consciousness, as if they couldn’t or needn’t see beyond the sheer fact of “survival.”
Are these lapses into the most threadbare sorts of political myths and fetishes simply the result of ignorance or bad faith on the part of sympathetic first world theorists? Not at all, I would suggest. Regarding current political reality in Latin America, at least, such retreats into spontaneism and the overall sub-estimation of the conscious element in the waging of political struggle merely reflect in a general way the continuing and indeed increasing reliance of much of the autochthonous anti-imperialist left on a similar mix of romantic faith in exemplary violence and in the eventual spontaneous uprising of the “people,” whether with bullets or with ballots. Although bothfoquismo and the strategy of a “peaceful road to socialism” based on populist alliances are recognized on one level to have failed, the conclusions drawn from this by the mainstream left have on the whole only led to an even more thorough- going abandonment of Marxist and Leninist political strategies in favor of a “democratic” politics of consensus. The strategic watchword seems to be “hegemony”–as derived, so far, from Gramsci, although who can say whether Laclau and Mouffe might not stage a rapid conquest of the Latin American left intelligentsia the way Althusser did two decades ago? If the left is to reverse the disastrous consequences of praetorian fascism in the Southern Cone and Brazil, for example–a reversal now basically limited to the regaining of a “lost” bourgeois “democracy”–this will supposedly require a less “sectarian” approach in which such slogans as “democracy” and “national sovereignty” are given a “popular” rather than an “elite” content. The matter of ideology–the question of whether, for example, “democracy,” “national sovereignty,” etc., are the political ideas through which the masses of exploited Latin Americans are to attain true emancipation–is now generally dropped. (Another case of “essentialism.”) What is needed is to wage a “war of position” fought by a left-hegemonized “popular bloc” and not by a movement of workers and class-allies organized in a revolutionary party.
This is not to say that the Gramscian political strategy associated with “hegemony” is necessarily tied to spontaneism; for Gramsci, at least, the “hegemony” required could only be the result of conscious political organizing and guidance by a working-class party itself led by its own “organic intellectuals.” (To what extent this accords or diverges from the Leninist strategy of democratic centralism is a matter we cannot go into here.) In its currently general acceptation in Latin America, however–linked as it is to purely reformist ends–“hegemony” implies a need to substitute a form of organization based on spontaneously arising social and cultural ideologies and practices for the “older” one of party-based, consciousness-raising agitation and recruitment. The almost unanimous move of the mainstream left to embrace liberation theology and the Catholic Church-led Christian base-community movement (or at least to refrain from open polemics with it) is the most significant example of a politics of “hegemony” over one of ideology.
I think this entire political trend within Latin America can be correctly grasped only as a consequence of the failure of Marxists, in particular the established Communist Parties and allied organizations, to carry out a self-criticism from the left, and of the resulting shift rightward into political positions which merely compound the errors of the past. The response of traditional Latin American Marxism to the evident failure of populism (with or without afoco component) as a variation on the orthodox “two-stage” model (democratic capitalism first, then socialism) has typically been to jettison the second stage entirely. One could argue with a certain justice that this collapse was inevitable, given the political mistakes already embedded in the older line. As Adolfo Sanchez Vasquez has recently pointed out,28 Latin Americans inherited the Marxism of the Second International, the Marxism which regarded revolution in the Western centers of capitalism as the necessary precondition for even national liberation, much less socialism or communism on the periphery. The Marx who, after studying British colonialism in Ireland, concluded that the liberation of Irish workers from imperialism was key to the political advance of an increasingly reformist and conservative British working class; the Marx who speculated that peasant communes in Russia might make feasible a direct transition to socialism: this Marx was largely unknown in Latin America. Thus when the Communism of the Third International adopted the “two stage” model for neocolonial countries, Latin American revolutionaries had scarcely any theoretical basis upon which to dissent. (This, according to Sanchez Vasquez, held true even for so original a Marxist thinker as Mariategui, who, perhaps because he had to go outside Marxism for theories sensitive to factors of unequal development, was ultimately led in the direction of the irrationalism of Bergson and Sorel.) Latin America is in no way unique in this, needless to say. Everywhere the dominant trend is to compound past errors with even greater ones, thus reaching the point of renouncing the very core of Marxism as such in preference for liberal anachronisms and worse.
I dwell on this because I think a truly critical assessment of an “anti-imperialist” postmodernism, as of orthodox postmodernism, requires a prior recognition of the essentially parasitical dependence of such thinking on Marxism and particularly on the crisis within Marxism–a dependence which, as we have repeatedly observed, postmodernism must systematically seek to erase. The very insistence on a politics of spontaneism and myth, on the tacit abandonment of conscious and scientific revolutionary strategy and organization, is, I am suggesting, the derivative effect of developments within Marxism itself, of what amounts to the conscious political decision to give up the principle of revolution as a scientifically grounded activity, as a praxis with a rational foundation. The contemporary emphasis on “cultural politics” which one finds throughout intellectual and radical discourse in Latin America as well as in the metropolis, while useful and positive to the degree that it opens up new areas for genuinely political analysis and critique, is symptomatic, in my view, of this theoretical surrender, and more often than not simply ratifies the non-strategy of spontaneism. One might almost speak these days of a “culturalism” occupying the ideological space once held by the “economism” of the Second International revisionists. To adopt the “postmodern” sensibility means, in this sense, to regard the “culturalization” of the political as somehow simply in accordance with the current nature of things–to so minimize the role of political determination as to eliminate it altogether. And yet, this sensibility itself is politically determined.
Spontaneism, however it may drape itself in populist slogans and admiration for the people’s day to day struggle for survival, etc., rests on an intellectual distrust of the masses, a view of the mass as beyond the reach of reason and hence to be guided by myth. The Latin American masses have a long history of being stigmatized in this way by both imperial and creole elites. This elitism begins to lose its hold on the intelligentsia in the writings of genuine “radical democrats” such as Marti and is still further overcome in the discourses of revolutionary intellectuals such as Mariategui and Guevara, although even here vestiges of the old viewpoint remain. (Mariategui, who saw the Quechua-speaking indigenous peasants of Peru as beings with full historical and political subjecthood, maintained ridiculously archaic and racist views regarding Peru’s blacks.) And, of course, sexism has been and remains a serious and deadly obstacle.
But in the era of ‘postmodernity’ we are being urged, in exchange for a cult of alterity, to relinquish this conception of the masses as the rational agents of social and historical change, as the bearers of progress. Given the increasing prevalence of such aristocratism, however it may devise radical credentials for itself, it becomes possible to fall short of this truly democratic vision, to be seduced by the false Nietzschean regard for the masses as capable only of an unconscious, instinctual political agency.
Ultimately, it may be only revolutionary practice, the activity of strategy and organization, that can successfully trouble the political reveries of postmodernism. But just the sheer history of such practice, particularly in Latin America, makes risible any theory which considers politics (in the Leninist sense) to be either too abstract to matter, or–in what finally amounts to the same thing–to be “self- produced,” as Aronowitz has phrased it.
Perhaps the most eloquent refutation of spontaneist faith in “new social movements” is recorded in Roque Dalton’s “testimonial classic”Miguel Marmol, in which the legendary Salvadoran revolutionary named in the title recounts a life as a communist militant in Central America. It is impossible to do justice to the combined practical wisdom and theoretical profundity of this narrative by citing excerpts–but one in particular speaks poignantly to the question at hand: In the third chapter of the text, Marmol discusses his return in 1930, shortly before he participates in founding the Salvadoran Communist Party, to his home town of Ilopango. His task is to organize a union of rural workers. At first, as he tells it, the workers reject him, suspicious of his being anti-Catholic. He is led to recall the failure of previous union organizing efforts carried out by a local teacher and a railroad engineer. “However, we suspected they had always worked outside reality, that they hadn’t based their organizing work on the actual problems of people and, on the contrary, had created an impenetrable barrier between their ‘enlightenment’ and the ‘backwardness’ they ascribed to the people.”29
Marmol, however, persists in “finding out what the people thought” (M 119)–that is, he refuses to take their initially backward reaction (defense of the church) to mean that they lack “enlightenment.” Meetings are called, and as the people begin to talk about working conditions, Marmol recalls, “it wasn’t hard to hear, over and over again, concepts that sounded to me just like the ‘class struggle,’ the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat,’ etc.” (M 136-136). Marmol’s task, then, is not that of “enlightening” the “backward” masses, nor is it simply to acknowledge “what the people thought” as sovereign. Rather, it is to collect these isolated concepts, to articulate them, and to draw the logically necessary conclusions.
Here, in so many words, Marmol demonstrates his profound, dialectical grasp of the essential, contradictory relation of theory to practice, of concept to reality, of the conscious to the spontaneous, of the “from without” to the “from within.” Postmodernism, meanwhile, even at its most “left,” political and self-critical, remains cut-off from the dialectical truths discovered in the practice of Marmol and of the millions of others in Latin America and across the planet who preceded and will follow him.
Notes
1. An original version of this paper was presented as a lecture, entitled “Postmodernism and Hegemony: Theory and Politics in Latin America,” at the Humanities Institute at SUNY Stony Brook on March 2, 1989.
2. Fredric Jameson, “Postmodernism and Consumer Society,” inThe Anti-aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture, ed. Hal Foster (Port Townsend, WA:Bay Press, 1983), 112.
3. Stanley Aronowitz, “Postmodern and Politics,” inUniversal Abandon?: the Politics of Postmodernism, ed. Andrew Ross (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 50.Universal Abandon? cited hereafter in text and notes asUA.
4. Chantal Mouffe, “Radical Democracy,”UA 32.
5. Ernesto Laclau, “Politics and the Limits of Modernity,”UA 66-67.
6. Jean-Francois Lyotard,The Postmodern Condition, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984).
7. Frederick Engels,Socialism: Utopian and Scientific (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1975),46.
8. See Ellen Meiksins Wood,The Retreat from Class: a New ‘True’ Socialism (London: Verso, 1986) chapter 4, “The Autonomization of Ideology and Politics.”
9. Georg Lukacs,The Destruction of Reason, trans. Peter Palmer (Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1981), 395.
10. “The two moments–that of reason and that of its other–stand not in opposition pointing to a dialecticalAufhebung, but in a relationship of tension characterized by mutual repugnance and exclusion” (Habermas, “The Entry into Postmodernity: Nietzsche as Turning Point” inThe Philosophical Discourse of Modernity, trans. Frederick Lawrence (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1987), 103).
11. See the introductory chapter to myModernism and Hegemony: a Materialist Critique of Aesthetic Agencies (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990).
12. “[T]he exterior is constituted by other discourses.” Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards Radical Democratic Politics (London: Verso, 1985), 146.
13. See Lenin,What is to Be Done?: Burning Questions of Our Movement (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1973):
all worship of the spontaneity of the working class movement, all belittling of the role of the "conscious element," of the role of Social- Democracy, means, quite independently of whether he who belittles that role desires it or not, a strengthening of the influence of bourgeois ideology upon the workers. (39) Since there can be no talk of an independent ideology formulated by the working masses themselves in the process of their movement, the only choice is--either bourgeois or socialist ideology. There is no middle course (for mankind has not created a "third" ideology, and, moreover, in a society torn by class antagonisms, there can never be a non-class or an above-class ideology). Hence to belittle the socialist ideology in any way, to turn aside from it in the slightest degree means to strengthen bourgeois ideology. There is much talk of spontaneity. But the spontaneous development of the working class movement leads to its subordination to bourgeois ideology. . . . (40-41)
14. Peter Dews,Logics of Disintegration (London: Verso, 1987), 217.
15. “Interview with Cornell West,”UA 273.
16. Fredric Jameson, “Third-World Literature in the Era of Multinational Capitalism,”Social Text 15 (Fall 1986): 69.
17. See Fredric Jameson, “Postmodernism: the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism,”New Left Review 146 (July-August 1984).
18. Edward Said,The World, the Text and the Critic (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1983),241.
19. Gayatry Chakravorty Spivak,In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (New York, London: Methuen, 1987), 209.
20. See “The Discourse of Others: Feminism and Postmodernism,” in Foster, 57-82.
21. George Yudice, “Marginality and the Ethics of Survival,”UA 220.
22. See Rigoberta Menchu,Me llamo Rigoberta Menchu y asi me nacio la conciencia (Mexico: Siglo veintiuno, 1983).
23. See “Actual Situation and Perspectives of Latin American Philosophy for Liberation,”The Philosophical Forum 20.1-2 (Fall-Winter 1988-89): 43-61. Cited hereafter in text asLAP.
24. See Enrique Dussel,Philosophy of Liberation, trans. Aquilina Martinez and Christine Morkovsky (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1985), 158-160.
25. Roberto Fernandez Retamar,Para una teoria de la literatura hispano-americana (Habana: Casa de las Americas, 1975).
26. Neil Larsen, “Latin America and Postmodernity: a Brief Theoretical Sketch,” unpublished paper; andModernism and Hegemony.
27. Aijaz Ahmad, “Jameson’s Rhetoric of Otherness and the ‘National Allegory’,”Social Text 17 (Fall 1987): 3-27.
28. Adolfo Sanchez Vasquez, “Marxism in Latin America,”The Philosophical Forum 20.1-2 (Fall-Winter 1988-89): 114-128.
29. Roque Dalton,Miguel Marmol, trans. Kathleen Ross and Richard Schaaf (Willimantic, CT: Curbstone Press, 1982), 119. Cited hereafter in text asM.
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The Ideology of Postmodern Music and Left Politics
John Beverley
University of Pittsburgh
This article appeared initially in the British journal Critical Quarterly 31.1 (Spring, 1989). I’m grateful to its editors for permission to reproduce it here, and in particular to Colin MacCabe for suggesting the idea in the first place. I’ve added a few minor corrections and updates.
for Rudy Van Gelder, friend of ears
Adorno directed some of his most acid remarks on musical sociology to the category of the “fan.” For example:
What is common to the jazz enthusiast of all countries, however, is the moment of compliance, in parodistic exaggeration. In this respect their play recalls the brutal seriousness of the masses of followers in totalitarian states, even though the difference between play and seriousness amounts to that between life and death (...) While the leaders in the European dictatorships of both shades raged against the decadence of jazz, the youth of the other countries has long since allowed itself to be electrified, as with marches, by the syncopated dance-steps, with bands which do not by accident stem from military music.1
One of the most important contributions of postmodernism has been its defense of an aesthetics of theconsumer, rather than as in the case of romanticism and modernism an aesthetics of the producer, in turn linked to an individualist and phallocentric ego ideal. I should first of all make it clear then that I am writing here from the perspective of the “fan,” the person who buys records and goes to concerts, not like Adorno from the perspective of the trained musician or composer. What I will be arguing, in part with Adorno, in part against him, is that music is coming to represent for the Left something like a “key sector.”
* * * * * * * * *
For Adorno, the development of modern music is a reflection of the decline of the bourgeoisie, whose most characteristic cultural medium on the other hand music is.2 Christa Burger recalls the essential image of the cultural in Adorno: that of Ulysses, who, tied to the mast of his ship, can listen to the song of the sirens while the slaves underneath work at the oars, cut off from the aesthetic experience which is reserved only for those in power.3 What is implied and critiqued at the same time in the image is the stance of the traditional intellectual or aesthete in the face of the processes of transformation of culture into a commodity–mass culture–and the consequent collapse of the distinction between high and low culture, a collapse which precisely defines the postmodern and which postmodernist ideology celebrates. In the postmodern mode, not only are Ulysses and his crew both listening to the siren song, they are singing along with it as in “Sing Along with Mitch” and perhaps marking the beat with their oars–one-two, one-two, one-two-three-four.
* * * * * * * *
One variant of the ideology of postmodern music may be illustrated by the following remarks from an interview John Cage gave about his composition for electronic tapeFontana Mix (1958):
Q.--I feel that there is a sense of logic and cohesion in your indeterminate music.
A.--This logic was not put there by me, but was the result of chance operations. The thought that it is logical grows up in you... I think that all those things that we associate with logic and our observance of relationships, those aspects of our mind are extremely simple in relation to what actually happens, so that when we use our perception of logic we minimize the actual nature of the thing we are experiencing.
Q.--Your conception (of indeterminacy) leads you into a universe nobody has attempted to charter before. Do you find yourself in it as a lawmaker?
A.--I am certainly not at the point of making laws. I am more like a hunter, or an inventor, than a lawmaker.
Q.--Are you satisfied with the way your music is made public--that is, by the music publishers, record companies, radio stations, etc.? Do you have complaints?
A.--I consider my music, once it has left my desk, to be what in Buddhism would be called a non- sentient being... If someone kicked me--not my music, but me--then I might complain. But if they kicked my music, or cut it out, or don't play it enough, or too much, or something like that, then who am I to complain?4
We might contrast this with one of the great epiphanies of literary modernism, the moment of the jazz song in Sartre’sNausea:
(...)there is no melody, only notes, a myriad of tiny jolts. They know no rest, an inflexible order gives birth to them and destroys them without even giving them time to recuperate and exist for themselves. They race, they press forward, they strike me a sharp blow in passing and are obliterated. I would like to hold them back, but I know if I succeeded in stopping one it would remain between my fingers only as a raffish languishing sound. I must accept their death; I must evenwillit: I know few impressions stronger or more harsh.I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom ofour time-- the time of purple suspenders and broken chair seats; it is made of wide, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty years (...)
The last chord has died away. In the brief silence which follows I feel strongly that there it is, thatsomething has happened.
Silence.
Some of these days
You'll miss me honeyWhat has just happened is that the Nausea has disappeared. When the voice was heard in the silence, I felt my body harden and the Nausea vanish. Suddenly: it was almost unbearable to become so hard, so brilliant. At the same time the music was drawn out, dilated, swelled like a waterspout. It filled the room with its metallic transparency, crushing our miserable time against the walls. I amin the music. Globes of fire turn in the mirrors; encircled by rings of smoke, veiling and unveiling the hard smile of light. My glass of beer has shrunk, it seems heaped up on the table, it looks dense and indispensable. I want to pick it up and feel the weight of it, I stretch out my hand... God! That is what has changed, my gestures. This movement of my arm has developed like a majestic theme, it has glided along the jazz song; I seemed to be dancing.5
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The passage fromNausea illustrates Adorno’s dictum that music is “the promise of reconciliation.” This is what betrays its origins in those moments of ritual sacrifice and celebration in which the members of a human community are bonded or rebonded to their places within it. InNausea the jazz song prefigures Roquentin’s eventual reconciliation with his own self and his decision to write what is in effect his dissertation, a drama of choice that will not be unfamiliar to readers of this journal. Even for an avant-gardist like Cage music is still–in the allusion to Buddhism–in some sense the sensuous form or “lived experience” of the religious.6
Was it not the function of music in relation to the great feudal ideologies–Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, Shinto, Confucianism–to produce the sensation of the sublime and the eternal so as to constitute the image of the reward which awaited the faithful and obedient: the reward for submitting to exploitation or the reward for accepting the burden of exploiting? I am remembering as I write this Monteverdi’s beautiful echo duetDue Seraphim–two angels–for theVespers of the Virgin Mary of 1610, whose especially intense sweetness is perhaps related to the fact that it was written in a moment of crisis of both feudalism and Catholicism.
Just before Monteverdi, the Italian Mannerists had proclaimed the formal autonomy of the art work from religious dogma. But if the increasing secularization of music in the European late Baroque and 18th century led on the one hand to the Jacobin utopianism of the Ninth Symphony, it produced on the other something like Kant’s aesthetics of the sublime, that is a mysticism of the bourgeois ego. As Adorno was aware, we are still in modern music in a domain where, as in the relation of music and feudalism, aesthetic experience, repression and sublimation, and class privilege and self-legitimation converge.7
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Genovese has pointed out in the Afro-American slave spiritual something like a contrary articulation of the relation of music and the religious to the one I have been suggesting: the sense in which both the music and the words of the song keep alive culturally the image of an imminent redemption from slavery and oppression, a redemption which lies within human time and a “real” geography of slave and free states (“The river Jordan is muddy and wide / Gotta get across to the other side”).8 Of the so-called Free Jazz movement of the 60s–Cecil Taylor, Ornette Coleman, Albert Ayler, late Coltrane, Archie Shepp, Sun Ra, etc.–the French critic Pierre Lere remarked in a passage quoted centrally by Herbert Marcuse in one of the key statements of 60s aesthetic radicalism:
(...)the liberty of the musical form is only the aesthetic translation of the will to social liberation. Transcending the tonal framework of the theme, the musician finds himself in a position of freedom(...) The melodic line becomes the medium of communication between an initial order which is rejected and a final order which is hoped for. The frustrating possession of the one, joined with the liberating attainment of the other, establishes a rupture in between the Weft of harmony which gives way to an aesthetic of the cry (esthetique du cri). This cry, the characteristic resonant (sonore) element of "free music," born in an exasperated tension, announces the violent rupture with the established white order and translates the advancing (promotrice) violence of a new black order.9
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Music itself as ideology, as an ideological practice? What I have in mind is not at all the problem, common both to a Saussurian and a vulgar marxist musicology, of “how music expresses ideas.” Jacques Attali has correctly observed that while music can be defined as noise given form according to a code, nevertheless it cannot be equated with a language. Music, though it has a precise operationality, never has stable reference to a semantic code of the linguistic type. It is a sort of language without meaning.10
Could we think of music then as outside of ideology to the extent that it is non-verbal? (This, some will recall, was Della Volpe’s move in his Critique of Taste.) One problem with poststructuralism in general and deconstruction in particular has been their tendency to see ideology as essentially bound up with language–the “Symbolic”– rather than organized states of feeling in general.11 But we certainly inhabit a cultural tradition where it is a common-sense proposition that people listen to music precisely to escape from ideology, from the terrors of ideology and the dimension of practical reason. Adorno, in what I take to be the quintessential modernist dictum, writes: “Beauty is like an exodus from the world of means and ends, the same world to which beauty however owes its objective existence.”12
Adorno and the Frankfurt School make of the Kantian notion of the aesthetic as a purposiveness without purpose precisely the locus of the radicalizing and redemptive power of art, the sense in which by alienating practical aims it sides with the repressed and challenges domination and exploitation, particularly the rationality of capitalist institutions. By contrast, there is Lenin’s famous remark–it’s in Gorki’sReminiscences–that he had to give up listening to Beethoven’sAppasionata sonata: he enjoyed it too much, it made him feel soft, happy, at one with all humanity. His point would seem to be the need to resist a narcotic and pacifying aesthetic gratification in the name of the very difficult struggle–and the corresponding ideological rigor–necessary to at least setting in motion the process of building a classless society. But one senses in Lenin too the displacement or sublation of an aesthetic sensibility onto the field of revolutionary activism. And in both Adorno and Lenin there is a sense that music is somehow in excess of ideology.
Not only the Frankfurt School, but most major tendencies in “Western Marxism” (a key exception is Gramsci) maintain some form or other of the art/ideology distinction, with a characteristic ethical-epistemological privileging of the aesthetic over the ideological. In Althusser’s early essays– “A Letter on Art to Andre Daspre,” for example–art was said to occupy an intermediate position between science and ideology, since it involved ideology (as, so to speak, its raw material), but in such a way as to provoke an “internal distancing” from ideology, somewhat as in Brecht’s notion of an “alienation effect” which obliges the spectator to scrutinize and question the assumptions on which the spectacle has been proceeding. In the section on interpellation in Althusser’s later essay on ideology, this “modernist” and formalist concern with estrangement and defamiliarization has been displaced by what is in effect a postmodernist concern with fascination and fixation. If ideology, in Althusser’s central thesis, is what constitutes the subject in relation to the real, then the domain of ideology is not a world-view or set of (verbal) ideas, but rather the ensemble of signifying practices in societies: that is, the cultural. In interpellation, the issue is not whether ideology is happening in the space of something like aesthetic experience, or whether “good” or “great” art transcends the merely ideological (whereas “bad” art doesn’t), but ratherwhat or whose ideology, because the art work is precisely (one of the places) where ideology happens, though of course this need not be the dominant ideology or even any particular ideology.
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If the aesthetic effect consists in a certain satisfaction of desire–a “pleasure” (in the formalists, the recuperation or production of sensation)–, and if the aesthetic effect is an ideological effect, then the question becomes not the separation of music and ideology but rather their relation.
Music would seem to have in this sense a special relation to the pre-verbal, and thus to the Imaginary or more exactly to something like Kristeva’s notion of the semiotic.13 In the sort of potted lacanianism we employ these days in cultural studies, we take it that objects of imaginary identification function in the psyche–in a manner Lacan designated as “orthopedic”– as metonyms of an object of desire which has been repressed or forgotten, a desire which can never be satisfied and which consequently inscribes in the subject a sense of insufficiency or fading. In narcissism, this desire takes the form of a libidinal identification of the ego with an image or sensation of itself as (to recall Freud’s demarcation of the alternatives in his 1916 essay on narcissism) it is, was or should be. From the third of these possibilities–images or experiences of the ego as it should be–Freud argued that there arises as a consequence of the displacement of primary narcissism the images of an ideal ego or ego ideal, internalized as the conscience or super ego. Such images, he added, are not only of self but also involve the social ideals of the parent, the family, the tribe, the nation, the race, etc. Consequently, those sentiments which are the very stuff of ideology in the narrow sense of political “isms” and loyalties–belonging to a party, being an “american,” defending the family “honor,” fighting in a national liberation movement, etc.–are basically transformations of homoerotic libidinal narcissism.
It follows then that the aesthetic effect–even the sort of non-semantic effect produced by the organization of sound (in music) or color and line (in painting or sculpture)–always implies a kind of social Imaginary, a way of being with and/or for others. Although they are literature-centered, we may recall in this context Jameson’s remarks at the end ofThe Political Unconscious (in the section titled “The Dialectic of Utopia and Ideology”) to the effect that “all class consciousness–that is all ideology in the strict sense–, as much the exclusive forms of consciousness of the ruling classes as the opposing ones of the oppressed classes, are in their very nature utopian.” From this Jameson claims–this is his appropriation of Frankfurt aesthetics–that the aesthetic value of a given work of art can never be limited to its moment of genesis, when it functioned willy-nilly to legitimize some form or other of domination. For if its utopian quality as “art”–its “eternal charm,” to recall Marx’s (eurocentric, petty bourgeois) comment on Greek epic poetry–is precisely that it expresses pleasurably the imaginary unity of a social collectivity, then “it is utopian not as a thing in itself, but rather to the extent that such collectivities are themselves ciphers for the final concretion of collective life, that is the achieved utopia of a classless society.”14
What this implies, although I’m not sure whether Jameson himself makes this point as such, is that the political unconscious of the aesthetic is (small c) communism. (One would need to also work through here the relation between music–Wagner, Richard Strauss –and fascism.)
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I want to introduce at this point an issue which was particularly crucial to the way in which I experienced and think about music, which is the relation of music and drugs. It is said the passage fromNausea I used before derived from Sartre’s experiments in the 30s with mescaline. Many of you will have your own versions of essential psychedelic experiences of the 60s, but here–since I’m not likely to be nominated in the near future for the Supreme Court–is one of mine. It is 1963, late at night. I’m a senior in college and I’ve taken peyote for the first time. I’m lying face down on a couch with a red velour cover. Mozart is playing, something like the adagio of a piano concerto. As my nausea fades–peyote induces in the first half hour or so a really intense nausea–I begin to notice the music which seems to become increasingly clear and beautiful. I feel my breath making my body move against the couch and I feel the couch respond to me as if it were a living organism, very soft and very gentle, as if it were the body of my mother. I remember or seem to remember being close to my mother in very early childhood. I am overwhelmed with nostalgia. The room fills with light. I enter a timeless, paradisiacal state, beyond good and evil. The music goes on and on.
There was of course also the freak-out or bad trip: the drug exacerbated sensation that the music is incredibly banal and stupid, that the needle of the record player is covered with fuzz, that the sound is thick and ugly like mucus; Charlie Manson hearing secret apocalyptic messages in “Helter Skelter” on the Beatles’sWhite Album; the Stones at Altamont. Modernism in music, say the infinitely compressed fragments of late Webern, is the perception in the midst of the bad trip, of dissonance, of a momentary cohesion and radiance, whose power is all the greater because it shines out of chaos and evil. In Frankfurt aesthetics, dissonance is the voice of the oppressed in music. Thus for Adorno it is only in dissonance, which destroys the illusion of reconciliation represented by harmony, that the power of seduction of the inspiring character of music survives.15
* * * * * * * *
Consider what moderation is required to express oneself so briefly… You can stretch every glance out into a poem, every sigh into a novel. But to express a novel in a single gesture, a joy in a breath–such concentration can only be present in proposition to the absence of self- pity. –Schoenberg on Webern16
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Cage’s4’33”–which is a piece where the performer sits at a piano without playing anything for four minutes and thirty-three seconds–is a postmodernist homage to modernist aesthetics, to serialism and private language music. What it implies is that the listening subject is to compose from the very absence of music the music, the performance from the frustration of the expected performance. As in the parallel cases of Duchamp’s ready-mades or Rauschenberg’s white paintings, such a situation gives rise to an appropriately “modernist” anxiety (which might be allegorized in Klee’s twittering birds whose noise emanates from the very miniaturization, compression and silent tension of the pictorial space) to create an aesthetic experience out of the given, whatever it is.
Postmodernism per se in music, on the other hand, is where the anxiety of the listener to “make sense of” the piece is either perpetually frustrated by pure randomness–Cage’s music of chance–or assuaged and dissipated by a bland, “easy-listening” surface with changes happening only in a Californianlongue duree, as in the musics of La Monte Young, Philip Glass, Terry Riley, or Steve Reich. The intention of such musics, we might say, is to transgress both the Imaginary and Symbolic: they are a sort of brainwashing into the Real.
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I [heart] ADORNO
--bumper sticker (thanks to Hilary Radner)
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One form of capitalist utopia which is portended in contemporary music–we could call it the Chicago School or neoliberal form–is the utopia of the record store, with its incredible proliferation and variety of musical commodities, its promise of “different strokes for different folks,” as Sly Stone would have it: Michael Jackson–or Prince–, Liberace, Bach on original instruments ora la Cadillac by the Philadelphia Orchestra, Heavy Metal–or Springsteen–, Country (what kind of Country: Zydeco, Appalachian, Bluegrass, Dolly Parton, trucker, New Folk, etc.?), jazz, blues, spirituals, soul, rap, hip hop, fusion, college rock (Grateful Dead, REM, Talking Heads), SST rock (Meat Puppets etc.), Holly Near,Hymnen, salsa, reggae, World Beat,norteno music, cumbias, Laurie Anderson, 46 different recorded versions ofBolero, John Adams, and so on and on, with the inevitable “crossovers” and new “new waves.” By contrast, even the best stocked record outlets in socialist countries were spartan.
But this is also “Brazil” (as in the song/film): the dystopia of behaviorly tailored, industrially manufactured, packaged and standardized music–Muzak–, where it is expected that everyone except owners and managers of capital will be at the same time a fast food chain worker and consumer. Muzak is to music what, say, McDonalds is to food; and since its purpose is to generate an environment conducive to both commodity production and consumption, it is more often than not to be heard in places like McDonalds (or, so we are told in prison testimonies, in that Latin American concomitant of Chicago School economics which are torture chambers, with the volume turned up to the point of distortion).
In Russell Berman’s perhaps overly anxious image, Muzak implies a fundamental mutation of the public sphere, “the beautiful illusion of a collective, singing along in dictatorial unanimity.” Its ubiquity, as in the parallel cases of advertising and packaging and design, refers to a situation where there is no longer, Berman writes, “an outside to art (…) There is no pre-aesthetic dimension to social activity, since the social order itself has become dependent on aesthetic organization.”17
Berman’s concern here I take to be in the spirit of the general critique Habermas–and in this country Christopher Lasch–have made of postmodern commodity culture, a critique which as many people have noted coincides paradoxically (since its main assumption is that postmodernism is a reactionary phenomenon) with the cultural politics of the new Right, for example Alan Bloom’s clinically paranoid remarks on rock inThe Closing of the American Mind.18
Is the loss of autonomy of the aesthetic however a bad thing–something akin to Marcuse’s notion of a “repressive desublimation” which entails the loss of art’s critical potential–, or does it indicate a new vulnerability of capitalist societies–a need to legitimize themselves through aestheticization–and therefore both anew possibility for the left and a new centrality for cultural and aesthetic matters in left practice? For, as Berman is aware, the aestheticization of everyday life was also the goal of the historical avant garde in its attack on the institution of the autonomy of the aesthetic in bourgeois culture, which made it at least potentially a form of anti-capitalist practice. The loss of aura or desublimation of the art work may be a form of commodification but it is also, as Walter Benjamin pointed out, a form of democratization of culture.19
Cage writes suggestively, for example, of “a music which is like furniture–a music, that is, which will be part of the noises of the environment, will take them into consideration. I think of it as a melodious softening the noises of the knives and forks, not dominating them, not imposing itself. It would fill up those heavy silences that sometimes fall between friends dining together.”20 In some of the work of La Monte Young or Brian Eno, music becomes consciously an aspect of interior decorating. What this takes us back to is not Muzak but the admirable baroque tradition ofTafel Musik: “table” or dinner music. Mozart still wrote at the time of the French Revolution comfortably and welldivertimentii meant to accompany social gatherings, including meetings of his Masonic lodge. After Mozart, this utilitarian or “background” function is repressed in bourgeois art music, which will now require the deepest concentration and emotional and intellectual involvement on the part of the listening subject.
The problem with Muzak is not its ubiquity or the idea of environmental music per se, but rather its insistently kitsch and conservative melodic-harmonic content. What is clear, on the other hand, is that the intense and informed concentration on the art work which is assumed in Frankfurt aesthetics depends on an essentially Romantic, formalist and individualist conception of both music and the listening subject, which is not unrelated to the actual processes of commodification “classical” music was undergoing in the late 18th and 19th centuries.
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The antidote to Muzak would seem to be something like Punk. By way of a preface to a discussion of Punk and extending the considerations above on the relation between music and commodification, I want to refer first to Jackson Pollock’s great paintingAutumn Rhythm in the Met, a picture that–like Pollock’s work in general–is particularly admired by Free Jazz musicians. It’s a vast painting with splotches of black, brown and rust against the raw tan of unprimed canvas, with an incredible dancing, swirling, clustering, dispersing energy. As you look at it, you become aware that while the ambition of the painting seems to be to explode or expand the pictorial space of the canvas altogether, it is finally only the limits of the canvas which make the painting possible as an art object. The limit of the canvas is its aesthetic autonomy, its separation from the life world, but also its commodity status as something that can be bought, traded, exhibited. The commodity is implicated in the very form of the “piece;” as in the jazz record in Nausea, “The music ends.” (The 78 RPM record–the commodity form of recorded music in the 20s and 30s– imposed a three minute limit per side on performances and this in turn shaped the way songs were arranged in jazz or pop recording: cf. the 45 and the idea today of the “single.”)
Such a situation might indicate one limit of Jameson’s cultural hermeneutic. If the strategy in Jameson is to uncover the emancipatory utopian- communist potential locked up in the artifacts of the cultural heritage, this is also in a sense to leave everything as it is, as in Wittgenstein’s analytic (because that which is desired is already there; it only has to be “seen” correctly), whereas the problem of the relation of art and social liberation is also clearly the need totransgress the limits imposed by existing artistic forms and practices and to produce new ones. To the extent, however, such transgressions can be recontained within the sphere of the aesthetic– in a new series of “works” which may also be available as commodities–, they will produce paradoxically an affirmation of bourgeois culture: in a certain sense theyare bourgeois high culture.
A representation of this paradox in terms of 60s leftism is the great scene in Antonioni’s film Zabriskie Point where the (modernist) desert home of the capitalist pig is (in the young woman’s imagination) blown up, and we see in ultra slow motion, in beautiful Technicolor, accompanied by a spacy and sinister Pink Floyd music track, the whole commodity universe of late capitalism–cars, tools, supermarket food, radios, TVs, clothes, furniture, records, books, decorations, utensils–float by. What is not clear is who could have placed the bomb, so that Jameson might ask in reply a question the film itself also leaves unanswered: is this an image of the destruction of capitalism or of its fission into a new and “higher” stage where it fills all space and time, where there is no longer something–nature, the Third World, the unconscious–outside it? And this question suggests another one: to what extent was the cultural radicalism of the 60s, nominally directed against the rationality of capitalist society and its legitimating discourses, itself a form of modernization of capitalism, a prerequisite of its “expanded” reproduction in the new international division of labor and the proliferation of electronic technologies–with corresponding “mind- sets”–which emerge in the 70s?21
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From Punk manifestos:
Real life stinks. What has been shown is that you and I can do anything in any area without training and with little cash.
We're demanding that real life keep up with advertising, the speed of advertising on TV... We are living at the speed of advertising. We demand to be entertained all the time, we get bored very quickly. When we're on stage, things happen a thousand times faster, everything we do is totally compressed and intense on stage, and that's our version of life as we feel and see it. In the future T.V. will be so good that the printed word will function as an artform only. In the future we will not have time for leisure activities. In the future we will "work" one day a week. In the future there will be machines which will produce a religious experience in the user. In the future there will be so much going on that no one will be able to keep track of it. (David Byrne)22
The emergence and brief hegemony of Punk–from, say, 1975 to 1982–was related to the very high levels of structural unemployment or subemployment which appear in First World capitalist centers in the 70s as a consequence of the winding down of the post-World War II economic long cycle, and which imply especially for lower middle class and working class youth a consequent displacement of the work ethic towards a kind of on the dole bohemianism or dandyism. Punk aimed at a sort of rock or Gesamtkunstwerk (Simon Frith has noted its connections with Situationist ideology23) which would combine music, fashion, dance, speech forms, mime, graphics, criticism, new “on the street” forms of appropriation of urban space, and in which in principle everybody was both a performer and a spectator. Its key musical form was three-chord garage power rock, because its intention was to contest art rock and superstar rock, to break down the distance between fan and performer. Punk was loud, aggressive, eclectic, anarchic, amateur, self-consciously anti- commercial and anti-hippie at the same time.
As it was the peculiar genius of the Sex Pistol’s manager, Malcolm McClaren, to understand, both the conditions of possibility and the limits of Punk were those of a still expanding capitalist consumer culture –a culture which, in one sense, was intended as a compensation for the decline in working-class standards of living. Initially, Punk had to create its own forms of record production and distribution, independent of the “majors” and of commercial music institutions in general. The moment that to be recognized as Punk is to conform to an established image of consumer desire, to be different say than New Wave, is the moment Punk becomes the new commodity. It is the moment of the Sex Pistols’ US tour depicted inSid and Nancy, where on the basis of the realization that they are becoming a commercial success on the American market–the new band–they auto- destruct. But the collapse of Punk–and its undoubted flirtation with nihilism–should not obscure the fact that it was for a while–most consciously in the work of British groups like the Clash or the Gang of Four and also in collective projects like Rock Against Racism–a very powerful form of Left mass culture, perhaps–if we are attentive to Lenin’s dictum that ideas acquire a material force when they reach the millions–one of the most powerful forms we have seen in recent years in Western Europe and the United States. Some of Punk’s heritage lives on in the popularity of U2 or Tracy Chapman today and or in the recent upsurge of Heavy Metal (which, it should be recalled, has one of its roots in the Detroit 60s movement band, MC5).
* * * * * * * *
The notion of postmodernism initially comes into play to designate a crisis in the dominant canons of American architecture. Hegel posited architecture over music as the world historical form of Romantic art, because in architecture the reconciliation of spirit and matter, reason and history, represented ultimately by the state was more completely realized. Hence, for example, Jameson’s privileging of architecture in his various discussions of postmodernism. I think that today, however, particularly if we are thinking about how to develop a left practice on the terrain of the postmodern, we have to be for music as against architecture, because it is in architecture that the power and self-representation of capital and the imperialist state reside, whereas music–like sports– is always and everywhere a power of cultural production which is in the hands of the people. Capital can master and exploit music–and modern musics like rock are certainly forms of capitalist culture–, but it can never seize hold of and monopolize its means of production, as it can say with literature. The cultural presence of the Third World in and against the dominant of imperialism is among other things, to borrow Jacques Attali’s concept, “noise”–the intrusion of new forms of language and music which imply new forms of community and pleasure: Bob Marley’s reggae; Run-DMC on MTV with “Walk This Way” (a crossover of rap with white Heavy Metal); “We Shall Overcome” sung at a sit-in for Salvadoran refugees; the beautiful South African choral music Paul Simon used onGraceland sung at a township funeral;La Bamba; Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power”; Ruben Blades’Crossover Dreams.
The debate overGraceland some years ago indicates that the simple presence of Third World music in a First World context implies immediately a series of ideological effects, which doesn’t mean that I think there was a “correct line” onGraceland, e.g. that it was a case of Third World suffering and creative labor sublimated into an item of First World white middle-class consumption.24 Whatever the problems with the concept of the Third World, it can no longer mark an “other” that is radically outside of and different than contemporary American or British society. By the year 2000, one out of four inhabitants of the United States will be non-european (black, hispanic of latin american origin, asian or native american); even today we are the fourth or fifth largest hispanic country in the world (out of twenty). In this sense, the Third World is alsoinside the First, “en las entranas del monstruo” (in the entrails of the monster) as Jose Marti would have said, and for a number of reasons music has been and is perhaps the hegemonic cultural form of this insertion. What would American musical culture be like for example without the contribution of Afro-American musics?
Turning this argument on its head, assume something like the following: a young guerrilla fighter of the FMLN in El Salvador wearing a Madonna T-shirt. A traditional kind of Left cultural analysis would have talked about cultural imperialism and how the young man or woman in question had become a revolutionaryin spite of Madonna and American pop culture. I don’t want to discount entirely the notion of cultural imperialism, which seems to me real and pernicious enough, but I think we might also begin to consider how being a fan of Madonna might in some sensecontribute to becoming a guerrilla or political activist in El Salvador. (And how wearing a Madonna T-shirt might be a form of revolutionary cultural politics: it certainly defines–correctly–a community of interest between young people in El Salvador and young people in the United States who like Madonna.)
* * * * * * * *
Simon Frith has summarized succinctly the critique of the limitations of Frankfurt school aesthetic theory that has been implicit here: The Frankfurt scholars argued that the transformation of art into commodity inevitably sapped imagination and withered hope–now all that could be imagined was what was. But the artistic impulse is not destroyed by capital; it is transformed by it. As utopianism is mediated through the new processes of cultural production and consumption, new sorts of struggles over community and leisure begin.25 More and more–the point has been made by Karl Offe among others–the survival of capitalism has become contingent on non-capitalist forms of culture, including those of the Third World. What is really utopian in the present context is not so much the sublation of art into life under the auspices of advanced consumer capitalism, but rather the current capitalist project of reabsorbing the entire life energy of world society into labor markets and industrial or service production. One of the places where the conflict between forces and relations of production is most acutely evident is in the current tensions–the FBI warning at the start of your evening video, for example–around the commercialization of VCR and digital sound technologies. Cassettes and CDs are the latest hot commodities, but by the same token they portend the possibility of a virtual decommodification of music and film material, since its reproduction via these technologies can no longer be easily contained within the “normal” boundaries of capitalist property rights.
As opposed to both Frankfurt school styleAngst about commodification and a neopopulism which can’t imagine anything finer than Bruce Springsteen (I have in mind Jesse Lemisch’s polemic against Popular Front style “folk” music inThe Nation)26, I think we have to reject the notion that certain kinds of music area priori ethically and politically OK and others not (which doesn’t mean that there is not ideological struggle in music and choice of music). Old Left versions of this, some will recall, ranged from jazz=good, classical=bad (American CP), to jazz=bad, classical=good (Soviet CP). The position of the Left today–understanding this in the broadest possible sense, as in the idea of the Rainbow–should be in favor of the broadest possible variety and proliferation of musics and related technologies of pleasure, on the understanding–or hope–that in the long run this will be deconstructive of capitalist hegemony. This is a postmodernist position, but it also involves challenging a certain smugness in postmodernist theory and practice about just how far elite/popular, high culture/mass culture distinctions have broken down. Too much of postmodernism seems simply a renovated form of bourgeois “art” culture. To my mind, the problem is not how much but rather how little commodification of culture has introduced a universal aestheticization of everyday life. The Left needs to defend the pleasure principle (“fun”) involved in commodity aesthetics at the same time that it needs to develop effective images ofpost-commodity gratification linked–as transitional demands–to an expansion of leisure time and a consequent transformation of the welfare state from the realm of economic maintenance–the famous “safety net”–to that of the provision of forms of pleasure and personal development outside the parameters of commodity production. While it is good and necessary to remind ourselves that we are a long way away from the particular cultural forms championed by the Popular Front–that these are now the stuff ofour nostalgia mode–, we also need to think about the ways in which the Popular Fronts in their day were able to hegemonize both mass and elite culture. The creation–as in a tentative way in this paper–of anideologeme which articulates the political project of ending or attenuating capitalist domination with both the productionand consumption of contemporary music seems to me one of the most important tasks in cultural work the Left should have on its present agenda.
Of course, what we anticipate in taking up this task is also the moment–or moments–when architecture becomes the form of expression of the people, because that would be the moment when power had really begun to change hands. What would this architecture be like?
Notes
1. Theodor Adorno, “Perennial Fashion–Jazz,” in Prisms, trans. Samuel and Shierry Weber (London: Neville Spearman, 1967), 128-29.
2. On this point, see Adorno’s remarks inThe Philosophy of Modern Music, trans. Anne Mitchell and Wesley Blomster (New York: Seabury, 1980), 129-33.
3. Christa Burger, “The Disappearance of Art: The Postmodernism Debate in the U.S.,”Telos, 68 (Summer 1986), 93-106.
4. Ilhan Mimaroglu, extracts from interview with John Cage in record album notes for Berio, Cage, Mimaroglu,Electronic Music (Turnabout TV34046S).
5. Jean-Paul Sartre,Nausea, trans. Lloyd Alexander (New York: New Directions, 1959), 33-36.
6. Cf. the following remarks by the minimalist composer La Monte Young:
Around 1960 I became interested in yoga, in which the emphasis is on concentration and focus on the sounds inside your head. Zen meditation allows ideas to come and go as they will, which corresponds to Cage's music; he and I are like opposites which help define each other (...) In singing, when the tone becomes perfectly in tune with a drone, it takes so much concentration to keep it in tune that it drives out all other thoughts. You become one with the drone and one with the Creator.
Cited in Kyle Gann, “La Monte Young: Maximal Spirit,” Village Voice, June 9, 1987, 70. (Gann’s column in the Voice is a good place to track developments in contemporary modernist and postmodernist music in the NY scene.)
7. “Beethoven’s symphonies in their most arcane chemistry are part of the bourgeois process of production and express the perennial disaster brought on by capitalism. But they also take a stance of tragic affirmation towards reality as a social fact; they seem to say that the status quo is the best of all possible worlds. Beethoven’s music is as much a part of the revolutionary emancipation of the bourgeoisie as it anticipates the latter’s apologia. The more profoundly you decode works of art, the less absolute is their contrast to praxis.” Adorno,Aesthetic Theory, trans. C. Lenhardt (New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1986), 342.
8. Eugene Genovese,Roll, Jordan, Roll. The World the Slaves Made (New York: Vintage, 1976), 159-280.
9. Pierre Lere, “Free Jazz: Evolution ou Revolution,”Revue d’esth tique, 3-4, 1970, 320-21, translated and cited in Herbert Marcuse, Counterrevolution and Revolt (Boston: Beacon, 1972),114.
10. See Attali’s,Noise: The Political Economy of Music, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1985).
11. Barthes is perhaps an exception, and Derrida has written on pictures and painting. John Mowitt at the University of Minnesota has been doing the most interesting work on music from a poststructuralist perspective that I have seen. He suggests as a primer on poststructuralist music theory I. Stoianova,Geste, Texte, Musique (Paris: 10/18, 1985).
13. The semiotic for Kristeva is a sort of babble out of which language arises–something between glossolalia and the pre-oedipal awareness of the sounds of the mother’s body–and which undermines the subject’s submission to the Symbolic. “Kristeva makes the case that the semiotic is the effect of bodily drives which are incompletely repressed when the paternal order has intervened in the mother/child dyad, and it is therefore ‘attached’ psychically to the mother’s body.” Paul Smith,Discerning the Subject (Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1988), 121.
14. Fredric Jameson,The Political Unconscious. Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act (Ithaca: Cornell, 1981), 288-91.
16. I’ve lost the reference for this quote.
17. Russell Berman, “Modern Art and Desublimation,”Telos, 62 (Winter 1984-85): 48.
18. Andreas Huyssen notes perceptively that “Given the aesthetic field-force of the term postmodernism, no neo-conservative today would dream of identifying the neo-conservative project as postmodern.” “Mapping the Postmodern,” in hisAfter the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1986), 204. I became aware of Huyssen’s work only as I was finishing this paper, but it’s obvious that I share here his problematic and many of his sympathies (including an ambivalence about McDonalds).
19. See in particular Susan Buck-Morss, “Benjamin’sPassagen-Werk: Redeeming Mass Culture for the Revolution.”New German Critique, 29 (Spring- Summer 1983), 211-240; and in general the work of Stuart Hall and the Birmingham Center for Cultural Studies. Peter Burger’s summary of recent work on the autonomy of art in bourgeois society is useful here: Theory of the Avant-Garde, trans. Michael Shaw (Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnesota, 1984), 35-54. In a way Frankfurt theory didn’t anticipate, it has seemed paradoxically necessary for capitalist merchandising to preserve or inject some semblance of aura in the commodity–hence kitsch: the Golden Arches–, whereas communist or socialized production should in principle have no problem with loss of aura, since it is not implicated in the commodity status of a use value or good. Postmodernist pastiche ormode retro–where a signifier of aura is alluded to or incorporated, but in an ironic and playful way–seems an intermediate position, in the sense that it can function both to endow the commodity with an “arty” quality or to detach aspects of commodity aesthetics from commodity production and circulation per se, as in Warhol.
20. John Cage, “Erik Satie,” inSilence (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1966), p.76.
21. “Yet this sense of freedom and possibility– which is for the course of the 60s a momentarily objective reality, as well as (from the hindsight of the 80s) a historical illusion–may perhaps best be explained in terms of the superstructural movement and play enabled by the transition from one infrastructural or systemic stage of capitalism to another.” Fredric Jameson, “Periodizing the 60s,” in Sohnya Sayres ed., The 60s Without Apology (Minneapolis:Social Text/Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1984), 208.
22. From Isabelle Anscombe and Dike Blair eds., Punk! (New York: Urizen, 1978).
23. Simon Frith,Sound Effects. Youth, Leisure and the Politics of Rock ‘n’ Roll (New York: Pantheon, 1981), 264-268.
24. On this point, see Andrew Goodwin and Joe Gore “World Beat and the Cultural Imperialism Debate,” Socialist Review 20.3 (Jul.-Sep., 1990): 63-80.
25.Sound Effects, 268. Cf. Huyssen: “The growing sense that we are not bound tocomplete the project of modernity (Habermas’ phrase) and still do not necessarily have to lapse into irrationality or into apocalyptic frenzy, the sense that art is not exclusively pursuing some telos of abstraction, non- representation, and sublimity–all of this has opened up a host of possibilities for creative endeavors today.”After the Great Divide, 217.
26. “I Dreamed I Saw MTV Last Night,”The Nation (October 18, 1986), 361, 374-376; and Lemisch’s reply to the debate which ensued, “The Politics of Left Culture,”The Nation (December 20, 1986), 700 ff.
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Dead Doll Humility
Kathy Acker
IN ANY SOCIETY BASED ON CLASS, HUMILIATION IS A POLITICAL REALITY. HUMILIATION IS ONE METHOD BY WHICH POLITICAL POWER IS TRANSFORMED INTO SOCIAL OR PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS. THE PERSONAL INTERIORIZATION OF THE PRACTICE OF HUMILIATION IS CALLED HUMILITY. CAPITOL IS AN ARTIST WHO MAKES DOLLS. MAKES, DAMAGES, TRANSFORMS, SMASHES. ONE OF HER DOLLS IS A WRITER DOLL. THE WRITER DOLL ISN'T VERY LARGE AND IS ALL HAIR, HORSE MANE HAIR, RAT FUR, DIRTY HUMAN HAIR, PUSSY. ONE NIGHT CAPITOL GAVE THE FOLLOWING SCENARIO TO HER WRITER DOLL: As a child in sixth grade in a North American school, won first prize in a poetry contest. In late teens and early twenties, entered New York City poetry world. Prominent Black Mountain poets, mainly male, taught or attempted to teach her that a writer becomes a writer when and only when he finds his own voice. CAPITOL DIDN'T MAKE ANY AVANT-GARDE POET DOLLS. Since wanted to be a writer, tried hard to find her own voice. Couldn't. But still loved to write. Loved to play with language. Language was material like clay or paint. Loved to play with verbal material, build up slums and mansions, demolish banks and half-rotten buildings, even buildings which she herself had constructed, into never-before-seen, even unseeable jewels. To her, every word wasn't only material in itself, but also sent out like beacons, other words. Blue sent out heaven and The Virgin. Material is rich. I didn't create language, writer thought. Later she would think about ownership and copyright. I'm constantly being given language. Since this language- world is rich and always changing, flowing, when I write, I enter a world which has complex relations and is, perhaps, illimitable. This world both represents and is human history, public memories and private memories turned public, the records and actualizations of human intentions. This world is more than life and death, for here life and death conjoin. I can't make language, but in this world, I can play and be played. So where is 'my voice'? Wanted to be a writer. Since couldn't find 'her voice', decided she'd first have to learn what a Black Mountain poet meant by 'his voice'. What did he do when he wrote? A writer who had found his own voice presented a viewpoint. Created meaning. The writer took a certain amount of language, verbal material, forced that language to stop radiating in multiple, even unnumerable directions, to radiate in only one direction so there could be his meaning. The writer's voice wasn't exactly this meaning. The writer's voice was a process, how he had forced the language to obey him, his will. The writer's voice is the voice of the writer-as-God. Writer thought, Don't want to be God; have never wanted to be God. All these male poets want to be the top poet, as if, since they can't be a dictator in the political realm, can be dictator of this world. Want to play. Be left alone to play. Want to be a sailor who journeys at every edge and even into the unknown. See strange sights, see. If I can't keep on seeing wonders, I'm in prison. Claustrophobia's sister to my worst nightmare: lobotomy, the total loss of perceptual power, of seeing new. If had to force language to be uni-directional, I'd be helping my own prison to be constructed. There are enough prisons outside, outside language. Decided, no. Decided that to find her own voice would be negotiating against her joy. That's what the culture seemed to be trying to tell her to do. Wanted only to write. Was writing. Would keep on writing without finding 'her own voice'. To hell with the Black Mountain poets even though they had taught her a lot. Decided that since what she wanted to do was just to write, not to find her own voice, could and would write by using anyone's voice, anyone's text, whatever materials she wanted to use. Had a dream while waking that was running with animals. Wild horses, leopards, red fox, kangaroos, mountain lions, wild dogs. Running over rolling hills. Was able to keep up with the animals and they accepted her. Wildness was writing and writing was wildness. Decision not to find this own voice but to use and be other, multiple, even innumerable, voices led to two other decisions. There were two kinds of writing in her culture: good literature and schlock. Novels which won literary prizes were good literature; science fiction and horror novels, pornography were schlock. Good literature concerned important issues, had a high moral content, and, most important, was written according to well- established rules of taste, elegance, and conservatism. Schlock's content was sex horror violence and other aspects of human existence abhorrent to all but the lowest of the low, the socially and morally unacceptable. This trash was made as quickly as possible, either with no regard for the regulations of politeness or else with regard to the crudest, most vulgar techniques possible. Well-educated, intelligent, and concerned people read good literature. Perhaps because the masses were gaining political therefore economic and social control, not only of literary production, good literature was read by an elite diminishing in size and cultural strength. Decided to use or to write both good literature and schlock. To mix them up in terms of content and formally, offended everyone. Writing in which all kinds of writing mingled seemed, not immoral, but amoral, even to the masses. Played in every playground she found; no one can do that in a class or hierarchichal society. (In literature classes in university, had learned that anyone can say or write anything about anything if he or she does so cleverly enough. That cleverness, one of the formal rules of good literature, can be a method of social and political manipulation. Decided to use language stupidly.) In order to use and be other voices as stupidly as possible, decided to copy down simply other texts. Copy them down while, maybe, mashing them up because wasn't going to stop playing in any playground. Because loved wildness. Having fun with texts is having fun with everything and everyone. Since didn't have one point of view or centralized perspective, was free to find out how texts she used and was worked. In their contexts which were (parts of) culture. Liked best of all mushing up texts. Began constructing her first story by placing mashed-up texts by and about Henry Kissinger next to 'True Romance' texts. What was the true romance of America? Changed these 'True Romance' texts only by heightening the sexual crudity of their style. Into this mush, placed four pages out of Harold Robbins', one of her heroes', newest hottest bestsellers. Had first made Jacqueline Onassis the star of Robbins' text. Twenty years later, a feminist publishing house republished the last third of the novel in which this mash occurred. CAPITOL MADE A FEMINIST PUBLISHER DOLL EVEN THOUGH, BECAUSE SHE WASN'T STUPID, SHE KNEW THAT THE FEMINIST PUBLISHING HOUSE WAS ACTUALLY A LOT OF DOLLS. THE FEMINIST PUBLISHER DOLL WAS A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN A ST. LAURENT DRESS. CAPITOL, PERHAPS OUT OF PERVERSITY, REFRAINED FROM USING HER USUAL CHEWED UP CHEWING GUM, HALF-DRIED FLECKS OF NAIL POLISH, AND BITS OF HER OWN BODY THAT HAD SOMEHOW FALLEN AWAY. Republished the text containing the Harold Robbins' mush next to a text she had written only seventeen years ago. In this second text, the only one had ever written without glopping up hacking into and rewriting other texts (appropriating), had tried to destroy literature or what she as a writer was supposed to write by making characters and a story that were so stupid as to be almost non-existent. Ostensibly, the second text was a porn book. The pornography was almost as stupid as the story. The female character had her own name. Thought just after had finished writing this, here is a conventional novel. Perhaps, here is 'my voice'. Now I'll never again have to make up a bourgeois novel. Didn't. The feminist publisher informed her that this second text was her most important because here she had written a treatise on female sexuality. Since didn't believe in arguing with people, wrote an introduction to both books in which stated that her only interest in writing was in copying down other people's texts. Didn't say liked messing them up because was trying to be polite. Like the English. Did say had no interest in sexuality or in any other content. CAPITOL MADE A DOLL WHO WAS A JOURNALIST. CAPITOL LOVED MAKING DOLLS WHO WERE JOURNALISTS. SOMETIMES SHE MADE THEM OUT OF THE NEWSPAPERS FOUND IN TRASHCANS ON THE STREETS. SHE KNEW THAT LOTS OF CATS INHABITED TRASH CANS. THE PAPERS SAID RATS CARRY DISEASES. SHE MADE THIS JOURNALIST OUT OF THE FINGERNAILS SHE OBTAINED BY HANGING AROUND THE TRASHCANS IN THE BACK LOTS OF LONDON HOSPITALS. HAD PENETRATED THESE BACK LOTS WITH THE HOPE OF MEETING MEAN OLDER MEN BIKERS. FOUND LOTS OF OTHER THINGS THERE. SINCE, TO MAKE THE JOURNALIST, SHE MOLDED THE FINGERNAILS TOGETHER WITH SUPER GLUE AND, BEING A SLOB, LOTS OF OTHER THINGS STUCK TO THIS SUPER GLUE, THE JOURNALIST DIDN'T LOOK ANYTHING LIKE A HUMAN BEING. A journalist who worked on a trade publishing magazine, so the story went, no one could remember whose story, was informed by another woman in her office that there was a resemblance between a section of the writer's book and Harold Robbins' work. Most of the literati of the country in which the writer was currently living were upper-middle class and detested the writer and her writing. CAPITOL THOUGHT ABOUT MAKING A DOLL OF THIS COUNTRY, BUT DECIDED NOT TO. Journalist decided she had found a scoop. Phoned up the feminist publisher to enquire about plagiarism; perhaps feminist publisher said something wrong because then phoned up Harold Robbins' publisher. "Surely all art is the result of one's having been in danger, of having gone through an experience all the way to the end, where no one can go any further. The further one goes, the more private, the more personal, the more singular an experience becomes, and the thing one is making is finally, the necessary, irrepressible, and, as nearly as possible, definitive utterance of this singularity . . . Therein lies the enormous aid the work of art brings to the life of the one who must make it . . . "So we are most definitely called upon to test and try ourselves against the utmost, but probably we are also bound to keep silence regarding this utmost, to beware of sharing it, of parting with it in communication so long as we have not entered the work of art: for the utmost represents nothing other than that singularity in us which no one would or even should understand, and which must enter into the work as such . . . " Rilke to Cezanne. CAPITOL MADE A PUBLISHER LOOK LIKE SAM PECKINPAH. THOUGH SHE HAD NO IDEA WHAT SAM PECKINPAH LOOKED LIKE. HAD LOOKED LIKE? SHE TOOK A HOWDY DOODY DOLL AND AN ALFRED E. NEUMAN DOLL AND MASHED THEM TOGETHER, THEN MADE THIS CONGLOMERATE INTO AN AMERICAN OFFICER IN THE MEXICAN-AMERICAN WAR. ACTUALLY SEWED, SHE HATED SEWING, OR WHEN SHE BECAME TIRED OF SEWING, GLUED TOGETHER WITH HER OWN TWO HANDS, JUST AS THE EARLY AMERICAN PATRIOT WIVES USED TO DO FOR THEIR PATRIOT HUSBANDS, A FROGGED AND BRAIDED CAVALRY JACKET, STAINED WITH THE BLOOD FROM SOME FORMER OWNERS. THEN FASHIONED A STOVEPIPE HAT OUT OF ONE SHE HAD STOLEN FROM A BUM IN AN ECSTASY OF ART. THE HAT WAS A BIT BIG. FOR THE PUBLISHER. INSIDE A GOLD HEART, THERE SHOULD BE A PICTURE OF A WOMAN. SINCE CAPITOL DIDN'T HAVE A PICTURE OF A WOMAN, SHE PUT IN ONE OF HER MOTHER. SINCE SAM PECKINPAH OR HER PUBLISHER HAD SEEN TRAGEDY, AN ARROW HANGING OUT OF THE WHITE BREAST OF A SOLDIER NO OLDER THAN A CHILD, HORSES GONE MAD WALLEYED MOUTHS FROTHING AMID DUST THICKER THAN THE SMOKE OF GUNS. SHE MADE HIS FACE FULL OF FOLDS, AN EYEPATCH OVER ONE EYE. Harold Robbins' publisher phoned up the man who ran the company who owned the feminist publishing company. From now on, known as 'The Boss'. The Boss told Harold Robbins' publisher that they have a plagiarist in their midst. CAPITOL NO LONGER WANTED TO MAKE DOLLS. IN THE UNITED STATES, UPON SEEING THE WORK OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER ROBERT MAPPLETHORPE, SENATOR JESSE HELMS PROPOSED AN AMENDMENT TO THE FISCAL YEAR 1990 INTERIOR AND RELATED AGENCIES BILL FOR THE PURPOSE OF PROHIBITING "THE USE OF APPROPRIATED FUNDS FOR THE DISSEMINATION, PROMOTION, OR PRODUCTION OF OBSCENE OR INDECENT MATERIALS OR MATERIALS DENIGRATING A PARTICULAR RELIGION." THREE SPECIFIC CATEGORIES OF UNACCEPTABLE MATERIAL FOLLOWED: "(1) OBSCENE OR INDECENT MATERIALS, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO DEPICTIONS OF SADOMASOCHISM [ALWAYS GET THAT ONE IN FIRST], HOMO-EROTICISM, THE EXPLOITATION OF CHILDREN, OR INDIVIDUALS ENGAGED IN SEX ACTS; OR (2) MATERIAL WHICH DENIGRATES THE OBJECTS OR BELIEFS OF THE ADHERENTS OF A PARTICULAR RELIGION OR NON-RELIGION; OR (3) MATERIAL WHICH DENIGRATES, DEBASES, OR REVILES A PERSON, GROUP, OR CLASS OF CITIZENS ON THE BASIS OF RACE, CREED, SEX, HANDICAP, AGE, OR NATIONAL ORIGIN." IN HONOR OF JESSE HELMS, CAPITOL MADE, AS PILLOWS, A CROSS AND A VAGINA. SO THE POOR COULD HAVE SOMEWHERE TO SLEEP. SINCE SHE NO LONGER HAD TO MAKE DOLLS OR ART, BECAUSE ART IS DEAD IN THIS CULTURE, SHE SLOPPED THE PILLOWS TOGETHER WITH DEAD FLIES, WHITE FLOUR MOISTENED BY THE BLOOD SHE DREW OUT OF HER SMALLEST FINGER WITH A PIN, AND OTHER TYPES OF GARBAGE. Disintegration. Feminist publisher then informed writer that the Boss and Harold Robbins' publisher had decided, due to her plagiarism, to withdraw the book from publication and to have her sign an apology to Harold Robbins which they had written. This apology would then be published in two major publishing magazines. Ordinarily impolite, told feminist publisher they could do what they wanted with their edition of her books but she wasn't going to apologize to anyone for anything, much less for twenty years of work. Didn't have to think to herself because every square inch of her knew. For freedom. Writing must be for and must be freedom. Feminist publisher replied that she knew writer was actually a nice sweet girl. Asked if should tell her agent or try talking directly to Harold Robbins. Feminist publisher replied she'd take care of everything. Writer shouldn't contact Harold Robbins because that would make everything worse. Would, the feminist publisher asked, the writer please compose a statement for the Boss why the writer used other texts when she wrote so that the Boss wouldn't believe that she was a plagiarist. CAPITOL MADE A DOLL WHO LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE HERSELF. IF YOU PRESSED A BUTTON ON ONE OF THE DOLL'S CUNT LIPS THE DOLL SAID, "I AM A GOOD GIRL AND DO EXACTLY AS I AM TOLD TO DO." Wrote: Nobody save buzzards. Lots of buzzards here. In the distance, lay flies and piles of shit. Herds of animals move against the skyline like black caravans in an unknown east. Sheeps and goats. Another place, a horse is lapping the water of a pool. Lavendar and grey trees behind this black water are leafless and spineless. As the day ends, the sun in the east flushes out pale lavendars and pinks, then turns blood red as it turns on itself, becoming a more definitive shape, the more definitive, the bloodier. Until it sits, totally unaware of the rest of the universe, waiting at the edge of a sky that doesn't yet know what colors it wants to be, a hawk waiting for the inevitable onset of human slaughter. The light is fleeing. Instead, sent a letter to feminist publisher in which said that she composed her texts out of 'real' conversations, anything written down, other texts, somewhat in the ways the Cubists had worked. (Not quite true. But thought this statement understandable.) Cited, as example, her use of 'True Confessions' stories. Such stories whose content seemed purely and narrowly sexual, composed simply for purposes of sexual titillation and economic profit, if deconstructed, viewed in terms of context and genre, became signs of political and social realities. So if the writer or critic (deconstructionist) didn't work with the actual language of these texts, the writer or critic wouldn't be able to uncover the political and social realities involved. For instance, both genre and the habitual nature of perception hide the violence of the content of many newspaper stories. To uncover this violence is to run the risk of being accused of loving violence or all kinds of pornography. (As if the writer gives a damn about what anyone considers risks.) Wrote, living art rather than dead art has some connection with passion. Deconstructions of newspaper stories become the living art in a culture that demands that any artistic representation of life be non-violent and non-sexual, misrepresent. To copy down, to appropriate, to deconstruct other texts is to break down those perceptual habits the culture doesn't want to be broken. Deconstruction demands not so much plagiarism as breaking into the copyright law. In the Harold Robbins' text which had used, a rich white woman walks into a disco, picks up a black boy, has sex with him. In the Robbins' text, this scene is soft-core porn, has as its purpose mild sexual titillation and pleasure. [When Robbins' book had been published years ago, the writer's mother had said that Robbins had used Jacqueline Onassis as the model for the rich white woman.] Wrote, had made apparent that bit of politics while amplifying the pulp quality of the style in order to see what would happen when the underlying presuppositions or meanings of Robbins' writing became clear. Robbins as emblematic of a certain part of American culture. What happened was that the sterility of that part of American culture revealed itself. The real pornography. Cliches, especially sexual cliches, are always signs of power or political relationships. BECAUSE SHE HAD JUST GOTTEN HER PERIOD, CAPITOL MADE A HUGE RED SATIN PILLOW CROSS THEN SMEARED HER BLOOD ALL OVER IT. Her editor at the feminist publisher said that the Boss had found her explanation "literary." Later would be informed that this was a legal, not a literary, matter. "HERE IT ALL STINKS," CAPITOL THOUGHT. "ART IS MAKING ACCORDING TO THE IMAGINATION. BUT HERE, BUYING AND SELLING ARE THE RULES; THE RULES OF COMMODITY HAVE DESTROYED THE IMAGINATION. HERE, THE ONLY ART ALLOWED IS MADE BY POST-CAPITALIST RULES; ART ISN'T MADE ACCORDING TO RULES." ANGER MAKES YOU WANT TO SUICIDE. Journalist who broke the 'Harold Robbins story' had been phoning and leaving messages on writer's answering machine for days. Had stopped answering her phone. By chance picked it up; journalist asked her if anything to say. "You mean about Harold Robbins?" Silence. "I've just given my publisher a statement. Perhaps you could read that." "Do you have anything to add to it?" As if she was a criminal. A few days later writer's agent over the phone informed writer what was happening was simply horrible. CAPITOL DIDN'T WANT TO MAKE ANY DOLLS. How could the writer be plagiarizing Harold Robbins? Writer didn't know. Agent told writer if writer had phoned her immediately, agent could have straightened out everything because she was good friends with Harold Robbins' publisher. But now it was too late. Writer asked agent if she could do anything. Agent answered that she'd phone Harold Robbins' publisher and that the worst that could happen is that she'd have to pay a nominal quotation rights fee. So a few days later was surprised when feminist publisher informed her that if she didn't sign the apology to Harold Robbins which they had written for her, feminist publishing company would go down a drain because Harold Robins or harold Robbins' publisher would slap a half-a-million [dollar? pound?] lawsuit on the feminist publishing house. Decided she had to take notice of this stupid affair, though her whole life wanted to notice only writing and sex. "WHAT IS IT" CAPITOL WROTE, "TO BE AN ARTIST? WHERE IS THE VALUE THAT WILL KEEP THIS LIFE IN HELL GOING?" For one of the first times in her life, was deeply scared. Was usually as wild as they come. Doing anything if it felt good. So when succumbed to fear, succumbed to reasonless, almost bottomless fear. Panicked only because she might be forced to apologize, not to Harold Robbins, that didn't matter, but to anyone for her writing, for what seemed to be her life. Book had already been withdrawn from print. Wasn't that enough? Panicked, phoned her agent without waiting for her agent to phone her. Agent asked writer if she knew how she stood legally. Writer replied that as far as knew Harold Robbins had made no written charge. Feminist publisher sometime in beginning had told her they had spoken to a solicitor who had said neither she nor they "had a leg to stand on." Since didn't know with what she was being charged, she didn't know what that meant. Agent replied, "Perhaps we should talk to a solicitor. Do you know a solicitor?" Knew the name of a tax solicitor. Since had no money, asked her American publisher what to do, if he knew a lawyer. WOULD MAKE NO MORE DOLLS. American publisher informed her couldn't ask anyone's advice until she knew the charges against her, saw them in writing. Asked the feminist publisher to send the charges against her and whatever else was in writing to her. Received two copies of the 'Harold Robbins' text she had written twenty years ago, one copy of the apology she was supposed to sign, and a letter from Harold Robbins' publisher to the head of the feminist publishing company. Letter said they were not seeking damages beyond withdrawal of the book from publication [which had already taken place] and the apology. Didn't know of what she was guilty. Later would receive a copy of the letter sent to her feminist publisher from the solicitor whom the feminist publisher and then her agent had consulted. Letter stated: According to the various documents and texts which the feminist publisher had supplied, the writer should apologize to Mr. Harold Robbins. First, because in her text she has used a substantial number of Mr. Robbins' words. Second, because she did not use any texts other than Mr. Robbins' so there could be no literary theory or praxis responsible for her plagiarism. Third, because the contract between the writer and the feminist publisher states that the writer had not infringed upon any existing copyright. When the writer wrote, not wrote back, to the solicitor that most of the novel in question had been appropriated from other texts, that most of these texts had been in the public domain, that the writers of texts not in the public domain were either writers of 'True Confessions' stories (anonymous) or writers who knew she had reworked their texts and felt honored, except for Mr. Robbins, that she had never misrepresented nor hidden her usages of other texts, her methods of composition, that there was already a body of literary criticism on her and others' methods of appropriation, and furthermore [this was to become the major point of contention], that she would not sign the apology because she could not since there was no assurance that all possible litigation and harassment would end with the signature of guilt, guilt which anyway she didn't feel: the solicitor did not reply. Not knowing of what she was guilty, feeling isolated, and pressured to finish her new novel, writer became paranoid. Would do anything to stop the pressure from the feminist publisher and simultaneously would never apologize for her work. Considered her American publisher her father. Told her that the 'Harold Robbins affair' was a joke, she should take the phone off the hook, go to Paris for a few days. Finish your book. That's what's important. WOULD MAKE NO MORE DOLLS. Paris is a beautiful city. In Paris decided that it's stupid to live in fear. Didn't yet know what to do about isolation. All that matters is work and work must be created in and can't be created in isolation. (Remembered a conversation she had had with her feminist publisher. Still trying to explain, writer said, in order to deconstruct, the deconstructionist needs to use the actual other texts. Editor had said she understood. For instance, she was sure, Peter Carey in Oscar and Lucinda had used other people's writings in his dialogue, but he would never admit it. This writer did what every other writer did, but she is the only one who admits it. "It's not a matter of not being able to write," the writer replied. It's a matter of a certain theory which is also a literary theory. Theory and belief." Then shut up because knew that when you have to explain and explain, nothing is understood. Language is dead.) SINCE THERE WERE NO MORE DOLLS, CAPITOL STARTED WRITING LANGUAGE. Decided that it's stupid living in fear of being forced to be guilty without knowing why you're guilty and, more important, it's stupid caring about what has nothing to do with art. It doesn't really matter whether or not you sign the fucking apology. Over the phone asked the American publisher whether or not it mattered to her past work whether or not signed the apology. Answered that the sole matter was her work. Thought alike. Wanted to ensure that there was no more sloppiness in her work or life, that from now on all her actions served only her writing. Upon returning to England, consulted a friend who consulted a solicitor who was his friend about her case. This solicitor advised that since she wasn't guilty of plagiarism and since the law was unclear, grey, about whether or not she had breached Harold Robbins' copyright, it could be a legal precedent, he couldn't advise whether or not she should sign the apology. But must not sign unless, upon signing, received full and final settlement. Informed her agent that would sign if and only if received full and final settlement upon signing. Over the phone, feminist publisher asked her who had told her about full and final settlement. A literary solicitor. Could they, the feminist publishing house, have his name and his statement in writing? "This is my decision," writer said. "That's all you need to know." WROTE DOWN "PRAY FOR US THE DEAD," THE FIRST LINE IN THE FIRST POEM BY CHARLES OLSON SHE HAD EVER READ WHEN SHE WAS A TEENAGER. ALL THE DOLLS WERE DEAD. DEAD HAIR. WHEN SHE LOOKED UP THIS POEM, ITS FIRST LINE WAS, "WHAT DOES NOT CHANGE/ IS THE WILL TO CHANGE." WENT TO A NEARBY CEMETERY AND WITH STICK DOWN IN SAND WROTE THE WORDS "PRAY FOR US THE DEAD." THOUGHT, WHO IS DEAD? THE DEAD TREES? WHO IS DEAD? WE LIVE IN SERVICE OF THE SPIRIT. MADE MASS WITH TREES DEAD AND DIRT AND UNDERNEATH HUMANS AS DEAD OR LIVING AS ANY STONE OR WOOD. I WON'T BURY MY DEAD DOLLS, THOUGHT. I'LL STEP ON THEM AND MASH THEM UP. For two weeks didn't hear from either her agent or feminist publisher. Could return to finishing her novel. Thought that threats had died. In two weeks received a letter from her agent which read something like: On your express instructions that your publisher communicate to you through me, your publisher has informed me that they have communicated to Harold Robbins your decision that you will sign the apology which his publisher drew up only if you have his assurance that there will be no further harassment or litigation. Because you have requested such assurance, predictably, Harold Robbins is now requiring damages to be paid. Your publisher now intends to sign and publish the apology to Harold Robbins as soon as possible whether or not you sign it. In view of what I have discovered about the nature of your various telephone communications to me, please contact me only in writing from now on. Signature. Understood that she had lost. Lost more than a struggle about the appropriation of four pages, about the definition of appropriation. Lost her belief that there can be art in this culture. Lost spirit. All humans have to die, but they don't have to fail. Fail in all that matters. It turned out that the whole affair was nothing. CAPITOL REALIZED THAT SHE HAD FORGOTTEN TO BURY THE WRITER DOLL. SINCE THE SMELL OF DEATH STUNK, RETURNED TO THE CEMETERY TO BURY HER. SHE KICKED OVER A ROCK AND THREW THE DOLL INTO THE HOLE WHICH THE ROCK HAD MADE. CHANTED, "YOU'RE NOT SELLING ENOUGH BOOKS IN CALIFORNIA. YOU'D BETTER GO THERE IMMEDIATELY. TRY TO GET INTO READING IN ANY BENEFIT YOU CAN SO FIVE MORE BOOKS WILL BE SOLD. YOU HAVE BAGS UNDER YOUR EYES." CAPITOL THOUGHT, DEAD DOLL. SINCE CAPITOL WAS A ROMANTIC, SHE BELIEVED DEATH IS PREFERABLE TO A DEAD LIFE, A LIFE NOT LIVED ACCORDING TO THE DICTATES OF THE SPIRIT. SINCE SHE WAS THE ONE WHO HAD POWER IN THE DOLL- HUMAN RELATIONSHIP, HER DOLLS WERE ROMANTICS TOO. Toward the end of paranoia, had told her story to a friend who was secretary to a famous writer. Informed her that famous writer's first lawyer used to work with Harold Robbins' present lawyer. First lawyer was friends with her American publisher. Her American publisher asked the lawyer who was his friend to speak privately to Harold Robbins' lawyer. Later the lawyer told the American publisher that Harold Robbins' lawyer advised to let the matter die quietly. This lawyer himself advised that under no circumstances should the writer sign anything. It turned out that the whole affair was nothing. Despite these lawyer's advice, Harold Robbins' publisher and the feminist publisher kept pressing the writer to sign the apology and eventually, as everything becomes nothing, she had to. Knew that none of the above has anything to do with what matters, writing. Except for the failure of the spirit. THEY'RE ALL DEAD, CAPITOL THOUGHT. THEIR DOLLS' FLESH IS NOW BECOMING PART OF THE DIRT. CAPITOL THOUGHT, IS MATTER MOVING THROUGH FORMS DEAD OR ALIVE? CAPITOL THOUGHT, THEY CAN'T KILL THE SPIRIT. -
Feeding the Transcendent Body
George Yudice
CUNY, Hunter College
To eat is to appropriate by destruction; it is at the same time to be filled up with a certain being…. When we eat we do not limit ourselves to knowing certain qualities of this being through taste; by tasting them we appropriate them. Taste is assimilation…. The synthetic intuition of food is in itself an assimilative destruction. It reveals to me the being which I am going to make my flesh. Henceforth, what I accept or what I reject with disgust is the very being of that existent….
It is not a matter of indifference whether we like oysters or clams, snails or shrimp, if only we know how to unravel the existential signification of these foods. Generally speaking there is no irreducible taste or inclination. They all represent a certain appropriate choice of being.
At first glance, it seems unlikely that contemporary U.S. culture can offer a gastrosophy to match that of other civilizations. Brillat-Savarin’s (and Feuerbach’s) adage, “You are what you eat,” does not throb today with metaphysical significance as it did scarcely two generations ago for Sartre. In the United States, it is indeed a matter of indifference “whether we like oysters or clams, snails or shrimp”; much of the lower priced seafood today is made from other processed fish. Consequently, the differences between particular foods are less important; what really matters is taste itself, laboratory produced flavor. Food as substance gives way to the simulacrum of flavor, which is something that “science” recombines in ever new ways to seduce us to this or that convenience food. As synthetic food replaces Sartre’s “synthetic intuition of food,” we find it impossible to transcend the brute “facticity” of eating, which is ironically as fake as it is real. We eat substances (the “real”) yet we do not know them as such but as simulations (the “fake”).
The portrait I’ve drawn here obviously calls for a reference to Baudrillard, which will come in due time. First, however, it is necessary to reflect a bit more on the changes wrought by the transition to simulation in our (seemingly) most immediate experience: eating. Anthropologists have explained in great detail how entire civilizations defined themselves allegorically through their eating practices. Inclusion or exclusion, symbolic and material exchange, body boundaries, gender, and other identity factors are systematically and most deeply inscribed in the members of a given group through eating practices. Consequently, the metaphysics of most groups is conveyed by these practices. This inscription conditions, for example, how people understand divinity. For the Greeks of Hesiod’s Theogony, the rituals of sacrificial cooking and eating, paralleled in agricultural, funereal and nuptial practices, establish a communication between mortals and immortals which paradoxically expresses their incommensurability. In contrast, the Orphic anthropogony makes possible the mystical transcendence of the barrier between gods and humans by rejecting the sacrifice of the official religion.
By refusing this sacrifice, by forbidding the bloodshed of any animal, by turning away from fleshy food to dedicate themselves to a totally "pure" ascetic life--a life also completely alien to the social and religious norms of the city--men would shed all the Titanic elements of their nature. In Dionysus they would be able to restore that part of themselves that is divine.2
Since mystical transcendence usually involves some relation to eating–or not eating, as in the Orphic cult–it is interesting to ask what are the possibilities of such transcendence in an age of fake fat and microwavable synthetic meals. The mystic engages in a struggle whose reward is nourishing grace. As Saint Teresa says, the soul “finds everything cooked and eaten for it; it has only to enjoy its nourishment.”3 In our consumer culture, however, such convenience food comes to most of us without the struggle. Unlike the mystic–who is “like a man who has had no schooling…and [yet] finds himself, without any study, in possession of all living knowledge”–we are not graced by any special knowledge. Without negativity–Sartre’s “appropria[tion] by destruction”– there is no transcendence. And negativity is precisely what gives the Orphics and mystics like Saint Teresa– often taken as heretics by orthodoxy–a feeling of power which makes them “master of all the elements and of the whole world.”4 Transcendence, in these cases, is closely related to contestatory social movements which attempted to invert the power differential between the dominant and the subaltern.
The experiences of people (mostly women) with eating disorders today seems to contradict the argument that there are no longer any practices of negativity. In fact, on the basis of power reversals similar to the ones claimed by mystics, contemporary theorists/practictioners of ecriture have rediscovered–and extended to the anorectic–the prototype of an “herethics” beyond the dominant order of things,5 or a “mysterique” (fusion of mystic and hysteric) who carves out her own space of enunciation within Western discourse.6 Following this latter analogy, the mystic’s relationship to the inquisitor would be like that of the hysteric before the psychoanalyst who seeks to extract her secrets for the benefit of his doctrine.7
The correlation of mystic/heretic, hysteric and anorectic, however, encounters a serious problem: against what or whom is the anorectic wielding her negativity? Endocrinological and other biomedical factors aside, anorexia and other eating disorders are, of course, an expression of gender struggle in our society.8 But that does not explain everything; if that were the case, we could expect all the victims of patriarchy to suffer from eating disorders. It seems to me that the issue of control is a necessary but not sufficient condition for the negativity of the anorectic (or the bulimic or the obese woman). Class and/or gender analysis is not enough to account for all questions of subjectivity and desire. We are all constrained but some of us go on to become mystics or anorectics. Why? In the most suggestive essay I have read on the topic, Sohnya Sayres argues that some of us are more sensitive to the limitless loss brought on by the shrinking of experience. As in mystical experience, the loss becomes the point of departure for the will to greatness and glory, to empowerment:
It is glory that these body-loss-obsessed men and women seek, in making themselves "lost," rapacious glory in society constraining them in rituals around limitless loss. They externalize the return of the repressed in this society which, more than others, is rationalized around the ledger sheets and the accountants of gain, whose most serious intonations are about the "bottom line"--which has remade the "full plate" into the latest idiom for dealing with bad news. One wonders, now, whether the ultimate loss that young people say they are almost sure will be their not too distant future--millennialist, cataclysmic loss--hasn't excited, but sent deeper, those fantasies of messianic rescue lying choked beneath weeds the body imperatives plant in the spirit. Fat and anorectic women and men want to be great, in ways unaccountable...unless we accept the enormity of the unaccountable in this society. Then, perhaps, the drama of food and the body can be given a storyteller's innovations, that is, when it is released from explanation and accommodation, all that quantifying, into flights of wit and provocation--released, in other words, from a singular, petty, tale of compulsion into one of sacrifice, mortification, and redemption-- into a grander delusion, worthy of the person, worthy of hearing about, worthy of transforming.9
I have quoted Sayres at length because she expresses so well the dialectic of loss and transcendence which Baudrillard, in turn, will transform into a paean to banality. Baudrillard’s hyperreality has no place in it for delusions of grandeur and redemption. Or it may be more exact to say that he does acknowledge grandeur, but it is the grandeur of limitless banality. There is no sense, however, of how people suffer and struggle against that banality. In fact, he has taken the figure of the obese/anorectic, in which some feminists situate a radical negation of patriarchy, and cast it as the emblem of a society in which there is no longer any possibility of opposition because everything has been “digest[ed into] its own appearance”:
This strange obesity is no longer that of a protective layer of fat nor the neurotic one of depression. It is neither the compensatory obesity of the underdeveloped nor the alimentary one of the overnourished. Paradoxically, it is a mode of disappearance for the body. The secret rule that delimits the sphere of the body has disappeared. The secret form of the mirror, by which the body watches over itself and its image, is abolished, yielding to the unrestrained redundancy of a living organism. No more limits, no more transcendence: it is as if the body was no longer opposed to an external world, but sought to digest space in its own appearance.10
Like the social systems in which we live, which are “bloated with information” and deprived of significance, Baudrillard’s obscene obese/anorectic body has lost the “principle of law or measure” that once supported it. Its meanings and representations have also transmuted into metastatic self-replication. History is now seen as a succession of devourments which, along with ideology and politics, reach a saturation point that knows no limits; metastasis encompasses everything, nothing is at odds with it, nothing can transcend it. And as every condition has its symptomatic figuration, Baudrillard’s obscene hyperreality finds its “perfect confirmation and ecstatic truth” in the obscene body, which “instead of being reflected, captures itself in its own magnifying mirror.”11
Europe has long served as the proscenium for the death of the subject and history; the allegory of the death of life could have no other setting, of course, than the United States, home of those exemplary killers of experience: fast food, safe sex and genetic engineering. I would like to talk about an anomaly–that fascinating obesity, such as you find all over the U.S., that kind of monstrous conformity to empty space, of deformity by excess of conformity that translates the hyperdimension of a sociality at once saturated and empty, where the scene of the social as well as that of the body are left behind.12
In the grand allegorical tradition, Baudrillard offers us a new reading of the body-as-microcosm-of- the-world. This body is not a temple, nor a machine, nor a holistic organism. It is the obscene body without order, whose cells have gone rampant in “cancerous metasteses” that parallel the useless flow of information in the postmodern world. If disease was once interpreted as lesion (the body as machine model) or as adaptive response to stress (the organic model),13 Baudrillard’s viral analogy construes it as coextensive with “life.” It is, however, a life with no rhyme or reason other than the momentum/inertia of self-replication: “Quite simply, there is no life any longer […] but the information and the vital functions continue.”14
The body registers the “useless and wasteful exhaustion” of all systems in the figure of the obese (satiation) and/or the anorectic (inertia). On this view, the obese and the anorectic are neither the victims of some accident whose results can be reversed by altering a body part (“removing portions of the stomach or intestine so that only small amounts of food could be eaten or digested”) nor the adaptation to stressful “environmental factors (exercise habits, self-image, personal relationships, work pressures, etc.).”15 They are, rather, the embodiment of permanent crisis: inflation, overproduction, unemployment, nuclear threat, anomaly, to sum up.
Yes. At first sight, the example seems irrefutable. What better emblem of the empire of the senseless, useless waste of resources than the insatiable obese and anorectics of (North) America, driven to passivity, apathy and indifference by the infinite choice of consummables?16 In a very insightful essay in which he mines the contradictions between capitalism and transgression, Octavio Paz notes that by rigorously applying the norm of the “limitless production of the same,” North American society succeeded in coopting the erotic and gastronomic rebellions of the 60s into slogans for the media:17
The popular character of the erotic revolt was immediately appreciated by the mass media, by the entertainment and fashion industries. For it is not the churches nor the political parties, but the great industrial monopolies that have taken control of the powers of fascination that eroticism exerts over men. [...] What began as a[n erotic] liberation has become a business. The same has happened in the realm of gastronomy; the erotic industry is the younger sister of the food industry. [...] Private business expropriates utopia. During its ascendancy capitalism exploited the body; now it has turned it into an object of advertising. We have gone from prohibition to humiliation.18
Paz did not fathom the extent to which gastronomy was being appropriated by industry. Today it no longer takes a major intellectual to understand that food is subject to the same image manipulation as all other commodities. Flavor, color, consistency, texture, smell, caloric and nutritional value, even genetic composition are all engineered to seduce each and every consumer. Food has, in effect, become a simulacrum which the omnivorous psyche of North America cannot get enough of even at the ever quicker pace of production, preparation and consumption
With the ever-accelerating pace of life, the act of eating--once a leisurely undertaking synonymous with pleasure and social interaction--has been reduced to a necessary function not unlike shaving or refueling the car, in the view of food manufacturers, social scientists and others.19
The loss which Sayres refers to above, is not only the erosion of the supreme experience of transcendence; even the petty pleasure of eating a cheeseburger fades as the milk fat is replaced by vegetable oils (if not a cellulose-based fat substitute) and the grill gives way to the microwave. Even the singe marks are painted on the frozen patty. Increasingly, we consume in solitude; a recent Gallup poll found that only 1/3 of North American adults dine at home in the company of others.20 By 1992, cars will come equipped with microwaves so we can consume on our way to and from work.21 And moms are now free to stay at work as children from two years of age and older pop My Own Meals or Kid Cuisine in the microwave.22
“Freedom” seems to come so easily, there is no struggle; there isn’t even an “other” to struggle against; the values once instilled by preparing our own food and eating together as a family have given way to a new ethos: flip the switch. For Baudrillard, we become the simulacra we consume, hostages “of a fate that is fixed, and whose manipulators we can no longer see.”23 We are thus levelled to a homogeneous status of victim and perpetrator. None of us and all of us are to blame. A very convenient fiction that furthers the hegemony of those whom he refuses to see.
It is hardly a secret that a handful of transnational corporations–General Foods, Nestle, Monsanto, R.J. Reynolds, etc.–control agribusiness, from production to shipping, processessing, distribution and marketing. It is no secret that this control puts those “disappeared” others who produce what we consume in the most onerous of conditions– twelve hours of work for a couple of dollars in Central America–in a situation which has been getting worse under the Reagan and Bush administrations. Nor is it a secret that people here in the United States are also going hungry due to increases in prices and the erosion of welfare benefits by inflation and cutbacks.24 Add to these “secrets” the devastation of the world’s natural resources for the ingredients and packaging of fast and convenience foods,25 and you get a good sense of the loss, the other side of the simulacrum.
Baudrillard’s allegory is a rather simplistic correlation of digestion and information processing, which permits passing over the intense battles which are currently waged in the medium of the body. The body is not simply the screen on which the rampant exchange of information and images is captured; it is, rather, the battleground in which subjects are constituted, contradictorily desiring and rejecting prescribed representations. Baudrillard does not even recognize this struggle; in his hyperreal world there is only conformity, an unproblematic consensus in which not only consumers but even terrorists collaborate.
Since, for Baudrillard, experience has disappeared his allegorical viral body is raceless, classless, genderless, ageless; it has no identity factors. Consequently, and contrary to the reported experience of most people, it is not shaped by the ways particular social formations interpellate specific bodies through these factors. The struggle of women against what Kim Chernin has called the “tyranny of slenderness” is a good example of how some bodies and not others are made to incarnate certain social contradictions on the basis of gender.26 Obesity and anorexia, then, do not correlate so much with the self-replication of information but rather with the control of bodies. In the United States, control of the body by means of “idealizing” representations (consumerism and the media) and ever more frequently through outright coercion and the interdiction of counterrepresentations (the conservative offensive) have pretty much replaced prior forms of maintaining hegemony. For Susie Orbach, the anorectic’s “hunger strike” is a metaphor for this struggle of representation.27 But this is a struggle to which Baudrillard seems quite indifferent; in his view, we have already lost and there is no way of transforming that loss into the “grander delusion” of something worthy (Sayres). Why play the deluded fool that resists the body snatchers; the sooner we yield the sooner we can all enjoy the obscenity.
Baudrillard bears a resemblance to the confessors of the mystics. They attempted to control the interpretation of the mystics’ experiences, differentiating those inspired by God from those inspired by the devil, thus negotiating the mystics’ relationship to the church. Baudrillard also differentiates between experiences of transcendence (“This is not Georges Bataille’s excessive superfluity”) and the sublime banality of the hyperreal and hypertelic, which know “no other end than limitless increase, without any consideration of limits.”28 Baudrillard, of course, does not evaluate the experiences in terms of divine/demonic inspiration, but he does clearly valorize the banalization of life by capital-logic, with its concomitant emptying of moral value. As such he embodies Jameson’s description of the sublime hysteric, hungering after figurations (simulacra) of the other of capitalism once Nature and Being have been eclipsed.29 Control and limits, nonetheless, continue to be important, even constitutive, for Baudrillard because his fascination with obscenity, like all appreciations of sublimity, plays off the point at which limits can no longer be controlled. Hence, the body, not figuratively but (hyper)really embodies the world. In becoming image, it matches the mediatedness that is the world.
In one respect I think that Baudrillard has chosen a very apt allegory of sublime banality in the obese/anorectic body. In some sense, women with eating disorders are today’s mystics; the ethical substance of their search for transcendence may not be sublime in the conventional sense, but they occupy a privileged space in a world that has depleted its divine incommensurabilities. In other words, today’s incommensurability is the representational space of their own bodies, which they struggle to control. Most interpretive (in contrast to biomedical) analyses of eating disorders take a psychoanalytic and/or feminist stance according to which the obese or the anorectic woman strives to manage the double binds of prescriptions of slenderness and consumption, will and abandon to instant gratification. Whether these analyses take an essentialist (e.g., Kim Chernin) or a social constructionist (e.g., Susie Orbach) approach, they almost exclusively emphasize repression and control.
Susan Bordo summarizes very well the “deeper psycho-cultural anxieties…about internal processes out of control–uncontained desire, unrestrained hunger, uncontrolled impulse.” Bordo posits the bulimic as the embodiment of the “contradictions that make self-management a continual and virtually impossible task in our culture.”30 The bulimic, she argues, plays out on her body the “incompatible directions” of consumerist temptations and the freedom implied in the virile image of a well-muscled slender body. If consumerism makes the feminine image central to our culture (because of its seductive power, Baudrillard would argue),31 such that even literary theorists can claim that writing is a subversive feminine activity, it nevertheless requires repressing the very materiality or essential nature, as Kim Chernin puts it, of women’s bodies.32 For Chernin it is repression that transforms the body into an “alien” that may in momentary lapses of control rear its head and return with a vengeance.
But clearly it is also the relatively non- repressive introjection of images that produces this alienation. In contrast to Chernin, I would argue that alienation is not the loss of an essential nature; in an age in which people believe and practice making themselves over, the traditional notion of essence becomes absurd. It is, rather, a question of remaking not only oneself but even more importantly the social formation that attributes value to the “nature” that we embody.33 It is this capacity which so many people experience as having been lost. Sociality can then be understood as the struggle for value, which entails the recognition of diverse “natures” and the social ministration to their needs. Elsewhere I have elaborated on how such ministration responds to the struggle over needs interpretation, which is basically a struggle over the representation of our “nature,” be it in the form of gender, ethnicity, age, and so on.34
On this view, the materiality that defines us need not be understood monolithically as the rejected archaic maternal body which according to Kristeva undergirds the radical limit-experience of abjection. It seems to me that the very notion of the archaic is remade in the image of the media. The current “fat taboo” may in fact hark back to the separation process performed by traditional dietary and other ritual prohibitions, although today fat food and fat image are hypostatized in our consciousness:
[Such prohibitions] keep a being who speaks to his God separated from the fecund mother... [the] phantasmatic mother who also constitutes, in the specific history of each person, the abyss that must be established as an autonomous (and not encroaching) place and distinct object, meaning a signifiable one, so that such a person might learn to speak.35
Dietary taboos, however, are increasingly becoming a matter of image manipulation. For example, you can still have your cake and eat it too if you’re kosher and desire to eat a slice of (simulated) cheesecake after your pastrami on rye at Katz’s Delicatessen, that exemplary custodian of Glatt kosher cuisine. Taboo only makes a difference if you can have your cake and not eat it. Does this mean, then, that in a culture of simulation there are no longer ways of distinguishing the abject from the proper object, thus making the will to transcendence irrelevant? Rather than accept this premise, it seems preferable to me to explore Mary Douglas’s notion that anxiety around bodily boundaries signals significant social change or crisis. What and how we eat undergirds other kinds of social boundaries (marking off the difference between purity and pollution, inside and outside, etc.). As such, dietary practices function as a support for the cognitive systems by which cultures make sense of the world. They wire, so to speak, the way in which our bodies interface with the media of signification.36 This is what Kristeva means when she says, in the passage quoted above, that the maternal body archaically establishes radical negativity, which she then goes on to fetishize, in the metaphor of the abyss, as the very condition of speech. But this is to reduce speech to the verbal and practice to negativity, thus privileging avant-gardist practices in the registers of high aesthetics. The recognition of mediation as necessary for our survival does not have to lead, however, to a Baudrillardian celebration of the simulacrum:
Seduction as an invention of stratagems, of the body, as a disguise for survival, as an infinite dispersion of lures, as an art of disappearance and absence, as a dissuasion which is stronger yet than that of the system.37
The struggle over representation as I have briefly sketched it out does not fetishize the disguise nor lead one to confuse the high aesthetic appropriation of pop and mass culture with political effectivity. Its political value is more complex than the simple play of quotes or intertextuality. It challenges institutional control over images but not by remaining totally within the frame of the institution as, say, in the work of Cindy Sherman or Sarah Tuft. In a recent video,Don’t Make Me Up (1986),38 Tuft seeks to reframe commercial images of women’s bodies variously eating, exercising, courting, etc. by overlaying them with critical comments (e.g., “I just won’t buy this pack of lies”) and by juxtaposing them with images that give a critical twist to the prescription of thinness, such as photographs of emaciated concentration camp prisoners. The images succeed each other rapidly to the beat of a rap song, a vehicle which should have helped give the video a more contestatory tone. However, due to the blandness of the voice (this is no Public Enemy) and the too rapid succession of images (which does not leave enough time to register that some of the images run counter to commercial idealizations), the video does not succeed in raising the consciousness of those who aren’t already convinced. Even the convinced tend to enjoy it for its display of “idealized” bodies and its danceable rhythm. The overall effect is the very opposite of its punch line: “I must get free of the messages being fed to me.” With a better sound track, it would not seem out of place on MTV.
David Cronenberg’sVideodrome (1983) also flirts with the possibility of resistance to the implosion of reality into media imagery. But the video images which the hero/victim Max Renn consumes end up consuming him, absorbing him into the image world of video. As head of a small TV station in search for seductive programming, he views a pirated snuff movie which, unbeknownst to him, inoculates him with electronic frequencies that produce a brain tumor that takes control of body and mind. A vagina-like VCR slot opens up in Max’s abdomen in which video cassettes with behavioral programming are inserted by the agents of Videodrome, a transnational corporation engaged in a conspiracy to take control of North America in order to counter the debilitating effects of liberal ways of life. Through the video-mediated intervention of Professor Brian Oblivion, a thinly disguised combination of McLuhan and Baudrillard, Max turns the weapon of his “new flesh” against Videodrome. The film ends with Max killing off his old flesh and fusing with the “new flesh” of the video monitor, whose screen stretches out like a pregnant belly. Professor Oblivion’s daughter and assistant Bianca tells Max that he has “become the video word made flesh.” Mysticism and abjection thus collapse onto the flesh of mediation.
Despite the evident retaliation which the protagonist carries out,Videodrome is less about resistance or rearticulation of society than a Baudrillardian celebration of the apocalyptic collapse–or implosion–onto the surface of the image. This implosion, however, does not collapse the conventions of capitalist, patriarchal culture. The hero is the proverbial white middle class male, female figures are portrayed as the usual stereotypes (whore or primal medium-mother), there is no solidary consciousness on the part of the very few racial minorities or otherwise marginal characters, like the homeless man whose begging is facilitated by the “dancing monkey” of a TV monitor on a leash. The closest to a political intervention is Professor Oblivion’s video version of a soup kitchen: The Cathode Ray Mission, where patrons are given a diet of TV frequencies rather than food. They are being prepped, it is suggested, for taking on the “new flesh” of electronic mediation.
E. Ann Kaplan makes a half-hearted attempt to argue for some “progressive” content in Videodrome.39 It is not, for example, typical of mainstream media in presenting the abject in the form of a male body. Secondly, the body is made androgynous by the vagina-like slot that opens up in Max’s belly and the placenta-like covered handgun that he sticks in and out of the slot. As a feminist, Kaplan interprets “postmodern discourse of this kind” as an implicit critique of the “horror of technology that deforms all bodies and blurs their gender distinction.”40 I am not convinced of the contribution to feminism, however, of the positive conclusions which Kaplan draws from the androgynizing blurring of distinctions effected by Videodrome, rock videos and other forms of mass culture:
Many rock videos have been seen as postmodern insofar as they abandon the usual binary oppositions on which dominant culture depends. That is, videos are said to forsake the usual oppositions between high and low culture; between masculine and feminine; between established literary and filmic genres; between past, present and future; between the private and the public sphere; between verbal and visual hierarchies; between realism and anti-realism, etc. This has important implications for the question of narrative as feminists have been theorizing it, in that these strategies violate the paradigm pitting a classical narrative against an avant-garde anti- narrative, the one supposedly embodying complicit, the other subversive, ideologies. The rock video reveals the error in trying to align an aesthetic strategy with any particular ideology, since all kinds of positions emerge from an astounding mixture of narrative/anti-narrative/non-narrative devices.41
The hybridity, ambiguity and lack of a “fixed identity” which Kaplan and cultural historians of video like Roy Armes attribute to the medium,42 are also terms that Kristeva has used to describe the abject. They both are about “the breaking down of a world that has erased its borders.”43 In this sense, Cronenberg’sVideodrome is not so much a metaphor or allegory of the abject but rather the cinematic demonstration that experience is the consumption of media, that the body of mediation is the body of the real (“whatever appears on the television screen emerges as raw experience for those who watch it,” says Professor Oblivion). If the reality of mediation in Videodrome is its embodiment in “uncontrollable flesh,” for Kristeva the blurring of the corporeal limits established by food, waste, and signs of sexual differentiation produces “uncontrollable materiality.” In both cases there is an avowal of the death drive (“To become the new flesh [of mediation] first you have to kill off the old [demarcated] flesh,” Bianca says to Max) and a disruption of identity (“I don’t know where I am now. I’m having trouble finding my way around,” says Max).
This dissolution of identity, furthermore, takes place for Kristeva in relation to the mother’s body, the “place of a splitting,” “a threshold where `nature’ confronts `culture’.”44 InVideodrome, Max’s dissolution (which is concomitant to the vaginal stigmata that opens up in his belly) and his transformation into the “new flesh” take place in the medium of video, a body on which viewers “gorge themselves” and with which Max fuses in an inverse birth (i.e., when he sticks his head into the “pregnant” TV monitor). In fact, both maternal body and mediation come together in Kristeva’s positing of the mother as the agency that maps or formats the body and readies it for the mediation that is language.
[Maternal authority] shapes the body into a territory having areas, orifices, points and lines, surfaces and hollows, where the archaic power of mastery and neglect, of the differentiation of proper-clean and improper- dirty, possible and impossible, is impressed and exerted. It is a `binary logic,' a primal mapping of the body that I call semiotic to say that, while being the precondition of language, it is dependent upon meaning, but in a way that is not that of linguistic signs nor of the symbolic order they found.45
Can we call this experience a transcendence? And what does it achieve? If we consider mysticism, we readily see, as in Saint Teresa’s writings, that transcendence is experienced as a freedom which empowers the subject through infinite expansion:
When a soul sets out upon this earth, He does not reveal Himself to it, lest it should feel dismayed at seeing that its littleness can contain such a greatness; but gradually He enlarges it to the extent requisite for what He has set within it. It is for this reason that I say He has perfect freedom, since He has power to make the whole of this palace great.46
But the mystic’s experience is not totally determined by a God from the outside. Self-mastery through prayer and meditation is the precondition for fashioning a space without which the divinity could have no presentation. Perhaps Saint Teresa’s best known claim for the constitutive capacity of the mystic is the metaphor of the silkworm inThe Interior Castle. Through speech-prayer (_oracion), the nuns spin their interior dwellings, like the silkworm its cocoon. In language that recalls Heidegger’s, Saint Teresa describes these dwellings as the resting place of the nuns, the space of their death. It is also the space of the Godhead, the “new [mystic] flesh.” Saint Teresa would seem to be on the verge of heresy here for she claims that it is the nuns who can place or withdraw God at will since it is they who “fabricate the dwelling which is God so that they might live/die in it.47 “[The Lord] becomes subject to us and is pleased to let you be the mistress and to conform to your will.”48
I have brought up the case of Saint Teresa because, as inVideodrome, transcendence takes the form of the subject embodying the medium. For both the mystic (Saint Teresa) and the subject of the “new flesh” (Max Renn) phenomenality is overcome not by reaching beyond it but by collapsing what would otherwise be the “supersensible idea” of the sublime onto appearance or image itself. The “new flesh” is the collapse of idea and body as medium, a collapse which, in Saint Teresa’s words, provides “free[dom] from earthly things…and master[y] of all the elements and of the whole world.”49 In Saint Teresa’s case it is not too difficult to understand how the dialectic of freedom and mastery enabled this marginal and subaltern person (woman, “new Christian,” eccentric) to negotiate a measure of power in a hierarchical and patriarchal society overseen by the all-pervasive scrutiny of the Inquisition:
You will not be surprised, then, sisters, at the way I have insisted in this book that you should strive to obtain this freedom. Is it not a funny thing that a poor little nun of St. Joseph's should attain mastery over the whole earth and all the elements?50
The influence of St. Catherine of Siena over popes and monarchs is also well known. Through radical fasting both of these saints brought their bodies to extreme states of abjection that resulted in death. But abjection gave them a power over and above representation that the authorities of the Inquisition felt obliged to recognize and to channel in ways that did not topple the institution, for both saints were also reformers.
Can the same be said for either Max Renn or the anorectics of today? What is their power, if any? Can they, like the mystics, transform their abjection into transformative power? I think not. The problem is that the thematics of abject rebellion have been conceived in relation to high art. Kristeva’s examples–Dostoyevsky, Lautreamont, Proust, Artaud, Kafka, Celine–are not easily transferred to the mass mediated reality of today, say Roseanne Barr. Why is that?
In the first place, Kristeva’s privileged abjects are all (male) avant-gardists and as we know the lynchpin of the avant-garde was to transform life by recourse to an aesthetic modality that had its raison d’etre in bourgeois modernity. Secondly, since aesthetics is thoroughly commodified as mass culture absorbs it, it can hardly be the means for a transformation of life in the service of emancipation. To collapse idea and body onto medium, then, implies a commodification which is not sufficiently thematized in Videodrome. Can the “new flesh” really be other than commodified flesh? The references to simulated foods in an earlier section of this essay only reinforce the idea that mass mediated simulation is in fact transforming us all into commodified media. The rebellion of the anorectic counters this but only at the cost of dysfunction or death, that is, disembodiment.
Is there, then, any other politics of representation that can prove more successful? One attempt is the acceptance of the premise that we too are simulations but that we can rearticulate the way we have been constituted. This takes at least two forms: one which continues to accept that an autonomous aesthetics can have an impact on the culture. For example the work of Cindy Sherman or the Sarah Tuft’s videoDon’t Make Me Up. Ultimately, I think these are failed attempts not because they work with commodified images but rather because they still accept the confines of aesthetic institutionalization. On the other hand, the aesthetic practices involved in identity formation among ethnic groups and certain social movements like gays and lesbians do not distinguish between the market, the street, the university and the gallery. The work of such groups as ACT-UP and Guerrilla Girls as well as many other groups working in collaboration with particular constituencies stake out new public spaces for re-embodying media and struggle within and against the dominant media to reconfigure the institutional arrangements of our society. New “safe-sex” videos, for example, attempt to re-eroticize body in an age increasingly defined by a new puritan fundamentalism (which includes the anti- abortion movement, reinforced homophobia, and the War on Drugs).
It is not enough, in the face of this offensive, to reshuffle representations. If this were all to contemporary cultural politics, Baudrillard would indeed be correct in understanding any practice as the body “digest[ing] space in its own appearance.”51 As regards the consumption of food, the age of the counterculture, which saw the emergence of the new social movements, also spawned contestatory movements like Fat Liberation and the politically motivated vegetarianism ofDiet for a Small Planet.52 Warren Belasco’s history of the Food Revolution in the past two and a half decades recognizes that the powerful food industry ultimately won, in part because of the counterculture’s too diffuse means of implementing its utopian visions. As an individualistic politics, it gave way to its own commodification and presented no unified front against the social causes of obesity in the U.S. and exploitation of agricultural workers in the third world. A contestatory politics of food production and consumption would have to articulate more directly with other social movements and to take into account the ways in which myriad factors intersect in the constitution of subjectivity and identity. This means also taking into consideration ethical as well as aesthetic questions, even the experience of transcendence as I have been describing it here.
There are signs, however, that a coalitional politics is possible. An example is the Institute for Food and Development Policy, which Frances Moore Lappe founded with the profits from her counterculturalDiet for a Small Planet. The most recent direction of the institute is to encourage the formation of new social values that, on the one hand, contest the conservative rapaciousness in industry and its attack on civil rights and, on the other, the redefinition of the individual, grounding his/her sense of value not in the isolated person, as proclaimed by Liberal ideology but, rather in the entirety of society. InRediscovering America’s Values, Lappe argues that the privatization of values in the Reagan 80s (“fidelity, chastity, saying no to drugs”) have to be re-publicized.53 This entails examining how they have become embodied in us, what social and aesthetic practices have enabled us to become inured to widespread hunger and environmental devastation throughout the world. Lappe’s strategy for recreating public values is of a piece with current progressive agendas: new ways of eroticizing, new ways of articulating needs in pursuit of recognition, valuation, and empowerment. In an age of simulation, these are worthy transformations. Perhaps if the will to transcendence were articulated along these lines, we would be able to find more socially responsible and convincing values than those advocated by the Right and by Liberals. The aesthetics accompanying current analyses of eating disorders tend to celebrate the individual body, thus not posing any challenge to the Right or to Liberalism. We need an aesthetics that instills the values of the social body.
Notes
1. Jean-Paul Sartre,Being and Nothingness (New York: Washington Square Press, 1966).
2. Jean-Pierre Vernant, “At Man’s Table: Hesiod’s Foundation Myth of Sacrifice,” in Marcel Detienne and Jean-Pierre Vernant,The Cuisine of Sacrifice among the Greeks, trans. Paula Wissing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 51.
3. Saint Teresa of Avila,The Life of Saint Teresa of Avila By Herself (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1957), 190.
4. Saint Teresa of Avila,Way of Perfection, tr. E. Allison Peers (Garden City, NY: Image Books/Doubleday, 1964), 137.
5. Julia Kristeva, “Stabat Mater,” inThe Female Body in Western Culture, ed. Susan Rubin Suleiman (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1986), 99-118.
6. Luce Irigaray,Speculum of the Other Woman, trans. Gillian C. Gill (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985), 191.
7. “It is easy to learn how to interpret dreams, to extract from the patient’s associations his [sic] unconscious thoughts and memories, and to practise similar explanatory arts: for these the patient himself [sic] will always provide the text.” Sigmund Freud, Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria (New York: Collier, 1963), 138. Freud goes on to observe that the difficult part of interpretation is taking into account unavoidable transferences, “new editions” or replays of fantasies in which the analyst stands in for prior actors. This phenomenon must also be taken into consideration in the very production of the subaltern’s text. In the mystic’s case, an analysis of the role of confessors and inquisitors is crucial. The role of the mystic and the hysteric should also be considered transferentially in the production of current theories of gendered discourse or behavior (such as eating disorders).
8. Recognition of endocrinological and biomedical factors in the etiology of eating disorders does not diminish the relevance of an approach that focuses on the social interpretation and evaluation of thinness and obesity. Moreover, it is mistaken, in my view, to take biomedical factors asreal and social factors as epiphenomenal. On the contrary, the social may work in tandem with the biomedical in a synergistic way. In any case, how one interprets the relative importance of these factors depends on the models of biology, society and disease that frame one’s discourse. This essay is part of a more general attempt on my part to discern the workings of the aesthetic as it interfaces bodily sensation and social valuation.
9. Sohnya Sayres, “Glory mongering: food and the agon of excess,”Social Text, 16 (Winter 1986-87): 94.
10. Jean Baudrillard, “The Obese,” inFatal Strategies, trans. Philip Beitchman and W.G.J. Niesluchowski (New York: Semiotext(e)/Pluto, 1990), p.27.
13. For an account of the “body as temple/machine/holistic organism/etc.” cognitive schemas which underwrite these different accounts for disease, see Mark Johnson,The Body in the Mind. The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination and Reason (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 126-36.
14. Jean Baudrillard, “The Anorectic Ruins,” in Jean Baudrillard, et al.,Looking Back at the End of the World, eds. Dietmar Kamper and Christoph Wolf, trans. David Antal (New York: Semiotext(e) Foreign Agents Series, 1989), 39.
15. Johnson,The Body in the Mind.
16. Cf. Lena Williams, “Free Choice: When Too Much Is Too Much,”The New York Times (2/14/90): C1, C10.
17. For a recent account of the radical potential and eventual cooptation of the “gastronomic counterculture,” see Warren Belasco,Appetite for Change: How the Counterculture Took On the Food Industry, 1966-1988 (New York: Pantheon, 1989).
18. Octavio Paz, “Eroticism and Gastrosophy,” Daedalus, 101, 4 (1972): 81.
19. Dena Kleiman, “Fast Food? It Just Isn’t Fast Enough Anymore,”The New York Times (12/6/89): A1, C12.
20. The September 1989 Gallup poll is cited in Kleiman, C12.
22. Denise Webb, “Eating Well,”The New York Times (2/14/90): C8.
24. Dr. DeHavenon, director of a private research committee on welfare benefits stated that the “basic welfare grant in New York had gone up only 28 percent since 1969, while prices have increased 180 percent, and that cutbacks in the foodstamp program have contributed to the problem.” Richard Severo, “East Harlem Study Shows Hunger Worsens,”The New York Times (6/3/84): 46.
25. The literature on transnational control of agribusiness and destruction and contamination of resources is voluminous. It includes such books and essays as: Joseph N. Beldon, et al.Dirt Rich, Dirt Poor. America’s Food and Farm Crisis (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1986); James Danaher, “U.S. Food Power in the 1990s,”Race & Class, 30, 3 (1989); Susan George,How the Other Half Dies. The Real Reasons for World Hunger (Washington, DC: Institute for Policy Studies, 1977); Frances Moore Lappe and Joseph Collins,World Hunger. Ten Myths (San Francisco: Food First, 1982); James O’Connor, “Uneven and Combined Development and Ecological Crisis: A Theoretical Introduction,”Race & Class, 30, 3 (1989); N. Shanmugaratnam, “Development and Environment: A View From the South,” Race & Class, 30, 3 (1989); Jill Torrie,Banking on Poverty: The Impact of the IMF and World Bank (San Francisco: Food First, 1986).
26. Kim Chernin,The Obsession. Reflections on the Tyranny of Slenderness (New York: Harper and Row, 1981).
27. Susie Orbach,Hunger Strike: The Anorectic’s Struggle as a Metaphor for our Age (New York: Norton, 1987).
29. Fredric Jameson, “Postmodernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism,”New Left Review, 146 (July-August 1984): 77.
30. Susan Bordo, “Reading the Slender Body,” in Women, Science, and the Body Politic: Discourses and Representations, eds. Mary Jacobus, Evelyn Fox Keller, and Sally Shuttleworth (New York: Methuen, 1989), 88.
31. Cf. Jean Baudrillard,The Ecstasy of Communication (New York: Semiotexte, 1988).
32. Chernin,The Obsession, 45-55.
33. “Remaking the self” is part of the contemporary politics of representation, which is often understood in two different ways: as an expression of the collective identity of diverse social movements (feminists, gays and lesbians, racial and ethnic minorities, workers, and so on) or as the expression, in the language of liberal democracy, of interests. The difference is important because the latter understanding of representation does not take into consideration the ways in which particular identity factors traverse other collective identities. There is no general, uncontested interest for a particular group because it is not monolithic; certainly the participation of lesbians within AIDS activist groups like ACT UP, or the objections of women of color to “general” feminist interests bears this out. The politics of this “transversal” critique of interests is an ongoing will to transform the institutions that fix particular interests in place. Jane Jensen (“Representations of Difference: The Varieties of French Feminism,”New Left Review, 180 (March/April 1990), 127-60) lays out this theoretical perspective and applies it in an historical analysis of French Feminism. This is also the direction that Frances Moore Lappe takes in her recent work (see below).
34. Juan Flores and George Yudice, “Living Borders/Buscando America. Languages of Latino Self- Formation,”Social Text, 24 (1990).
35. Julia Kristeva,Powers of Horror. An Essay on Abjection (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982),100.
36. See Mary Douglas,Purity and Danger. An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London/Boston/Henley: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969),121. See also Kristeva, 69.
37. Baudrillard,The Ecstasy of Communication,75.
38. This video was included in “Unacceptable Appetites,” a video program at Artists Space (2/25- 4/2/88) curated by Micki McGee. McGee’s catalogue essay is an invaluable resource for the interpretation of interrelations of images of food and eating, feminine identity and the dialectic of control and self-determination.
39. E. Ann Kaplan, “Feminism/Oedipus/Postmodern- ism: The Case of MTV,” inPostmodernism and its Discontents. Theories, Practices, ed. E. Ann Kaplan (London/New York: Verso, 1988).
42. “[It] is a form which is both fascinating and self-contradictory: distributed in video format but shot on film, free-wheeling yet constrained by its advertising function, visually innovative yet subordinated to its sound track, an individual artefact which is parasitic on a separate and commercially more important object (the record or the cassette), a part of the distinctive youth culture that needs to be played through the equipment forming the focus of family life. Despite–or perhaps because of–these contradictions, the pop video points to the new potential of video as a medium in its own right.” Roy Armes,On Video (London/New York: Routledge, 1988), 158.
44. Julia Kristeva, “Motherhood According to Giovanni Bellini,” inDesire in Language. A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art (New York: Columbia University Press, 1980), 238.
45. Kristeva,Powers of Horror, 72.
46. Saint Teresa of Avila,Way of Perfection,189.
47. “Que Su Majestad mesmo sea nuestra morada, como lo es en esta oracion de union, labrandola nosotras! Parece que quiero decir que podemos quitar y poner en Dios, pues digo que El es la morada, y la podemos nosotras fabricar para meternos en ella.” Las moradas_ (The Interior Castle of the Dwellings of the Soul) (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, Col. Austral, 1964), 72.
48.The Way of Perfection, 175.
49.The Way of Perfection, 136-37.
50.The Way of Perfection, 137.
52. Cf. “Judy Freespirit and Aldebaran, “Fat Liberation Manifesto,”Rough Times (formerlyThe Radical Therapist), 4, 2 (March-April-May 1974); Aldebaran, “Fat Liberation–a Luxury?”State and Mind, 5 (June-July 1977): 34-38; Alan Dolit,Fat Liberation (Millbrae, CA: 1975); Frances Moore Lappe, Diet for a Small Planet (New York: Ballantine Books, 1975).
53. Frances Moore Lappe,Rediscovering America’s Values (New York: Ballantine, 1989). The quote is from an interview with the author: Diana Ketcham, “Author Lappe’s plan for planet: Back to basics,”The Tribune Calendar (5/28/89).
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Marx: The Video (A Politics of Revolting Bodies)
Laura Kipnis
University of Wisconsin, Madison
A note on the mise-en-scene: There are large projections –stills, film clips, etc.–behind the action (referred to in the text as KEYS) in many scenes. There is also a Greek chorus of DRAG QUEENS (or DQs) who pop in and out of the action (or are KEYED over the action) in other scenes.
FADE UP ON: 1. MARX'S ROOM, he is lying in bed, carbuncular, in pain. ROLLING TEXT OVER: Karl Marx was born in Germany in 1818, and died in London in 1883, having been deported from numerous European countries for revolutionary activity. Throughout his life he suffered from chronic and painful outbreaks of carbuncles--agonizing skin eruptions--particularly during the years he was at work on his magnum opus, _Capital_. His 30-year correspondence with Frederick Engels, his friend and collaborator, deals regularly and in great detail with the state of his own body. DISSOLVE TO: 2. CLIP _La Marseillaise_ King: What is it? SUPER TITLE: 1789 Minister: Sire, the Parisians have taken the Bastille. King: So, is it a revolt? Minister: No sire, it is revolution. FREEZE on king V/O: Once power resided in the person of the King. The people's task was clear. Get rid of the king. 3. CLIP: Berlin wall V/O: Once power resided going down. in repressive state bureaucracies. The people's task was clear. SUPER TITLE: 1989 Smash the state. 4. STILL dead Ceausescu V/O: At certain moments in history power is centralized and visible, the sites of repression are clear and identifiable; resistance movements arise out of those relations of subordination and antagonism. 5. STILL Postmodern V/O: At other moments the urban landscapes task is less clear. Power is entrenched, but dispersed. Where does power reside? Who are the agents of change? TRANSITION EFFECT going back in time 6. STILLS: 1848 V/O: In 1848, Toqueville uprising warned: "We are sleeping on a volcano. A wind of TITLE: 1848 revolution blows, the storm is on the horizon." That year Marx and Engels completed The Communist Manifesto. Jean Martin Charcot, who would later devote himself to the study of hysteria, enters medical school. The same year, revolution swept Europe. Students and workers united, but three years later the revolution was toppled. Time passing TRANSITION 7. STILLS Paris, May 68 V/O: France, May '68. Students and workers united in a three week general strike, demanding radical democratic reforms. Momentarily, revolution seemed possible, but once again that possibility was soon dispelled. In the decades following '68, like the aftermath of 1848--the defeat of forces of change left traces, absences, an unfilled place where something is wanting. Where is the repository of those absences--where are they buried, embodied, misrecognized? TITLE: MARX: THE VIDEO A Politics of Erupting Bodies 1848-1990 ------------------------------------------------------- 8. SUPER: 1863 V/O BIOGRAPHER: Looking over first image of back, fifteen years later, MARX; he lies in bed to the failed revolution. MARX: Dear Engels: One thing is sure, the era of revolution is now once more fairly opened in Europe. And the general state of things is good. But the comfortable delusions and the almost childish enthusiasms with which we greeted the era of revolution before SUPER: Trotsky waving February 1848 are gone to from a train the devil. Old comrades are gone, others have fallen away or decayed, and a new generation is not yet in sight. In looming supers of addition, we now know what Stalin, Lenin role stupidity plays in revolutions and how they are exploited by Stalin looms over body scoundrels...Let us hope that this time the lava Mao looms over body pours from East to West and not vice versa. V/O BIOGRAPHER: He writes with nostalgia and longing for something thwarted, for something that didn't happen. ------------------------------------------------------- 9. DOCTOR KEYED over DOCTOR: His body just examining room STILL. erupted...It became Addresses camera like a battleground. The only cure at the time was arsenic. Terribly painful, like a body trying to turn itself into another body. I think it started shortly after his mother died. It continued throughout his life. ------------------------------------------------------- 10. STILLS, 19c. V/O NARRATOR: Marx took up industrialization the task of exhaustively superimposed on analyzing the historical Marx's body moment in which he found himself: the rise of industrialization and the inception of the working class movement. He stripped the facade off Poster International capital to reveal what was workingmens assoc. concealed: the labor in STILL the commodity, the alienation of the worker, naked exploitation by the capitalist. He looked to the material foundations zoom on worker body of the moment, he looked worker injury photo to the body. His analysis of capital relies on a language of the body: "production" "consumption" "reproduction" and "circulation." For Marx, the collective wealth of the state is the body--the labor--of the workers. worker injuries Capital amputates the worker from his own body; he has phantom pain for his missing limbs. But for Marx, which bodies were absent, unspoken, unacknowledged? ------------------------------------------------------- 11. DRAG QUEEN 1: What's a real body, a natural body? It doesn't exist, there's only a social body, the body as theater, the body that speaks, unbidden. But in whose language? ------------------------------------------------------- 12. MARX'S ROOM MARX: Dear Frederick: Two Fade up on MARX, in hours ago I received a foreground, writing. telegram that my mother is In suit, suitcase at dead. Fate claimed one of feet my family. I must go to Trier to settle my inheritance. I myself stood with one foot in the grave... DRAG QUEEN CHORUS supered over MARX, DQ CHORUS: His body just all dressed as nurses erupted. ------------------------------------------------------- 13. DQ2: What a problem the body is. Keeping it confined to its boundaries (like the lower classes). Concealing anything that BACKGROUND: comes out of it, or CLIPS porn, slo-mo protrudes from it. Certainly not speaking of such things. The creation of a meek, submissive hygienic public body. DQ2: His body just erupted. ------------------------------------------------------- 14. Hygiene products, V/O NARRATOR: Capital douche, dolls, float produces a disgusting through blue sky body, so it can create new regimes, new products, to police it and make it acceptable. Capital has achieved historical advances in the threshold of delicacy, it produces new varieties of bourgeois disgust, then markets a new and improved body without byproducts, without smells, to exist in a public sphere that is increasingly phobic about the collective body, the lower class body--the mob--a body that might not mind its manners. ------------------------------------------------------- 15. MARX'S ROOM, he MARX: Dear Fred: It is writes in bed. clear that on the whole I Dolly in know more about the carbuncle disease than most doctors...Here and there I have the beginnings of new carbuncles, which keep on disappearing, but they force me to keep my working hours within limits...I consider it my vocation to remain in Europe to complete the work in which I have been engaged for so many years but I cannot work productively more than a very few hours daily without feeling the effect physically...I think this work I am doing is much more important for the working class than anything I could do personally at a Congress of any kind...I would consider myself impractical if I had dropped dead without having finished my book, at least in manuscript. Cut to second angle V/O BIOGRAPHER: Writing on MARX with smoking Capital, his narrative of factory, keyed in the conditions of the background English proletariat, his body broke out with "a proletarian disease." Marx was desperate to finish his work, but unable to. Instead of writing, he was being written. The revolution he anticipated, the thwarted revolution, was displaced onto his own skin. ------------------------------------------------------- 16. MARX'S ROOM: high MARX: Dear Frederick: You angle down on bed see I am still here and I will tell you more, I am incapable of moving about. This is a perfidious Christian illness. In the meantime, I can neither walk, nor stand, nor sit, and even lying down is damned hard. You see how the wisdom of nature has afflicted me. Would it not have been more sensible if instead of me it had been consigned to try the patience of a good Christian? Like a true Lazarus, I am scourged on all sides. DRAG QUEEN 3: His body became sarcastic, taunting the tasteful, discreet body, the one that stays politely behind the scenes, the one that knows its place like the servant serving the master, like the subject serving the state. This wasn't a body you could take into the drawing room. This was an ill-mannered body. ------------------------------------------------------- 17. MARX writing Dear Kugelmann: Cut, at desk, bandaged lanced, etc, in REAR SCREEN CLIPS short treated in every Russian Revolution respect. In spite of this the thing is continually breaking out anew...I hope it will end this week, but who can guarantee me against another eruption? DRAG QUEEN CHORUS V/O: Marx, writing POPS ON Capital, imagining Capital's overthrow. His body living out his split identifications-- DQ1: (the bourgeois who champions the overthrow of the bourgeoisie) DQ3...the body begins to embody another kind of psyche, another sociality. It desired transformation. DQ2: He swathed his carbuncles behind bandages and focused his attention on the working class. CU Marx at BIOG V/O: As he nears desk, bandaged completion of the first volume, his carbuncles, mobile, sardonic, and insistent, break out in ever new vicinities. Seizing the flesh, sculpting it into a body bulging, protuberant, not closed and finished, not refined. MARX: You have too low an opinion of the English doctors if you think that they cannot diagnose carbuncles, particularly here in England--the land of carbuncles, which is actually a proletarian illness. It is only in the last few years that I have been persecuted by the thing. Before that, it was entirely unknown to me. ------------------------------------------------------- 18. CLIP riot footage V/O BIOGRAPHER: Marx--who KEYED onto his body would disavow the high overhead onto opposition between the body lying in bed social and the psychic as mere bourgeois psychology --was possessed of a body whose symptoms mocked the social order; it had become grotesque: open, protruding, extended, secreting: in process, taking on new forms, shapes; his body the figure of the new society that had failed to emerge. He was producing more and more body--too much body for a social order dedicated to its concealment. ------------------------------------------------------- 19. MARX'S ROOM Dear Engels: It was good he writes on couch you did not come on Saturday. My story--now fourteen days old--had reached the crisis point. I could talk a little, and it hurt even to laugh on account of the big abscess between nose and mouth, which this morning has been reduced at least to reasonable proportions. Also the violently swollen lips are becoming reduced closer to their previous dimensions. May the head of the devil go through such fourteen days. All this stops being a joke. ------------------------------------------------------- TITLE: ELIMINATING THE BODY. 20. TEENAGE GIRL'S ROOM, I hate my body, god, it's a number of TEENAGE so gross, look at these GIRLS gabbing, shot thighs...It's disgusting, documentary style I'm so fat... ------------------------------------------------------- 21. DISSOLVE TO: BATHROOM, high shot toilet, GIRL retching ------------------------------------------------------- SUPER TITLE: THE AGE OF CONSUMPTION ------------------------------------------------------- 22. Map of the U.S. V/O: Anorexia, bulimia little inserts of --epidemic in abundant girls retching into western societies, post toilets keyed over 1968. 10 to 20 percent U.S. capitals of American women now have eating disorders. A symptomatic eruption of the body. Let's wrest this out of secrecy, out of the private sphere and view it for a moment as the social collective act that it is. TITLE: THINKING THROUGH THE BODY ------------------------------------------------------- 23. DRAG QUEEN 3: Like a body trying to turn itself into another body, like a body trying to invent another kind of social existence. DRAG QUEEN 2: Women's bodies as tablets of social meaning, as sites of regulation... ------------------------------------------------------- 24. Pills, laxatives, V/O: With our increasingly diet products float phobic relation to the through blue sky collective body, the working class body, with our creation of an ideal public body without fat, without snot or BO, with a yearning for refinement, we will the disappearance of the body, the containment of the mass, the body politic, the threat. ------------------------------------------------------- 25. Worker STILLS BIOGRAPHER V/O: Marx, dissolve to writing history from MARX body/ below: a history of wealth dissolve to as labor, a history of the riots body, a history of the mass, his own body acting out... V/O: Stories told by the SUPER: body--after the failed STILLS hysterics revolutions of 1848 this comes to be known as "hysteria" and sweeps Europe. ------------------------------------------------------- TITLE: THE HYSTERIC IS SUBJECT TO MULTIPLE IDENTIFICATIONS ------------------------------------------------------- 26. MARX ROOM, he is Dear Frederick: I would writing at desk. REAR have written you sooner, SCREEN workers but for approximately the last twelve days all reading writing and smoking have been strictly forbidden. I had a sort of eye inflammation tied up with very unpleasant effects on the nervous system. The thing is now so far under control that I can again dare to write. In the meantime I had all kinds of psychological reveries, like a person going blind or crazy. ------------------------------------------------------- 27. STILL: V/O: Marx's symptoms make "Lecon clinique their appearance around de Charcot" the time that Freud's future teacher, Charcot, is beginning to recognize and treat a new disease, "traumatic hysteria." Before hysteria was relegated to a female disorder, it afflicted many men as well: Charcot began to recognize that what is novel about traumatic hysteria is that in these cases what lay behind the symptoms were not physical disorders, and not just nerves, but ideas. ------------------------------------------------------- 28. CHARCOT speaks "Male hysteria is not all that rare, and just among us, gentlemen, if I can judge from what I see each day, these cases are often unrecognized even by distinguished doctors. One will concede that a young and effeminate man might develop hysterical findings after experiencing significant stress, sorrow or deep emotions. But that a strong and vital worker, for instance, a railway engineer never prone to emotional instability before, should become hysteric--just as a woman might--this seems to us beyond imagination. And yet it is a fact--one which we must get used to." DRAG QUEEN 1: Hysteria which entraps and speaks the patient. ------------------------------------------------------- 29. FILM: BRITISH Dear Fred: I wanted to MUSEUM LOCATION write you yesterday from Marx, ill, stumbling, the British Museum, but drops a book, camera I suddenly became so zoom in on copy of unwell that I had to close "Vindication of the the very interesting book Rights of Women" that I held in my hand. A dark veil fell over my eyes. Then a frightful headache and a pain in the chest. I strolled home. Air and light helped and when I got home I slept for some time. My condition is such that I really should give up all working and thinking for some time to come; but that would be difficult, even if I could afford it. -------------------------------------------------------- 30. STILL, male V/O: Freud recounted how hysterics disturbed Charcot became when the German school of neurology resisted the idea of male hysteria and suggested pejoratively that if it occurred in males, it occurred only in French males. -------------------------------------------------------- 31. MARX'S ROOM, he Dear Frederick: In recent paces in the set weeks it has been positively impossible for me to write even two hours a day. Apart from pressure from without, there are the household headaches which always affect my liver. I have become sleepless again, and have had the pleasure of seeing two carbuncles bloom near the penis. Fortunately they faded away. My illness always comes from the head. ------------------------------------------------------- 32. STILL another V/O: Charcot related male male hysteric hysteria to trauma. As the industrial era progressed, the number of unexplained work related illnesses increased enormously; Charcot worked to demonstrate how these could be understood as hysterical. ------------------------------------------------------- 33. DRAG QUEEN 2: There were many who thought that the commotion of the French DRAG QUEEN CHORUS Revolution may have supered over affected the nervous system Delacroix's "Libertie of Frenchmen and Europeans Leading the Masses" adversely. DRAG QUEEN 1: It was an infection by ideas, the spread of violent influences displaced from social and class upheaval, fearful ideas about progress, new technologies, social transformations. ------------------------------------------------------- 34. REARSCREEN: Capital Dear Frederick: The dr. is MARX at desk, single quite right: the excessive lamp burning, fullscreen nightwork was the main behind of "workday" text, cause of the relapse. The violently moving camera most disgusting thing for me was the interruption of my work. But I have drudged on, lying down, even if only at short intervals during the day. I could not proceed with the purely theoretical part, the brain was too weak for that. Hence I have enlarged the historical part on the workday, which lay outside the original plan. ------------------------------------------------------- 35. Keyed over Marx DRAG QUEEN 3 (as Nurse) Like other symptomatics of the day, he took the cure. MARX in wheelchair, spa backdrop BIOGRAPHER V/O: The medical world had devised various techniques for palliating an irritated and erupting human nervous system. Popular techniques included warm milk and bed rest, hydrotherapy and sojourns at peaceful pastoral spas. Doctors intuitively offered patients physical and psychological means to flee psycho-cultural stress--sending patients to the country, the sea, the mountains. Marx tried all of these. On doctor's orders, he fled his work. ------------------------------------------------------- 36. MARX writing from Dear Frederick: So far I lounge chair, spa have had two sulfur baths, background, rushing tomorrow the third. water noise From the bath one steps on a raised board, in the altogether; the bath In bathing costume attendant uses the hose (the size of a firehose) the way a virtuoso does his instrument; he commands the movement of the body and alternately bombards all parts of the corpus except the head for three minutes, first strongly, then weakly, up to the legs and feet, an always advancing crescendo. You can see how little desire a man has to write here. DRAG QUEEN KEYED OVER DRAG QUEEN 2 (as nurse): as nurse Removing himself from his work brought some relief. ------------------------------------------------------- 37. MARX at the spa Dear Frederick: From the walking around, in delayed appearance of this suit, cane letter you can see how professionally I use my time here. I read nothing, write nothing. Because of the arsenic three times daily, one has time only for meals and strolling along the coast and the neighboring hills, there is no time left for other things. Evenings one is too tired to do anything but sleep. DRAG QUEEN KEYED OVER DRAG QUEEN 1: His symptoms began to speak him. ------------------------------------------------------- 38. MARX, spa My dear daughter: I run walking about the greatest part of the day, airing myself, going to bed at ten, reading nothing, writing less, and altogether working up my mind to that state of nothingness which Buddhism considers the climax of human bliss...I am afflicted with an inflammation of the eye, not that there is much to be seen of it...the eye has taken to the vicious habit of shedding tears on its own account, without the least regard to the feelings of his master. ------------------------------------------------------- 39. MARX'S ROOM; he V/O BIOGRAPHER: The writhes in bed carbuncles continued to erupt, stalling the writing of Capital, inscribing themselves into the text. Marx focused doggedly on the laboring body (while his own body exploded into new and ever changing configurations) Pan to STILL of as if fearful of the "Libertie Leading the effect of introducing the Masses" over desk unregimented body into the realm of the political. DRAG QUEEN 2: But then, dressed as Marianne, this brings other bodies one "breast" bare into the picture--the desiring body, the woman's body, the undisciplined body. ------------------------------------------------------- TITLE: WOMEN'S BODIES ------------------------------------------------------- 40. HELENE V/O: For the 19th century bourgeois male, the servant provokes social anxiety: she is the conduit through which the working class infiltrates the middle class home. Introducing the maid and her sexuality into the bourgeois household is threatening in a period in which both were linked in the bourgeois imagination to the discontent of a dissatisfied working class. But then what is excluded socially is desired, eroticized--the maid becomes a figure of transgressive desire for the bourgeois male, a desire produced by the very categories that rule the bourgeois body. Marx, in the Communist Manifesto mocks the bourgeois male, with an array of women at his disposal, not only proletarian wives and daughters but prostitutes to pick up the slack. This was written two years before he conceived a son with the family maid. ------------------------------------------------------- 41. 19c porn STILLS of V/O: Women in the public maids sphere were tantamount to prostitutes: they bring the filth and corruption of the market, of wage labor, into the middle class home. ------------------------------------------------------- TITLE: HELENE ------------------------------------------------------- 42. MARX'S ROOM, he V/O BIOGRAPHER: Marx, even writes, HELENE enters, in the most dire poverty, serves tea did what he could to maintain a bourgeois household. It was Helene Demuth, the servant, who marked his own separation from the working class. She, more than Marx, straddles two worlds, belonging to both the bourgeois family and the working class: she was the certainly the member of that world that Marx knew best. "pregnant" DRAG QUEEN DRAG QUEEN 3: The hysteric KEYED OVER is subject to multiple identifications. ------------------------------------------------------- 43. MARX'S ROOM, writing. Dear Laura, Some recent PROJECTION from October, Russian publications, on rearscreen as HELENE printed in Holy Russia, serves tea not abroad, show the great run of my theories in that country. Nowhere is my success more delightful to me, it gives me the satisfaction that I damage a power, which besides England, is the true bulwark of the old society. ------------------------------------------------------- 44. Looking down on tile HELENE V/O: She was ten floor, HELENE scrubbing, years younger than Marx's as MARX walks across wife Jenny. Lenchen, as frame she was called, ran the Marx household. Often Marx was too poor to pay her but she cast her lot with the Marx family. She did the cooking, housecleaning, laundering, dressmaking, nursing, and everything else, including taking the bedsheets to the pawn shop when eviction was threatened. In 1851, at age 28, she gave birth to Marx's son, secretly. ------------------------------------------------------- 45. HELENE appears very BIOGRAPHER V/O: Marx wrote pregnant, serving tea to Engels of a "very tangled family situation," hinting at a "mystery," a "tragicomic" mystery, in which he, Engels, also played a role. Marx traveled to Manchester, to see Engels, where the two negotiated Lenchen's fate. DRAG QUEEN KEYED OVER DRAG QUEEN 1: As men are accustomed to negotiating the fate of women's bodies. ------------------------------------------------------- 46. CLIP: beauty HELENE V/O: Did contest introducing a woman into their collaborative association disrupt it? This triangle--did it trouble a theory that saw the role of women strictly in economic terms? What bodies aren't acknowledged? clip: Stalin kissing BIOGRAPHER V/O: Marx woman; footage keyed persuaded Engels to accept onto Helene's pregnant paternity for Lenchen's stomach child, who was named Frederick, after him, in the custom of patrilineage. Engels accepted responsibility for the child, binding the two men together over Helene's mute body, over the body of the working class woman. DRAG QUEEN KEYED OVER DRAG QUEEN 3: Jenny, the wife, was easily persuaded that Engels was the father as she never really approved of his morals. ------------------------------------------------------- TITLE: THE SECRET ------------------------------------------------------- 47. HELENE speaks I never betrayed the directly to camera secret; I let my baby be brought up by a working class family. Engels occasionally sent money. Marx never acknowledged Freddy as his son. He chose not to acknowledge paternity. After Marx's death, I moved into Engel's home as his housekeeper. My son Freddy visited regularly once a week: however, as an ordinary working- man, he entered through the kitchen. He was Marx's only living son. He had grown up to be a poorly educated proletarian, his wife had left him and run away with his few possessions. His life was one of trouble, worry and hardship. ------------------------------------------------------- 48. V/O BIOGRAPHER: "We should, none of us, want to meet our pasts in flesh and blood," wrote Marx's daughter after his death, after discovering that Freddy Demuth was her father's son. These strategies of concealment are central to bourgeois identity, which wishes most of all to conceal the crucial place of the woman in its network of exploitation, which wishes most of all to conceal the symptomatic and erupting body and the tales it tells. ------------------------------------------------------- 49. DRAG QUEEN CHORUS DQ 1: The pregnant body, the unruly female body, swollen, grotesque, must be regulated, particularly its appearances in the public sphere. DQ 3: As men are accustomed to negotiating the fate of women's bodies. ------------------------------------------------------- 50. COURTROOM LOCATION NEWSCASTER: "COURT REJECTS PLEA FOR ABORTION BEFORE JAIL" Oct 26, 1989 A Florida county judge has refused a woman's request to postpone her 60 day jail sentence so she can have an abortion first. You want a continuance so you can murder your baby, is that it?" Judge Rasmussen of Pasco County Court asked the 26 year old defendant before sending her to jail. While the prosecutor agreed that Ms. Forney whose third month of pregnancy began today, could postpone her sentence by 10 days before serving her term for violating probation for driving under the influence of alcohol. The violation was that she paid only $100 of the $500 fine assessed against her. Ms. Forney, a part time bartender who is not married, asked for the additional time because, she said, she was afraid it might be to late for a safe abortion when she got out of jail. She pleaded that she was financially unable to care for a baby. Judge Rasmussen suggested that she carry the baby to full term and then give it up for adoption. In a jail interview Tuesday Ms. Forney said: I thought it was my choice. He's telling me I don't have a choice. It's not right that he can choose for me." ------------------------------------------------------ SCENES 51-60 QUICK MONTAGE: 51. HELENE addresses He simply chose not to camera acknowledge paternity. I hadn't that choice. 52. Abortion rally "Get your laws off my FOOTAGE body. Get your laws off my body." 53. Background: DRAG QUEEN 1: Get your Bondage STILLS laws off my body. 54. COURTROOM JUDGE: I can't define it but I know it when I see it. 55. Background: DRAG QUEEN 2: They want to Bondage STILLS ban pornography because it tells the truth. 56. TITLE: THE LINKING OF WHAT IS POLITICALLY DANGEROUS TO FEELINGS OF SEXUAL HORROR AND FASCINATION. 57. Abortion rally "Get your laws off my FOOTAGE body..." 58. WOMAN bent over DQ3: Desiring a body that toilet, bathroom doesn't speak, desiring a body that has the right DRAG QUEEN keyed over desires, desiring a different social being, a different social body... 59. WOMAN bent over WOMAN: How can I live in toilet my body? Where could I live in my body? ------------------------------------------------------- 60. MARX'S ROOM, Marx How can I live in my body? in bed, writhing (FIRST Where can I live in my SYNC SOUND ON MARX) body? ------------------------------------------------------- 61. KEY text of Capital Dear Engels: I had decided over MARX body so not to write you until I that one seems to be could announce the emerging from the other completion of the book which is now the case. Also I did not want to bore you with the reasons for the frequent delays, namely carbuncles on my posterior and in the vicinity of the penis, the remains of which are now fading and which permit me to assume a sitting (that is, writing) position only at great pain. I do not take arsenic, because it makes me too stupid and at least for the little time that I have when writing is possible, I want to have a clear head. V/O BIOGRAPHER: Finishing the book left his body racked and scarred. He was subject to increasing outbursts with each new translation of the book. He continued to search for a cure. ------------------------------------------------------- 62. MARX writing, My dear Jenny: I am HELENE cleaning sending you today the proofs of the French translation of Das Kapital. Today is the first day that I have been able to do anything at all. Until now despite baths, walking, splendid air, careful diet, etc. my condition has been worse than in London. That is also the reason why I am postponing my return, because it is absolutely necessary to return in a condition for work. BIOGRAPHER V/O: The eruptions of his body weren't matched by the social eruptions he anticipated. ------------------------------------------------------- 63. MARX'S ROOM Dear Sorge: How did it REARSCREEN civil happen that in the US rights riots where relatively that is, compared to civilized Europe, land was accessible to the great masses of the people and to a certain degree (again relatively) still is, the capitalist economy and the Text emerging corresponding enslavement from carbuncles of the working class have developed more rapidly and more shamelessly than in any country? DRAG QUEEN KEYED OVER DQ 2: His body continued its parody. Marx came to regard the carbuncles as having a life of their own, his affliction had a theory and a practice. ------------------------------------------------------- 64. MARX'S ROOM, bed. Dear Kugelmann: After my Riot FOOTAGE KEYED onto return, a carbuncle broke bandages out on my right cheek which had to be operated on, then it had several smaller successors, and I think that at the present moment I am suffering from the last of them. For the rest don't worry at all about newspaper gossip; still less answer it. I myself allow the English papers to announce my death from time to time, without giving a sign of life. DRAG QUEEEN KEYED OVER DQ 3: Like the revolutionary, the erupting, symptomatic body displays monstrous and unreadable forms to a horrified society. ------------------------------------------------------- 65. HELENE clears the Dear Frederick: The doctor table as MARX writes has opened up the pleasant in bed prospect that I will have to deal with this loathsome disease until late in January. Still this second Frankenstein on my hump is by far not so fierce as was the first in London. You can see this from the fact that I am able to write. If one wants to vomit politics out of nausea, one must take it daily in the form of telegraphic pills, such as are delivered by the newspapers. ------------------------------------------------------- TITLE: IF ONE WANTS TO VOMIT POLITICS OUT OF NAUSEA... ------------------------------------------------------- 66. STUDIO high shot WOMAN: How can I live in toilet, WOMAN bending my body? where can I live over in black space in my body? Pan to drag queen DQ1: Where is the history riot FOOTAGE of the body written? In KEYED behind toilet your politeness, in your deodorant and douche, behind the bathroom door, in your shame and revulsion. Pan to next drag queen DQ2: In your symptoms. ------------------------------------------------------- 67. MARX'S ROOM Dear Frederick: I hope in bed. Zoom into that with this, I will bandaged carbuncle have paid my debt to nature. In my state of ill health, I can do little writing, and then only by revolutions fits and starts. At any emerging out of rate, I hope the carbuncles bourgeoisie will remember my carbuncles all the rest of their lives. Zoom into, then CREDITS -
Postmodern Blackness
bell hooks
Oberlin College
Postmodernist discourses are often exclusionary even when, having been accused of lacking concrete relevance, they call attention to and appropriate the experience of “difference” and “otherness” in order to provide themselves with oppositional political meaning, legitimacy, and immediacy. Very few African-American intellectuals have talked or written about postmodernism. Recently at a dinner party, I talked about trying to grapple with the significance of postmodernism for contemporary black experience. It was one of those social gatherings where only one other black person was present. The setting quickly became a field of contestation. I was told by the other black person that I was wasting my time, that “this stuff does not relate in any way to what’s happening with black people.” Speaking in the presence of a group of white onlookers, staring at us as though this encounter was staged for their benefit, we engaged in a passionate discussion about black experience. Apparently, no one sympathized with my insistence that racism is perpetuated when blackness is associated solely with concrete gut level experience conceived either as opposing or having no connection to abstract thinking and the production of critical theory. The idea that there is no meaningful connection between black experience and critical thinking about aesthetics or culture must be continually interrogated.
My defense of postmodernism and its relevance to black folks sounded good but I worried that I lacked conviction, largely because I approach the subject cautiously and with suspicion. Disturbed not so much by the “sense” of postmodernism but by the conventional language used when it is written or talked about and by those who speak it, I find myself on the outside of the discourse looking in. As a discursive practice it is dominated primarily by the voices of white male intellectuals and/or academic elites who speak to and about one another with coded familiarity. Reading and studying their writing to understand postmodernism in its multiple manifestations, I appreciate it but feel little inclination to ally myself with the academic hierarchy and exclusivity pervasive in the movement today.
Critical of most writing on postmodernism, I perhaps am more conscious of the way in which the focus on “otherness and difference” that is often alluded to in these works seems to have little concrete impact as an analysis or standpoint that might change the nature and direction of postmodernist theory. Since much of this theory has been constructed in reaction to and against high modernism, there is seldom any mention of black experience or writings by black people in this work, specifically black women (though in more recent work one may see reference to Cornel West, the black male scholar who has most engaged postmodernist discourse). Even if an aspect of black culture is the subject of postmodern critical writing the works cited will usually be those of black men. A work that comes immediately to mind is Andrew Ross’ chapter “Hip, and the Long Front of Color” in No Respect: Intellectuals and Popular Culture; though an interesting reading, it constructs black culture as though black women have had no role in black cultural production. At the end of Meaghan Morris’ discussion of postmodernism included in her collection of essays The Pirate’s Fiance: Feminism and Postmodernism, she provides a bibliography of works by women, identifying them as important contributions to a discourse on postmodernism that offers new insight as well as challenging male theoretical hegemony. Even though many of the works do not directly address postmodernism, they address similar concerns. There are no references to work by black women.
The failure to recognize a critical black presence in the culture and in most scholarship and writing on postmodernism compels a black reader, particularly a black female reader, to interrogate her interest in a subject where those who discuss and write about it seem not to know black women exist or to even consider the possibility that we might be somewhere writing or saying something that should be listened to, or producing art that should be seen, heard, approached with intellectual seriousness. This is especially the case with works that go on and on about the way in which postmodernist discourse has opened up a theoretical terrain where “difference and otherness” can be considered legitimate issues in the academy. Confronting both the lack of recognition of black female presence that much postmodernist theory reinscribes and the resistance on the part of most black folks to hearing about real connections between postmodernism and black experience, I enter a discourse, a practice, where there may be no ready audience for my words, no clear listener, uncertain, then, that my voice can or will be heard.
During the Sixties, black power movements were influenced by perspectives that could be easily labeled modernist. Certainly many of the ways black folks addressed issues of identity conformed to a modernist universalizing agenda. There was little critique among black militants of patriarchy as a master narrative. Despite the fact that black power ideology reflected a modernist sensibility, these elements were soon rendered irrelevant as militant protest was stifled by a powerful repressive postmodern state. The period directly after the black power movement was a time when major news magazines carried articles with cocky headlines like “what ever happened to Black America?” This was an ironic reply to the aggressive unmet demand by decentered, marginalized black subjects who had at least for the moment successfully demanded a hearing, who had made it possible for black liberation to be a national political agenda. In the wake of the black power movement, after so many rebels were slaughtered and lost, many of these voices were silenced by a repressive state and others became inarticulate; it has become necessary to find new avenues for transmitting the messages of black liberation struggle, new ways to talk about racism and other politics of domination. Radical postmodernist practice, most powerfully conceptualized as a “politics of difference,” should incorporate the voices of displaced, marginalized, exploited, and oppressed black people.
It is sadly ironic that the contemporary discourse which talks the most about heterogeneity, the decentered subject, declaring breakthroughs that allow recognition of otherness, still directs its critical voice primarily to a specialized audience, one that shares a common language rooted in the very master narratives it claims to challenge. If radical postmodernist thinking is to have a transformative impact then a critical break with the notion of “authority” as “mastery over” must not simply be a rhetorical device, it must be reflected in habits of being, including styles of writing as well as chosen subject matter. Third-world scholars, especially elites, and white critics who passively absorb white supremacist thinking, and therefore never notice or look at black people on the streets, at their jobs, who render us invisible with their gaze in all areas of daily life, are not likely to produce liberatory theory that will challenge racist domination, or to promote a breakdown in traditional ways of seeing and thinking about reality, ways of constructing aesthetic theory and practice. From a different standpoint Robert Storr makes a similar critique in the global issue of Art in America when he asserts:
To be sure, much postmodernist critical inquiry has centered precisely on the issues of "difference" and "otherness." On the purely theoretical plane the exploration of these concepts has produced some important results, but in the absence of any sustained research into what artists of color and others outside the mainstream might be up to, such discussions become rootless instead of radical. Endless second guessing about the latent imperialism of intruding upon other cultures only compounded matters, preventing or excusing these theorists from investigating what black, Hispanic, Asian and Native American artists were actually doing.
Without adequate concrete knowledge of and contact with the non-white “other,” white theorists may move in discursive theoretical directions that are threatening to and potentially disruptive of that critical practice which would support radical liberation struggle.
The postmodern critique of “identity,” though relevant for renewed black liberation struggle, is often posed in ways that are problematic. Given a pervasive politic of white supremacy which seeks to prevent the formation of radical black subjectivity, we cannot cavalierly dismiss a concern with identity politics. Any critic exploring the radical potential of postmodernism as it relates to racial difference and racial domination would need to consider the implications of a critique of identity for oppressed groups. Many of us are struggling to find new strategies of resistance. We must engage decolonization as a critical practice if we are to have meaningful chances of survival even as we must simultaneously cope with the loss of political grounding which made radical activism more possible. I am thinking here about the postmodernist critique of essentialism as it pertains to the construction of “identity” as one example.
Postmodern theory that is not seeking to simply appropriate the experience of “otherness” in order to enhance its discourse or to be radically chic should not separate the “politics of difference” from the politics of racism. To take racism seriously one must consider the plight of underclass people of color, a vast majority of whom are black. For African-Americans our collective condition prior to the advent of postmodernism and perhaps more tragically expressed under current postmodern conditions has been and is characterized by continued displacement, profound alienation and despair. Writing about blacks and postmodernism, Cornel West describes our collective plight:
There is increasing class division and differentiation, creating on the one hand a significant black middle-class, highly anxiety- ridden, insecure, willing to be co-opted and incorporated into the powers that be, concerned with racism to the degree that it poses constraints on upward social mobility; and, on the other, a vast and growing black underclass, an underclass that embodies a kind of walking nihilism of pervasive drug addiction, pervasive alcoholism, pervasive homicide, and an exponential rise in suicide. Now because of the deindustrialization, we also have a devastated black industrial working class. We are talking here about tremendous hopelessness.
This hopelessness creates longing for insight and strategies for change that can renew spirits and reconstruct grounds for collective black liberation struggle. The overall impact of the postmodern condition is that many other groups now share with black folks a sense of deep alienation, despair, uncertainty, loss of a sense of grounding, even if it is not informed by shared circumstance. Radical postmodernism calls attention to those sensibilities which are shared across the boundaries of class, gender, and race, and which could be fertile ground for the construction of empathy–ties that would promote recognition of common commitments and serve as a base for solidarity and coalition.
“Yearning” is the word that best describes a common psychological state shared by many of us, cutting across boundaries of race, class, gender, and sexual practice. Specifically in relation to the postmodernist deconstruction of “master” narratives, the yearning that wells in the hearts and minds of those whom such narratives have silenced is the longing for critical voice. It is no accident that “rap” has usurped the primary position of R&B music among young black folks as the most desired sound, or that it began as a form of “testimony” for the underclass. It has enabled underclass black youth to develop a critical voice, as a group of young black men told me, a “common literacy.” Rap projects a critical voice, explaining, demanding, urging. Working with this insight in his essay “Putting the Pop Back into Postmodernism,” Lawrence Grossberg comments:
The postmodern sensibility appropriates practices as boasts that announce their own--and consequently our own--existence, like a rap song boasting of the imaginary (or real--it makes no difference) accomplishments of the rapper. They offer forms of empowerment not only in the face of nihilism but precisely through the forms of nihilism itself: an empowering nihilism, a moment of positivity through the production and structuring of affective relations.
Considering that it is as a subject that one comes to voice, then the postmodernist focus on the critique of identity appears, at first glance, to threaten and close down the possibility that this discourse and practice will allow those who have suffered the crippling effects of colonization and domination to gain or regain a hearing. Even if this sense of threat and the fear it evokes are based on a misunderstanding of the postmodernist political project, they nevertheless shape responses. It never surprises me when black folk respond to the critique of essentialism, especially when it denies the validity of identity politics, by saying “yeah, it’s easy to give up identity, when you got one.” Though an apt and oftentimes appropriate comeback, this does not really intervene in the discourse in a way that alters and transforms. We should indeed suspicious of postmodern critiques of the “subject” when they surface at a historical moment when many subjugated people feel themselves coming to voice for the first time.
Criticisms of directions in postmodern thinking should not obscure insights it may offer that open up our understanding of African-American experience. The critique of essentialism encouraged by postmodernist thought is useful for African-Americans concerned with reformulating outmoded notions of identity. We have too long had imposed upon us, both from the outside and the inside, a narrow constricting notion of blackness. Postmodern critiques of essentialism which challenge notions of universality and static over-determined identity within mass culture and mass consciousness can open up new possibilities for the construction of the self and the assertion of agency.
Employing a critique of essentialism allows African-Americans to acknowledge the way in which class mobility has altered collective black experience so that racism does not necessarily have the same impact on our lives. Such a critique allows us to affirm multiple black identities, varied black experience. It also challenges colonial imperialist paradigms of black identity which represent blackness one-dimensionally in ways that reinforce and sustain white supremacy. This discourse created the idea of the “primitive” and promoted the notion of an “authentic” experience, seeing as “natural” those expressions of black life which conformed to a pre-existing pattern or stereotype. Abandoning essentialist notions would be a serious challenge to racism. Contemporary African- American resistance struggle must be rooted in a process of decolonization that continually opposes reinscribing notions of “authentic” black identity. This critique should not be made synonymous with the dismissal of the struggle of oppressed and exploited peoples to make ourselves subjects. Nor should it deny that in certain circumstances that experience affords us a privileged critical location from which to speak. This is not a reinscription of modernist master narratives of authority which privilege some voices by denying voice to others. Part of our struggle for radical black subjectivity is the quest to find ways to construct self and identity that are oppositional and liberatory. The unwillingness to critique essentialism on the part of many African-Americans is rooted in the fear that it will cause folks to lose sight of the specific history and experience of African-Americans and the unique sensibilities and culture that arise from that experience. An adequate response to this concern is to critique essentialism while emphasizing the significance of “the authority of experience.” There is a radical difference between a repudiation of the idea that there is a black “essence” and recognition of the way black identity has been specifically constituted in the experience of exile and struggle.
When black folks critique essentialism, we are empowered to recognize multiple experiences of black identity that are the lived conditions which make diverse cultural productions possible. When this diversity is ignored, it is easy to see black folks as falling into two categories–nationalist or assimilationist, black-identified or white-identified. Coming to terms with the impact of postmodernism for black experience, particularly as it changes our sense of identity, means that we must and can rearticulate the basis for collective bonding. Given the various crises facing African-Americans (economic, spiritual, escalating racial violence, etc.) we are compelled by circumstance to reassess our relationship to popular culture and resistance struggle. Many of us are as reluctant to face this task as many non-black postmodern thinkers who focus theoretically on the issue of “difference” are to confront the issue of race and racism.
Music is the cultural product created by African- Americans that has most attracted postmodern theorists. It is rarely acknowledged that there is far greater censorship and restriction of other forms of cultural production by black folks–beginning with literary and critical writing. Attempts on the part of editors and publishing houses to control and manipulate the representation of black culture, as well as their desire to promote the creation of products which will attract the widest audience, limit in a crippling and stifling way the kind of work many black folks feel we can do and still receive recognition. Using myself as an example, that creative writing I do which I consider to be most reflective of a postmodern oppositional sensibility–work that is abstract, fragmented, non-linear narrative–is constantly rejected by editors and publishers who tell me it does not conform to the type of writing they think black women should be doing or the type of writing they believe will sell. Certainly I do not think I am the only black person engaged in forms of cultural production, especially experimental ones, who is constrained by the lack of an audience for certain kinds of work. It is important for postmodern thinkers and theorists to constitute themselves as an audience for such work. To do this they must assert power and privilege within the space of critical writing to open up the field so that it will be more inclusive. To change the exclusionary practice of postmodern critical discourse is to enact a postmodernism of resistance. Part of this intervention entails black intellectual participation in the discourse.
In his essay “Postmodernism and Black America,” Cornel West suggests that black intellectuals “are marginal–usually languishing at the interface of Black and white cultures or thoroughly ensconced in Euro- American settings” and he cannot see this group as potential producers of radical postmodernist thought. While I generally agree with this assessment, black intellectuals must proceed with the understanding that we are not condemned to the margins. The way we work and what we do can determine whether or not what we produce will be meaningful to a wider audience, one that includes all classes of black people. West suggests that black intellectuals lack “any organic link with most of Black life” and that this “diminishes their value to Black resistance.” This statement bears traces of essentialism. Perhaps we need to focus more on those black intellectuals, however rare our presence, who do not feel this lack and whose work is primarily directed towards the enhancement of black critical consciousness and the strengthening of our collective capacity to engage in meaningful resistance struggle. Theoretical ideas and critical thinking need not be transmitted solely in the academy. While I work in a predominantly white institution, I remain intimately and passionately engaged with black communities. It’s not like I’m going to talk about writing and thinking about postmodernism with other academics and/or intellectuals and not discuss these ideas with underclass non-academic black folks who are family, friends, and comrades. Since I have not broken the ties that bind me to underclass poor black community, I have seen that knowledge, especially that which enhances daily life and strengthens our capacity to survive, can be shared. It means that critics, writers, academics have to give the same critical attention to nurturing and cultivating our ties to black communities that we give to writing articles, teaching, and lecturing. Here again I am really talking about cultivating habits of being that reinforce awareness that knowledge can be disseminated and shared on a number of fronts, and the extent to which it is made available and accessible depends on the nature of one’s political commitments.
Postmodern culture with its decentered subject can be the space where ties are severed or it can provide the occasion for new and varied forms of bonding. To some extent ruptures, surfaces, contextuality and a host of other happenings create gaps that make space for oppositional practices which no longer require intellectuals to be confined to narrow, separate spheres with no meaningful connection to the world of every day. Much postmodern engagement with culture emerges from the yearning to do intellectual work that connects with habits of being, forms of artistic expression and aesthetics, that inform the daily life of a mass population as well as writers and scholars. On the terrain of culture, one can participate in critical dialogue with the uneducated poor, the black underclass who are thinking about aesthetics. One can talk about what we are seeing, thinking, or listening to; a space is there for critical exchange. It’s exciting to think, write, talk about, and create art that reflects passionate engagement with popular culture, because this may very well be “the” central future location of resistance struggle, a meeting place where new and radical happenings can occur.
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Hacking Away at the Counterculture
Andrew Ross
Princeton University
Ever since the viral attack engineered in November of 1988 by Cornell University hacker Robert Morris on the national network system Internet, which includes the Pentagon’s ARPAnet data exchange network, the nation’s high-tech ideologues and spin doctors have been locked in debate, trying to make ethical and economic sense of the event. The virus rapidly infected an estimated six thousand computers around the country, creating a scare that crowned an open season of viral hysteria in the media, in the course of which, according to the Computer Virus Industry Association in Santa Clara, the number of known viruses jumped from seven to thirty during 1988, and from three thousand infections in the first two months of that year to thirty thousand in the last two months. While it caused little in the way of data damage (some richly inflated initial estimates reckoned up to $100m in down time), the ramifications of the Internet virus have helped to generate a moral panic that has all but transformed everyday “computer culture.”
Following the lead of DARPA’s (Defence Advance Research Projects Agency) Computer Emergency Response Team at Carnegie-Mellon University, anti-virus response centers were hastily put in place by government and defence agencies at the National Science Foundation, the Energy Department, NASA, and other sites. Plans were made to introduce a bill in Congress (the Computer Virus Eradication Act, to replace the 1986 Computer Fraud and Abuse Act, which pertained solely to government information), that would call for prison sentences of up to ten years for the “crime” of sophisticated hacking, and numerous government agencies have been involved in a proprietary fight over the creation of a proposed Center for Virus Control, modelled, of course, on Atlanta’s Centers for Disease Control, notorious for its failures to respond adequately to the AIDS crisis.
In fact, media commentary on the virus scare has run not so much tongue-in-cheek as hand-in-glove with the rhetoric of AIDS hysteria–the common use of terms like killer virus and epidemic; the focus on hi-risk personal contact (virus infection, for the most part, is spread on personal computers, not mainframes); the obsession with defense, security, and immunity; and the climate of suspicion generated around communitarian acts of sharing. The underlying moral imperative being this: You can’t trust your best friend’s software any more than you can trust his or her bodily fluids–safe software or no software at all! Or, as Dennis Miller put it on Saturday Night Live, “Remember, when you connect with another computer, you’re connecting to every computer that computer has ever connected to.” This playful conceit struck a chord in the popular consciousness, even as it was perpetuated in such sober quarters as the Association for Computing Machinery, the president of which, in a controversial editorial titled “A Hygiene Lesson,” drew comparisons not only with sexually transmitted diseases, but also with a cholera epidemic, and urged attention to “personal systems hygiene.”1 In fact, some computer scientists who studied the symptomatic path of Morris’s virus across Internet have pointed to its uneven effects upon different computer types and operating systems, and concluded that “there is a direct analogy with biological genetic diversity to be made.”2 The epidemiology of biological virus, and especially AIDS, research is being closely studied to help implement computer security plans, and, in these circles, the new witty discourse is laced with references to antigens, white blood cells, vaccinations, metabolic free radicals, and the like.
The form and content of more lurid articles like Time‘s infamous (September 1988) story, “Invasion of the Data Snatchers,” fully displayed the continuity of the media scare with those historical fears about bodily invasion, individual and national, that are often considered endemic to the paranoid style of American political culture.3 Indeed, the rhetoric of computer culture, in common with the medical discourse of AIDS research, has fallen in line with the paranoid, strategic style of Defence Department rhetoric. Each language-repertoire is obsessed with hostile threats to bodily and technological immune systems; every event is a ballistic manoeuver in the game of microbiological war, where the governing metaphors are indiscriminately drawn from cellular genetics and cybernetics alike. As a counterpoint to the tongue-in-cheek AI tradition of seeing humans as “information-exchanging environments,” the imagined life of computers has taken on an organicist shape, now that they too are subject to cybernetic “sickness” or disease. So, too, the development of interrelated systems, such as Internet itself, has further added to the structural picture of an interdependent organism, whose component members, however autonomous, are all nonetheless affected by the “health” of each individual constituent. The growing interest among scientists in developing computer programs that will simulate the genetic behavior of living organisms (in which binary numbers act like genes) points to a future where the border between organic and artificial life is less and less distinct.
In keeping with the increasing use of biologically derived language to describe mutations in systems theory, conscious attempts to link the AIDS crisis with the information security crisis have pointed out that both kinds of virus, biological and electronic, take over the host cell/program and clone their carrier genetic codes by instructing the hosts to make replicas of the viruses. Neither kind of virus, however, can replicate themselves independently; they are pieces of code that attach themselves to other cells/programs– just as biological viruses need a host cell, computer viruses require a host program to activate them. The Internet virus was not, in fact, a virus, but a worm, a program that can run independently and therefore appears to have a life of its own. The worm replicates a full version of itself in programs and systems as it moves from one to another, masquerading as a legitimate user by guessing the user passwords of locked accounts. Because of this autonomous existence, the worm can be seen to behave as if it were an organism with some kind of purpose or teleology, and yet it has none. Its only “purpose” is to reproduce and infect. If the worm has no inbuilt antireplication code, or if the code is faulty, as was the case with the Internet worm, it will make already-infected computers repeatedly accept further replicas of itself, until their memories are clogged. A much quieter worm than that engineered by Morris would have moved more slowly, as one supposes a “worm” should, protecting itself from detection by ever more subtle camouflage, and propagating its cumulative effect of operative systems inertia over a much longer period of time.
In offering such descriptions, however, we must be wary of attributing a teleology/intentionality to worms and viruses which can be ascribed only, and, in most instances, speculatively, to their authors. There is no reason why a cybernetic “worm” might be expected to behave in any fundamental way like a biological worm. So, too, the assumed intentionality of its author distinguishes the human-made cybernetic virus from the case of the biological virus, the effects of which are fated to be received and discussed in a language saturated with human-made structures and narratives of meaning and teleological purpose. Writing about the folkloric theologies of significance and explanatory justice (usually involving retribution) that have sprung up around the AIDS crisis, Judith Williamson has pointed to the radical implications of this collision between an intentionless virus and a meaning-filled culture: Nothing could be more meaningless than a virus. It has no point, no purpose, no plan; it is part of no scheme, carries no inherent significance. And yet nothing is harder for us to confront than the complete absence of meaning. By its very definition, meaninglessness cannot be articulated within our social language, which is a system of meaning: impossible to include, as an absence, it is also impossible to exclude– for meaninglessness isn’t just the opposite of meaning, it is the end of meaning, and threatens the fragile structures by which we make sense of the world.4
No such judgment about meaninglessness applies to the computer security crisis. In contrast to HIV’s lack of meaning or intentionality, the meaning of cybernetic viruses is always already replete with social significance. This meaning is related, first of all, to the author’s local intention or motivation, whether psychic or fully social, whether wrought out of a mood of vengeance, a show of bravado or technical expertise, a commitment to a political act, or in anticipation of the profits that often accrue from the victims’ need to buy an antidote from the author. Beyond these local intentions, however, which are usually obscure or, as in the Morris case, quite inscrutable, there is an entire set of social and historical narratives that surround and are part of the “meaning” of the virus: the coded anarchist history of the youth hacker subculture; the militaristic environments of search-and-destroy warfare (a virus has two components–a carrier and a “warhead”), which, because of the historical development of computer technology, constitute the family values of information techno-culture; the experimental research environments in which creative designers are encouraged to work; and the conflictual history of pure and applied ethics in the science and technology communities, to name just a few. A similar list could be drawn up to explain the widespread and varied response to computer viruses, from the amused concern of the cognoscenti to the hysteria of the casual user, and from the research community and the manufacturing industry to the morally aroused legislature and the mediated culture at large. Every one of these explanations and narratives is the result of social and cultural processes and values; consequently, there is very little about the virus itself that is “meaningless.” Viruses can no more be seen as an objective, or necessary, result of the “objective” development of technological systems than technology in general can be seen as an objective, determining agent of social change.
For the sake of polemical economy, I would note that the cumulative effect of all the viral hysteria has been twofold. Firstly, it has resulted in a windfall for software producers, now that users’ blithe disregard for makers’ copyright privileges has eroded in the face of the security panic. Used to fighting halfhearted rearguard actions against widespread piracy practices, or reluctantly acceding to buyers’ desire for software unencumbered by top-heavy security features, software vendors are now profiting from the new public distrust of program copies. So, too, the explosion in security consciousness has hyperstimulated the already fast-growing sectors of the security system industry and the data encryption industry. In line with the new imperative for everything from “vaccinated” workstations to “sterilized” networks, it has created a brand new market of viral vaccine vendors who will sell you the virus (a one-time only immunization shot) along with its antidote–with names like Flu Shot +, ViruSafe, Vaccinate, Disk Defender, Certus, Viral Alarm, Antidote, Virus Buster, Gatekeeper, Ongard, and Interferon. Few of the antidotes are very reliable, however, especially since they pose an irresistible intellectual challenge to hackers who can easily rewrite them in the form of ever more powerful viruses. Moreover, most corporate managers of computer systems and networks know that by far the great majority of their intentional security losses are a result of insider sabotage and monkeywrenching.
In short, the effects of the viruses have been to profitably clamp down on copyright delinquency, and to generate the need for entirely new industrial production of viral suppressors to contain the fallout. In this respect, it is easy to see that the appearance of viruses could hardly, in the long run, have benefited industry producers more. In the same vein, the networks that have been hardest hit by the security squeeze are not restricted-access military or corporate systems but networks like Internet, set up on trust to facilitate the open academic exchange of data, information and research, and watched over by its sponsor, DARPA. It has not escaped the notice of conspiracy theorists that the military intelligence community, obsessed with “electronic warfare,” actually stood to learn a lot from the Internet virus; the virus effectively “pulsed the system,” exposing the sociological behaviour of the system in a crisis situation.5 The second effect of the virus crisis has been more overtly ideological. Virus-conscious fear and loathing have clearly fed into the paranoid climate of privatization that increasingly defines social identities in the new post-Fordist order. The result– a psycho-social closing of the ranks around fortified private spheres–runs directly counter to the ethic that we might think of as residing at the architectural heart of information technology. In its basic assembly structure, information technology is a technology of processing, copying, replication, and simulation, and therefore does not recognize the concept of private information property. What is now under threat is the rationality of a shareware culture, ushered in as the achievement of the hacker counterculture that pioneered the personal computer revolution in the early seventies against the grain of corporate planning.
There is another story to tell, however, about the emergence of the virus scare as a profitable ideological moment, and it is the story of how teenage hacking has come to be increasingly defined as a potential threat to normative educational ethics and national security alike. The story of the creation of this “social menace” is central to the ongoing attempts to rewrite property law in order to contain the effects of the new information technologies that, because of their blindness to the copyrighting of intellectual property, have transformed the way in which modern power is exercised and maintained. Consequently, a deviant social class or group has been defined and categorised as “enemies of the state” in order to help rationalize a general law-and-order clampdown on free and open information exchange. Teenage hackers’ homes are now habitually raided by sheriffs and FBI agents using strong-arm tactics, and jail sentences are becoming a common punishment. Operation Sundevil, a nationwide Secret Service operation in the spring of 1990, involving hundreds of agents in fourteen cities, is the most recently publicized of the hacker raids that have produced several arrests and seizures of thousands of disks and address lists in the last two years.6
In one of the many harshly punitive prosecutions against hackers in recent years, a judge went so far as to describe “bulletin boards” as “hi-tech street gangs.” The editors of 2600, the magazine that publishes information about system entry and exploration that is indispensable to the hacking community, have pointed out that any single invasive act, such as that of trespass, that involves the use of computers is considered today to be infinitely more criminal than a similar act undertaken without computers.7 To use computers to execute pranks, raids, frauds or thefts is to incur automatically the full repressive wrath of judges urged on by the moral panic created around hacking feats over the last two decades. Indeed, there is a strong body of pressure groups pushing for new criminal legislation that will define “crimes with computers” as a special category of crime, deserving “extraordinary” sentences and punitive measures. Over that same space of time, the term hacker has lost its semantic link with the journalistic hack, suggesting a professional toiler who uses unorthodox methods. So, too, its increasingly criminal connotation today has displaced the more innocuous, amateur mischief-maker-cum-media-star role reserved for hackers until a few years ago.
In response to the gathering vigor of this “war on hackers,” the most common defences of hacking can be presented on a spectrum that runs from the appeasement or accommodation of corporate interests to drawing up blueprints for cultural revolution. (a) Hacking performs a benign industrial service of uncovering security deficiencies and design flaws. (b) Hacking, as an experimental, free-form research activity, has been responsible for many of the most progressive developments in software development. (c) Hacking, when not purely recreational, is an elite educational practice that reflects the ways in which the development of high technology has outpaced orthodox forms of institutional education. (d) Hacking is an important form of watchdog counterresponse to the use of surveillance technology and data gathering by the state, and to the increasingly monolithic communications power of giant corporations. (e) Hacking, as guerrilla know-how, is essential to the task of maintaining fronts of cultural resistance and stocks of oppositional knowledge as a hedge against a technofascist future. With all of these and other arguments in mind, it is easy to see how the social and cultural management of hacker activities has become a complex process that involves state policy and legislation at the highest levels. In this respect, the virus scare has become an especially convenient vehicle for obtaining public and popular consent for new legislative measures and new powers of investigation for the FBI.8
Consequently, certain celebrity hackers have been quick to play down the zeal with which they pursued their earlier hacking feats, while reinforcing the deviant category of “technological hooliganism” reserved by moralizing pundits for “dark-side” hacking. Hugo Cornwall, British author of the bestselling Hacker’s Handbook, presents a Little England view of the hacker as a harmless fresh-air enthusiast who “visits advanced computers as a polite country rambler might walk across picturesque fields.” The owners of these properties are like “farmers who don’t mind careful ramblers.” Cornwall notes that “lovers of fresh-air walks obey the Country Code, involving such items as closing gates behind one and avoiding damage to crops and livestock” and suggests that a similar code ought to “guide your rambles into other people’s computers; the safest thing to do is simply browse, enjoy and learn.” By contrast, any rambler who “ventured across a field guarded by barbed wire and dotted with notices warning about the Official Secrets Act would deserve most that happened thereafter.”9 Cornwall’s quaint perspective on hacking has a certain “native charm,” but some might think that this beguiling picture of patchwork-quilt fields and benign gentleman farmers glosses over the long bloody history of power exercised through feudal and postfeudal land economy in England, while it is barely suggestive of the new fiefdoms, transnational estates, dependencies, and principalities carved out of today’s global information order by vast corporations capable of bypassing the laws and territorial borders of sovereign nation-states. In general, this analogy with “trespass” laws, which compares hacking to breaking and entering other people’s homes restricts the debate to questions about privacy, property, possessive individualism, and, at best, the excesses of state surveillance, while it closes off any examination of the activities of the corporate owners and institutional sponsors of information technology (the almost exclusive “target” of most hackers).10
Cornwall himself has joined the lucrative ranks of ex-hackers who either work for computer security firms or write books about security for the eyes of worried corporate managers.11 A different, though related, genre is that of the penitent hacker’s “confession,” produced for an audience thrilled by tales of high- stakes adventure at the keyboard, but written in the form of a computer security handbook. The best example of the “I Was a Teenage Hacker” genre is Bill (aka “The Cracker”) Landreth’s Out of the Inner Circle: The True Story of a Computer Intruder Capable of Cracking the Nation’s Most Secure Computer Systems, a book about “people who can’t `just say no’ to computers.” In full complicity with the deviant picture of the hacker as “public enemy,” Landreth recirculates every official and media cliche about subversive conspiratorial elites by recounting the putative exploits of a high-level hackers’ guild called the Inner Circle. The author himself is presented in the book as a former keyboard junkie who now praises the law for having made a good moral example of him: If you are wondering what I am like, I can tell you the same things I told the judge in federal court: Although it may not seem like it, I am pretty much a normal American teenager. I don’t drink, smoke or take drugs. I don’t steal, assault people, or vandalize property. The only way in which I am really different from most people is in my fascination with the ways and means of learning about computers that don’t belong to me.12 Sentenced in 1984 to three years probation, during which time he was obliged to finish his high school education and go to college, Landreth concludes: “I think the sentence is very fair, and I already know what my major will be….” As an aberrant sequel to the book’s contrite conclusion, however, Landreth vanished in 1986, violating his probation, only to face later a stiff five-year jail sentence–a sorry victim, no doubt, of the recent crackdown. Cyber-Counterculture?
At the core of Steven Levy’s bestseller Hackers (1984) is the argument that the hacker ethic, first articulated in the 1950s among the famous MIT students who developed multiple-access user systems, is libertarian and crypto-anarchist in its right-to know principles and its advocacy of decentralized technology. This hacker ethic, which has remained the preserve of a youth culture for the most part, asserts the basic right of users to free access to all information. It is a principled attempt, in other words, to challenge the tendency to use technology to form information elites. Consequently, hacker activities were presented in the eighties as a romantic countercultural tendency, celebrated by critical journalists like John Markoff of the New York Times, by Stewart Brand of Whole Earth Catalog fame, and by New Age gurus like Timothy Leary in the flamboyant Reality Hackers. Fuelled by sensational stories about phone phreaks like Joe Egressia (the blind eight- year old who discovered the tone signal of phone company by whistling) and Cap’n Crunch, groups like the Milwaukee 414s, the Los Angeles ARPAnet hackers, the SPAN Data Travellers, the Chaos Computer Club of Hamburg, the British Prestel hackers, 2600‘s BBS, “The Private Sector,” and others, the dominant media representation of the hacker came to be that of the “rebel with a modem,” to use Markoff’s term, at least until the more recent “war on hackers” began to shape media coverage.
On the one hand, this popular folk hero persona offered the romantic high profile of a maverick though nerdy cowboy whose fearless raids upon an impersonal “system” were perceived as a welcome tonic in the gray age of technocratic routine. On the other hand, he was something of a juvenile technodelinquent who hadn’t yet learned the difference between right and wrong—a wayward figure whose technical brilliance and proficiency differentiated him nonetheless from, say, the maladjusted working-class J.D. street-corner boy of the 1950s (hacker mythology, for the most part, has been almost exclusively white, masculine, and middle- class). One result of this media profile was a persistent infantilization of the hacker ethic–a way of trivializing its embryonic politics, however finally complicit with dominant technocratic imperatives or with entrepreneurial-libertarian ideology one perceives these politics to be. The second result was to reinforce, in the initial absence of coercive jail sentences, the high educational stakes of training the new technocratic elites to be responsible in their use of technology. Never, the given wisdom goes, has a creative elite of the future been so in need of the virtues of a liberal education steeped in Western ethics!
The full force of this lesson in computer ethics can be found laid out in the official Cornell University report on the Robert Morris affair. Members of the university commission set up to investigate the affair make it quite clear in their report that they recognize the student’s academic brilliance. His hacking, moreover, is described, as a “juvenile act” that had no “malicious intent” but that amounted, like plagiarism, the traditional academic heresy, to a dishonest transgression of other users’ rights. (In recent years, the privacy movement within the information community–a movement mounted by liberals to protect civil rights against state gathering of information–has actually been taken up and used as a means of criminalizing hacker activities.) As for the consequences of this juvenile act, the report proposes an analogy that, in comparison with Cornwall’s mature English country rambler, is thoroughly American, suburban, middle-class and juvenile. Unleashing the Internet worm was like “the driving of a golf-cart on a rainy day through most houses in the neighborhood. The driver may have navigated carefully and broken no china, but it should have been obvious to the driver that the mud on the tires would soil the carpets and that the owners would later have to clean up the mess.”13
In what stands out as a stiff reprimand for his alma mater, the report regrets that Morris was educated in an “ambivalent atmosphere” where he “received no clear guidance” about ethics from “his peers or mentors” (he went to Harvard!). But it reserves its loftiest academic contempt for the press, whose heroization of hackers has been so irresponsible, in the commission’s opinion, as to cause even further damage to the standards of the computing profession; media exaggerations of the courage and technical sophistication of hackers “obscures the far more accomplished work of students who complete their graduate studies without public fanfare,” and “who subject their work to the close scrutiny and evaluation of their peers, and not to the interpretations of the popular press.”14 In other words, this was an inside affair, to be assessed and judged by fellow professionals within an institution that reinforces its authority by means of internally self-regulating codes of professionalist ethics, but rarely addresses its ethical relationship to society as a whole (acceptance of defence grants, and the like). Generally speaking, the report affirms the genteel liberal ideal that professionals should not need laws, rules, procedural guidelines, or fixed guarantees of safe and responsible conduct. Apprentice professionals ought to have acquired a good conscience by osmosis from a liberal education rather than from some specially prescribed course in ethics and technology.
The widespread attention commanded by the Cornell report (attention from the Association of Computing Machinery, among others) demonstrates the industry’s interest in how the academy invokes liberal ethics in order to assist in the managing of the organization of the new specialized knowledge about information technology. Despite or, perhaps, because of the report’s steadfast pledge to the virtues and ideals of a liberal education, it bears all the marks of a legitimation crisis inside (and outside) the academy surrounding the new and all-important category of computer professionalism. The increasingly specialized design knowledge demanded of computer professionals means that codes that go beyond the old professionalist separation of mental and practical skills are needed to manage the division that a hacker’s functional talents call into question, between a purely mental pursuit and the pragmatic sphere of implementing knowledge in the real world. “Hacking” must then be designated as a strictly amateur practice; the tension, in hacking, between interestedness and disinterestedness is different from, and deficient in relation to, the proper balance demanded by professionalism. Alternately, hacking can be seen as the amateur flip side of the professional ideal–a disinterested love in the service of interested parties and institutions. In either case, it serves as an example of professionalism gone wrong, but not very wrong.
In common with the two responses to the virus scare described earlier–the profitable reaction of the computer industry and the self-empowering response of the legislature– the Cornell report shows how the academy uses a case like the Morris affair to strengthen its own sense of moral and cultural authority in the sphere of professionalism, particularly through its scornful indifference to and aloofness from the codes and judgements exercised by the media–its diabolic competitor in the field of knowledge. Indeed, for all the trumpeting about excesses of power and disrespect for the law of the land, the revival of ethics, in the business and science disciplines in the Ivy League and on Capitol Hill (both awash with ethical fervor in the post-Boesky and post-Reagan years), is little more than a weak liberal response to working flaws or adaptational lapses in the social logic of technocracy.
To complete the scenario of morality play example- making, however, we must also consider that Morris’s father was chief scientist of the National Computer Security Center, the National Security Agency’s public effort at safeguarding computer security. A brilliant programmer and codebreaker in his own right, he had testified in Washington in 1983 about the need to deglamorise teenage hacking, comparing it to “stealing a car for the purpose of joyriding.” In a further Oedipal irony, Morris Sr. may have been one of the inventors, while at Bell Labs in the 1950s, of a computer game involving self-perpetuating programs that were a prototype of today’s worms and viruses. Called Darwin, its principles were incorporated, in the eighties, into a popular hacker game called Core War, in which autonomous “killer” programs fought each other to the death.15
With the appearance, in the Morris affair, of a patricidal object who is also the Pentagon’s guardian angel, we now have many of the classic components of countercultural cross-generational conflict. What I want to consider, however, is how and where this scenario differs from the definitive contours of such conflicts that we recognize as having been established in the sixties; how the Cornell hacker Morris’s relation to, say, campus “occupations” today is different from that evoked by the famous image of armed black students emerging from a sit-in on the Cornell campus; how the relation to technological ethics differs from Andrew Kopkind’s famous statement “Morality begins at the end of a gun barrel” which accompanied the publication of the do-it-yourself Molotov cocktail design on the cover of a 1968 issue of the New York Review of Books; or how hackers’ prized potential access to the networks of military systems warfare differs from the prodigious Yippie feat of levitating the Pentagon building. It may be that, like the J.D. rebel without a cause of the fifties, the disaffiliated student dropout of the sixties, and the negationist punk of the seventies, the hacker of the eighties has come to serve as a visible public example of moral maladjustment, a hegemonic test case for redefining the dominant ethics in an advanced technocratic society. (Hence the need for each of these deviant figures to come in different versions– lumpen, radical chic, and Hollywood-style.)
What concerns me here, however, are the different conditions that exist today for recognizing countercultural expression and activism. Twenty years later, the technology of hacking and viral guerrilla warfare occupies a similar place in countercultural fantasy as the Molotov Cocktail design once did. While I don’t, for one minute, mean to insist on such comparisons, which aren’t particularly sound anyway, I think they conveniently mark a shift in the relation of countercultural activity to technology, a shift in which a software-based technoculture, organized around outlawed libertarian principles about free access to information and communication, has come to replace a dissenting culture organized around the demonizing of abject hardware structures. Much, though not all, of the sixties counterculture was formed around what I have elsewhere called the technology of folklore–an expressive congeries of preindustrialist, agrarianist, Orientalist, antitechnological ideas, values, and social structures. By contrast, the cybernetic countercultures of the nineties are already being formed around the folklore of technology–mythical feats of survivalism and resistance in a data-rich world of virtual environments and posthuman bodies– which is where many of the SF-and technology-conscious youth cultures have been assembling in recent years.16
There is no doubt that this scenario makes countercultural activity more difficult to recognize and therefore to define as politically significant. It was much easier, in the sixties, to identify the salient features and symbolic power of a romantic preindustrialist cultural politics in an advanced technological society, especially when the destructive evidence of America’s supertechnological invasion of Vietnam was being daily paraded in front of the public eye. However, in a society whose technopolitical infrastructure depends increasingly upon greater surveillance, cybernetic activism necessarily relies on a much more covert politics of identity, since access to closed systems requires discretion and dissimulation. Access to digital systems still requires only the authentication of a signature or pseudonym, not the identification of a real surveillable person, so there exists a crucial operative gap between authentication and identification. (As security systems move toward authenticating access through biological signatures– the biometric recording and measurement of physical characteristics such as palm or retinal prints, or vein patterns on the backs of hands–the hacker’s staple method of systems entry through purloined passwords will be further challenged.) By the same token, cybernetic identity is never used up, it can be recreated, reassigned, and reconstructed with any number of different names and under different user accounts. Most hacks, or technocrimes, go unnoticed or unreported for fear of publicising the vulnerability of corporate security systems, especially when the hacks are performed by disgruntled employees taking their vengeance on management. So, too, authoritative identification of any individual hacker, whenever it occurs, is often the result of accidental leads rather than systematic detection. For example, Captain Midnight, the video pirate who commandeered a satellite a few years ago to interrupt broadcast TV viewing, was traced only because a member of the public reported a suspicious conversation heard over a crossed telephone line.
Eschewing its core constituency among white males of the pre-professional-managerial class, the hacker community may be expanding its parameters outward. Hacking, for example, has become a feature of the young adult mystery-and-suspense novel genre for girls.17 The elitist class profile of the hacker prodigy as that of an undersocialized college nerd has become democratized and customized in recent years; it is no longer exclusively associated with institutionally acquired college expertise, and increasingly it dresses streetwise. In a recent article which documents the spread of the computer underground from college whiz kids to a broader youth subculture termed “cyberpunks,” after the movement among SF novelists, the original hacker phone phreak Cap’n Crunch is described as lamenting the fact that the cyberculture is no longer an “elite” one, and that hacker-valid information is much easier to obtain these days.18
For the most part, however, the self-defined hacker underground, like many other protocountercultural tendencies, has been restricted to a privileged social milieu, further magnetised by the self-understanding of its members that they are the apprentice architects of a future dominated by knowledge, expertise, and “smartness,” whether human or digital. Consequently, it is clear that the hacker cyberculture is not a dropout culture; its disaffiliation from a domestic parent culture is often manifest in activities that answer, directly or indirectly, to the legitimate needs of industrial R&D. For example, this hacker culture celebrates high productivity, maverick forms of creative work energy, and an obsessive identification with on-line endurance (and endorphin highs)–all qualities that are valorised by the entrepreneurial codes of silicon futurism. In a critique of the myth of the hacker-as-rebel, Dennis Hayes debunks the political romance woven around the teenage hacker: They are typically white, upper-middle-class adolescents who have taken over the home computer (bought, subsidized, or tolerated by parents in the hope of cultivating computer literacy). Few are politically motivated although many express contempt for the “bureaucracies” that hamper their electronic journeys. Nearly all demand unfettered access to intricate and intriguing computer networks. In this, teenage hackers resemble an alienated shopping culture deprived of purchasing opportunities more than a terrorist network.19
While welcoming the sobriety of Hayes’s critique, I am less willing to accept its assumptions about the political implications of hacker activities. Studies of youth subcultures (including those of a privileged middle-class formation) have taught us that the political meaning of certain forms of cultural “resistance” is notoriously difficult to read. These meanings are either highly coded or expressed indirectly through media–private peer languages, customized consumer styles, unorthodox leisure patterns, categories of insider knowledge and behavior–that have no fixed or inherent political significance. If cultural studies of this sort have proved anything, it is that the often symbolic, not wholly articulate, expressivity of a youth culture can seldom be translated directly into an articulate political philosophy. The significance of these cultures lies in their embryonic or protopolitical languages and technologies of opposition to dominant or parent systems of rules. If hackers lack a “cause,” then they are certainly not the first youth culture to be characterized in this dismissive way. In particular, the left has suffered from the lack of a cultural politics capable of recognizing the power of cultural expressions that do not wear a mature political commitment on their sleeves. So, too, the escalation of activism-in-the- professions in the last two decades has shown that it is a mistake to condemn the hacker impulse on account of its class constituency alone. To cede the “ability to know” on the grounds that elite groups will enjoy unjustly privileged access to technocratic knowledge is to cede too much of the future. Is it of no political significance at all that hackers’ primary fantasies often involve the official computer systems of the police, armed forces, and defence and intelligence agencies? And that the rationale for their fantasies is unfailingly presented in the form of a defence of civil liberties against the threat of centralized intelligence and military activities? Or is all of this merely a symptom of an apprentice elite’s fledgling will to masculine power? The activities of the Chinese student elite in the pro-democracy movement have shown that unforeseen shifts in the political climate can produce startling new configurations of power and resistance. After Tiananmen Square, Party leaders found it imprudent to purge those high-tech engineer and computer cadres who alone could guarantee the future of any planned modernization program. On the other hand, the authorities rested uneasy knowing that each cadre (among the most activist groups in the student movement) is a potential hacker who can have the run of the communications house if and when he or she wants.
On the other hand, I do agree with Hayes’s perception that the media have pursued their romance with the hacker at the cost of underreporting the much greater challenge posed to corporate employers by their employees. It is in the arena of conflicts between workers and management that most high-tech “sabotage” takes place. In the mainstream everyday life of office workers, mostly female, there is a widespread culture of unorganized sabotage that accounts for infinitely more computer downtime and information loss every year than is caused by destructive, “dark-side” hacking by celebrity cybernetic intruders. The sabotage, time theft, and strategic monkeywrenching deployed by office workers in their engineered electromagnetic attacks on data storage and operating systems might range from the planting of time or logic bombs to the discrete use of electromagnetic Tesla coils or simple bodily friction: “Good old static electricity discharged from the fingertips probably accounts for close to half the disks and computers wiped out or down every year.”20 More skilled operators, intent on evening a score with management, often utilize sophisticated hacking techniques. In many cases, a coherent networking culture exists among female console operators, where, among other things, tips about strategies for slowing down the temporality of the work regime are circulated. While these threats from below are fully recognized in their boardrooms, corporations dependent upon digital business machines are obviously unwilling to advertize how acutely vulnerable they actually are to this kind of sabotage. It is easy to imagine how organised computer activism could hold such companies for ransom. As Hayes points out, however, it is more difficult to mobilize any kind of labor movement organized upon such premises: Many are prepared to publicly oppose the countless dark legacies of the computer age: “electronic sweatshops,” Military technology, employee surveillance, genotoxic water, and ozone depletion. Among those currently leading the opposition, however, it is apparently deemed “irresponsible” to recommend an active computerized resistance as a source of worker’s power because it is perceived as a medium of employee crime and “terrorism.” 21 Processed World, the “magazine with a bad attitude” with which Hayes has been associated, is at the forefront of debating and circulating these questions among office workers, regularly tapping into the resentments borne out in on-the-job resistance.
While only a small number of computer users would recognize and include themselves under the label of “hacker,” there are good reasons for extending the restricted definition of hacking down and across the caste system of systems analysts, designers, programmers, and operators to include all high-tech workers, no matter how inexpert, who can interrupt, upset, and redirect the smooth flow of structured communications that dictates their positions in the social networks of exchange and determines the temporality of their work schedules. To put it in these terms, however, is not to offer any universal definition of hacker agency. There are many social agents, for example, in job locations that are dependent upon the hope of technological reskilling, for whom sabotage or disruption of communicative rationality is of little use; for such people, definitions of hacking that are reconstructive, rather than deconstructive, are more appropriate. A good example is the crucial role of worker technoliteracy in the struggle of labor against automation and deskilling. When worker education classes in computer programming were discontinued by management at the Ford Rouge plant in Dearborn, Michigan, union (UAW) members began to publish a newsletter called the Amateur Computerist to fill the gap.22 Among the columnists and correspondents in the magazine have been veterans of the Flint sit-down strikes who see a clear historical continuity between the problem of labor organization in the thirties and the problem of automation and deskilling today. Workers’ computer literacy is seen as essential not only to the demystification of the computer and the reskilling of workers, but also to labor’s capacity to intervene in decisions about new technologies that might result in shorter hours and thus in “work efficiency” rather than worker efficiency.
The three social locations I have mentioned above all express different class relations to technology: the location of an apprentice technical elite, conventionally associated with the term “hacking”; the location of the female high-tech office worker, involved in “sabotage”; and the location of the shop- floor worker, whose future depends on technological reskilling. All therefore exhibit different ways of claiming back time dictated and appropriated by technological processes, and of establishing some form of independent control over the work relation so determined by the new technologies. All, then, fall under a broad understanding of the politics involved in any extended description of hacker activities. [This file is continued in ROSS-2 990]
The Culture and Technology Question
Faced with these proliferating practices in the workplace, on the teenage cult fringe, and increasingly in mainstream entertainment, where, over the last five years, the cyberpunk sensibility in popular fiction, film, and television has caught the romance of the popular taste for the outlaw technology of human/machine interfaces, we are obliged, I think, to ask old kinds of questions about the new silicon order which the evangelists of information technology have been deliriously proclaiming for more than twenty years. The postindustrialists’ picture of a world of freedom and abundance projects a sunny millenarian future devoid of work drudgery and ecological degradation. This sunny social order, cybernetically wired up, is presented as an advanced evolutionary phase of society in accord with Enlightenment ideals of progress and rationality. By contrast, critics of this idealism see only a frightening advance in the technologies of social control, whose owners and sponsors are efficiently shaping a society, as Kevin Robins and Frank Webster put it, of “slaves without Athens” that is actually the inverse of the “Athens without slaves” promised by the silicon positivists.23
It is clear that one of the political features of the new post-Fordist order–economically marked by short-run production, diverse taste markets, flexible specialization, and product differentiation–is that the New Right has managed to appropriate not only the utopian language and values of the alternative technology movements but also the marxist discourse of the “withering away of the state” and the more compassionate vision of local, decentralized communications first espoused by the libertarian left. It must be recognized that these are very popular themes and visions, (advanced most famously by Alvin Toffler and the neoliberal Atari Democrats, though also by leftist thinkers such as Andre Gortz, Rudolf Bahro, and Alain Touraine)–much more popular, for example, than the tradition of centralized technocratic planning espoused by the left under the Fordist model of mass production and consumption.24 Against the postindustrialists’ millenarian picture of a postscarcity harmony, in which citizens enjoy decentralized, access to free-flowing information, it is necessary, however, to emphasise how and where actually existing cybernetic capitalism presents a gross caricature of such a postscarcity society.
One of the stories told by the critical left about new cultural technologies is that of monolithic, panoptical social control, effortlessly achieved through a smooth, endlessly interlocking system of networks of surveillance. In this narrative, information technology is seen as the most despotic mode of domination yet, generating not just a revolution in capitalist production but also a revolution in living–“social Taylorism”–that touches all cultural and social spheres in the home and in the workplace.25 Through routine gathering of information about transactions, consumer preferences, and creditworthiness, a harvest of information about any individual’s whereabouts and movements, tastes, desires, contacts, friends, associates, and patterns of work and recreation becomes available in the form of dossiers sold on the tradable information market, or is endlessly convertible into other forms of intelligence through computer matching. Advanced pattern recognition technologies facilitate the process of surveillance, while data encryption protects it from public accountability.26
While the debate about privacy has triggered public consciousness about these excesses, the liberal discourse about ethics and damage control in which that debate has been conducted falls short of the more comprehensive analysis of social control and social management offered by left political economists. According to one marxist analysis, information is seen as a new kind of commodity resource which marks a break with past modes of production and that is becoming the essential site of capital accumulation in the world economy. What happens, then, in the process by which information, gathered up by data scavenging in the transactional sphere, is systematically converted into intelligence? A surplus value is created for use elsewhere. This surplus information value is more than is needed for public surveillance; it is often information, or intelligence, culled from consumer polling or statistical analysis of transactional behavior, that has no immediate use in the process of routine public surveillance. Indeed, it is this surplus, bureaucratic capital that is used for the purpose of forecasting social futures, and consequently applied to the task of managing the behavior of mass or aggregate units within those social futures. This surplus intelligence becomes the basis of a whole new industry of futures research which relies upon computer technology to simulate and forecast the shape, activity, and behavior of complex social systems. The result is a possible system of social management that far transcends the questions about surveillance that have been at the discursive center of the privacy debate.27
To further challenge the idealists’ vision of postindustrial light and magic, we need only look inside the semiconductor workplace itself, which is home to the most toxic chemicals known to man (and woman, especially since women of color often make up the majority of the microelectronics labor force), and where worker illness is measured not in quantities of blood spilled on the shop floor but in the less visible forms of chromosome damage, shrunken testicles, miscarriages, premature deliveries, and severe birth defects. In addition to the extraordinarily high stress patterns of VDT operators, semiconductor workers exhibit an occupational illness rate that even by the late seventies was three times higher than that of manufacturing workers, at least until the federal rules for recognizing and defining levels of injury were changed under the Reagan administration. Protection gear is designed to protect the product and the clean room from the workers, and not vice versa. Recently, immunological health problems have begun to appear that can be described only as a kind of chemically induced AIDS, rendering the T-cells dysfunctional rather than depleting them like virally induced AIDS.28 In corporate offices, the use of keystroke software to monitor and pace office workers has become a routine part of job performance evaluation programs. Some 70 percent of corporations use electronic surveillance or other forms of quantitative monitoring on their workers. Every bodily movement can be checked and measured, especially trips to the toilet. Federal deregulation has meant that the limits of employee work space have shrunk, in some government offices, below that required by law for a two-hundred pound laboratory pig.29 Critics of the labor process seem to have sound reasons to believe that rationalization and quantification are at last entering their most primitive phase.
These, then, are some of the features of the critical left position–or what is sometimes referred to as the “paranoid” position–on information technology, which imagines or constructs a totalizing, monolithic picture of systematic domination. While this story is often characterized as conspiracy theory, its targets–technorationality, bureaucratic capitalism–are usually too abstract to fit the picture of a social order planned and shaped by a small, conspiring group of centralized power elites. Although I believe that this story, when told inside and outside the classroom, for example, is an indispensable form of “consciousness-raising,” it is not always the best story to tell.
While I am not comfortable with the “paranoid” labelling, I would argue that such narratives do little to discourage paranoia. The critical habit of finding unrelieved domination everywhere has certain consequences, one of which is to create a siege mentality, reinforcing the inertia, helplessness, and despair that such critiques set out to oppose in the first place. What follows is a politics that can speak only from a victim’s position. And when knowledge about surveillance is presented as systematic and infallible, self-censoring is sure to follow. In the psychosocial climate of fear and phobia aroused by the virus scare, there is a responsibility not to be alarmist or to be scared, especially when, as I have argued, such moments are profitably seized upon by the sponsors of control technology. In short, the picture of a seamlessly panoptical network of surveillance may be the result of a rather undemocratic, not to mention unsocialistic, way of thinking, predicated upon the recognition of people solely as victims. It is redolent of the old sociological models of mass society and mass culture, which cast the majority of society as passive and lobotomized in the face of the cultural patterns of modernization. To emphasize, as Robins and Webster and others have done, the power of the new technologies to despotically transform the “rhythm, texture, and experience” of everyday life, and meet with no resistance in doing so, is not only to cleave, finally, to an epistemology of technological determinism, but also to dismiss the capacity of people to make their own uses of new technologies.30
The seamless “interlocking” of public and private networks of information and intelligence is not as smooth and even as the critical school of hard domination would suggest. In any case, compulsive gathering of information is no guarantee that any interpretive sense will be made of the files or dossiers, while some would argue that the increasingly covert nature of surveillance is a sign that the “campaign” for social control is not going well. One of the most pervasive popular arguments against the panoptical intentions of the masters of technology is that their systems do not work. Every successful hack or computer crime in some way reinforces the popular perception that information systems are not infallible. And the announcements of military-industrial spokespersons that the fully automated battlefield is on its way run up against an accumulated stock of popular skepticism about the operative capacity of weapons systems. These misgivings are born of decades of distrust for the plans and intentions of the military-industrial complex, and were quite evident in the widespread cynicism about the Strategic Defense Initiative. Just to take one empirical example of unreliability, the military communications system worked so poorly and so farcically during the U.S. invasion of Grenada that commanders had to call each other on pay phones: ever since then, the command-and- control code of Arpanet technocrats has been C5– Command, Control, Communication, Computers, and Confusion.31 It could be said, of course, that the invasion of Grenada did, after all, succeed, but the more complex and inefficiency-prone such high-tech invasions become (Vietnam is still the best example), the less likely they are to be undertaken with any guarantee of success.
I am not suggesting that alternatives can be forged simply by encouraging disbelief in the infallibility of existing technologies (pointing to examples of the appropriation of technologies for radical uses, of course, always provides more visibly satisfying evidence of empowerment), but technoskepticism, while not a sufficient condition of social change, is a necessary condition. Stocks of popular technoskepticism are crucial to the task of eroding the legitimacy of those cultural values that prepare the way for new technological developments: values and principles such as the inevitability of material progress, the “emancipatory” domination of nature, the innovative autonomy of machines, the efficiency codes of pragmatism, and the linear juggernaut of liberal Enlightenment rationality–all increasingly under close critical scrutiny as a wave of environmental consciousness sweeps through the electorates of the West. Technologies do not shape or determine such values. These values already exist before the technologies, and the fact that they have become deeply embodied in the structure of popular needs and desires then provides the green light for the acceptance of certain kinds of technology. The principal rationale for introducing new technologies is that they answer to already existing intentions and demands that may be perceived as “subjective” but that are never actually within the control of any single set of conspiring individuals. As Marike Finlay has argued, just as technology is only possible in given discursive situations, one of which being the desire of people to have it for reasons of empowerment, so capitalism is merely the site, and not the source, of the power that is often autonomously attributed to the owners and sponsors of technology.32
In fact, there is no frame of technological inevitability that has not already interacted with popular needs and desires, no introduction of new machineries of control that has not already been negotiated to some degree in the arena of popular consent. Thus the power to design architecture that incorporates different values must arise from the popular perception that existing technologies are not the only ones, nor are they the best when it comes to individual and collective empowerment. It was this kind of perception–formed around the distrust of big, impersonal, “closed” hardware systems, and the desire for small, decentralized, interactive machines to facilitate interpersonal communication–that “built” the PC out of hacking expertise in the early seventies. These were as much the partial “intentions” behind the development of microcomputing technology as deskilling, monitoring, and information gathering are the intentions behind the corporate use of that technology today. The growth of public data networks, bulletin board systems, alternative information and media links, and the increasing cheapness of desktop publishing, satellite equipment, and international data bases are as much the result of local political “intentions” as the fortified net of globally linked, restricted-access information systems is the intentional fantasy of those who seek to profit from centralised control. The picture that emerges from this mapping of intentions is not an inevitably technofascist one, but rather the uneven result of cultural struggles over values and meanings.
It is in this respect–in the struggle over values and meanings–that the work of cultural criticism takes on its special significance as a full participant in the debate about technology. In fact, cultural criticism is already fully implicated in that debate, if only because the culture and education industries are rapidly becoming integrated within the vast information service conglomerates. The media we study, the media we publish in, and the media we teach within are increasingly part of the same tradable information sector. So, too, our common intellectual discourse has been significantly affected by the recent debates about postmodernism (or culture in a postindustrial world) in which the euphoric, addictive thrill of the technological sublime has figured quite prominently. The high-speed technological fascination that is characteristic of the postmodern condition can be read, on the one hand, as a celebratory capitulation on the part of intellectuals to the new information technocultures. On the other hand, this celebratory strain attests to the persuasive affect associated with the new cultural technologies, to their capacity (more powerful than that of their sponsors and promoters) to generate pleasure and gratification and to win the struggle for intellectual as well as popular consent.
Another reason for the involvement of cultural critics in the technology debates has to do with our special critical knowledge of the way in which cultural meanings are produced–our knowledge about the politics of consumption and what is often called the politics of representation. This is the knowledge which demonstrates that there are limits to the capacity of productive forces to shape and determine consciousness. It is a knowledge that insists on the ideological or interpretive dimension of technology as a culture which can and must be used and consumed in a variety of ways that are not reducible to the intentions of any single source or producer, and whose meanings cannot simply be read off as evidence of faultless social reproduction. It is a knowledge, in short, which refuses to add to the “hard domination” picture of disenfranchised individuals watched over by some by some scheming panoptical intelligence. Far from being understood solely as the concrete hardware of electronically sophisticated objects, technology must be seen as a lived, interpretive practice for people in their everyday lives. To redefine the shape and form of that practice is to help create the need for new kinds of hardware and software.
One of the latter aims of this essay has been to describe and suggest a wider set of activities and social locations than is normally associated with the practice of hacking. If there is a challenge here for cultural critics, then it might be presented as the challenge to make our knowledge about technoculture into something like a hacker’s knowledge, capable of penetrating existing systems of rationality that might otherwise be seen as infallible; a hacker’s knowledge, capable of reskilling, and therefore of rewriting the cultural programs and reprogramming the social values that make room for new technologies; a hacker’s knowledge, capable also of generating new popular romances around the alternative uses of human ingenuity. If we are to take up that challenge, we cannot afford to give up what technoliteracy we have acquired in deference to the vulgar faith that tells us it is always acquired in complicity, and is thus contaminated by the poison of instrumental rationality, or because we hear, often from the same quarters, that acquired technological competence simply glorifies the inhuman work ethic. Technoliteracy, for us, is the challenge to make a historical opportunity out of a historical necessity.
Notes
1. Bryan Kocher, “A Hygiene Lesson,” Communications of the ACM, 32.1 (January 1989): 3.
2. Jon A. Rochlis and Mark W. Eichen, “With Microscope and Tweezers: The Worm from MIT’s Perspective,” Communications of the ACM, 32.6 (June 1989): 697.
3. Philip Elmer-DeWitt, “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” Time (26 September 1988); 62-67.
4. Judith Williamson, “Every Virus Tells a Story: The Meaning of HIV and AIDS,” Taking Liberties: AIDS and Cultural Politics, ed. Erica Carter and Simon Watney (London: Serpent’s Tail/ICA, 1989): 69.
5. “Pulsing the system” is a well-known intelligence process in which, for example, planes deliberately fly over enemy radar installations in order to determine what frequencies they use and how they are arranged. It has been suggested that Morris Sr. and Morris Jr. worked in collusion as part of an NSA operation to pulse the Internet system, and to generate public support for a legal clampdown on hacking. See Allan Lundell, Virus! The Secret World of Computer Invaders That Breed and Destroy (Chicago: Contemporary Books, 1989), 12-18. As is the case with all such conspiracy theories, no actual conspiracy need have existed for the consequences–in this case, the benefits for the intelligence community–to have been more or less the same.
6. For details of these raids, see 2600: The Hacker’s Quarterly, 7.1 (Spring 1990): 7.
7. “Hackers in Jail,” 2600: The Hacker’s Quarterly, 6.1 (Spring 1989); 22-23. The recent Secret Service action that shut down Phrack, an electronic newsletter operating out of St. Louis, confirms 2600‘s thesis: a nonelectronic publication would not be censored in the same way.
8. This is not to say that the new laws cannot themselves be used to protect hacker institutions, however. 2600 has advised operators of bulletin boards to declare them private property, thereby guaranteeing protection under the Electronic Privacy Act against unauthorized entry by the FBI.
9. Hugo Cornwall, The Hacker’s Handbook 3rd ed. (London: Century, 1988) 181, 2-6. In Britain, for the most part, hacking is still looked upon as a matter for the civil, rather than the criminal, courts.
10. Discussions about civil liberties and property rights, for example, tend to preoccupy most of the participants in the electronic forum published as “Is Computer Hacking a Crime?” in Harper’s, 280.1678 (March 1990): 45-57.
11. See Hugo Cornwall, Data Theft (London: Heinemann, 1987).
12. Bill Landreth, Out of the Inner Circle: The True Story of a Computer Intruder Capable of Cracking the Nation’s Most Secure Computer Systems (Redmond, Wash.: Tempus, Microsoft, 1989), 10.
13. The Computer Worm: A Report to the Provost of Cornell University on an Investigation Conducted by the Commission of Preliminary Enquiry (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University, 1989).
14. The Computer Worm: A Report to the Provost,8.
15. A. K. Dewdney, the “computer recreations” columnist at Scientific American, was the first to publicize the details of this game of battle programs in an article in the May 1984 issue of the magazine. In a follow-up article in March 1985, “A Core War Bestiary of Viruses, Worms, and Other Threats to Computer Memories,” Dewdney described the wide range of “software creatures” which readers’ responses had brought to light. A third column, in March 1989, was written, in an exculpatory mode, to refute any connection between his original advertisement of the Core War program and the spate of recent viruses.
16. Andrew Ross, No Respect: Intellectuals and Popular Culture (New York: Routledge, 1989), 212. Some would argue, however, that the ideas and values of the sixties counterculture were only fully culminated in groups like the People’s Computer Company, which ran Community Memory in Berkeley, or the Homebrew Computer Club, which pioneered personal microcomputing. So, too, the Yippies had seen the need to form YIPL, the Youth International Party Line, devoted to “anarcho- technological” projects, which put out a newsletter called TAP (alternately the Technological American Party and the Technological Assistance Program). In its depoliticised form, which eschewed the kind of destructive “dark-side” hacking advocated in its earlier incarnation, TAP was eventually the progenitor of 2600. A significant turning point, for example, was TAP‘s decision not to publish plans for the hydrogen bomb (which the Progressive did)–bombs would destroy the phone system, which the TAP phone phreaks had an enthusiastic interest in maintaining.
17. See Alice Bach’s Phreakers series, in which two teenage girls enjoy adventures through the use of computer technology. The Bully of Library Place, Parrot Woman, Double Bucky Shanghai, and Ragwars (all published by Dell, 1987-88).
18. John Markoff, “Cyberpunks Seek Thrills in Computerized Mischief,” New York Times, November 26,1988.
19. Dennis Hayes, Behind the Silicon Curtain: The Seductions of Work in a Lonely Era (Boston, South End Press, 1989), 93. One striking historical precedent for the hacking subculture, suggested to me by Carolyn Marvin, was the widespread activity of amateur or “ham” wireless operators in the first two decades of the century. Initially lionized in the press as boy-inventor heroes for their technical ingenuity and daring adventures with the ether, this white middle-class subculture was increasingly demonized by the U.S. Navy (whose signals the amateurs prankishly interfered with), which was crusading for complete military control of the airwaves in the name of national security. The amateurs lobbied with democratic rhetoric for the public’s right to access the airwaves, and although partially successful in their case against the Navy, lost out ultimately to big commercial interests when Congress approved the creation of a broadcasting monopoly after World War I in the form of RCA. See Susan J. Douglas, Inventing American Broadcasting 1899-1922 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 187-291.
20. “Sabotage,” Processed World, 11 (Summer 1984), 37-38.
21. Hayes, Behind the Silicon Curtain, 99.
22. The Amateur Computerist, available from R. Hauben, PO Box, 4344, Dearborn, MI 48126.
23. Kevin Robins and Frank Webster, “Athens Without Slaves…Or Slaves Without Athens? The Neurosis of Technology,” Science as Culture, 3 (1988): 7-53.
24. See Boris Frankel, The Post-Industrial Utopians (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1987).
25. See, for example, the collection of essays edited by Vincent Mosco and Janet Wasko, The Political Economy of Information (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988), and Dan Schiller, The Information Commodity (Oxford UP, forthcoming).
26. Tom Athanasiou and Staff, “Encryption and the Dossier Society,” Processed World, 16 (1986): 12-17.
27. Kevin Wilson, Technologies of Control: The New Interactive Media for the Home (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988), 121-25.
28. Hayes, Behind the Silicon Curtain, 63-80.
29. “Our Friend the VDT,” Processed World, 22 (Summer 1988): 24-25.
30. See Kevin Robins and Frank Webster, “Cybernetic Capitalism,” in Mosco and Wasko, 44-75.
31. Barbara Garson, The Electronic Sweatshop (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1988), 244-45.
32. See Marike Finlay’s Foucauldian analysis, Powermatics: A Discursive Critique of New Technology (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987). A more conventional culturalist argument can be found in Stephen Hill, The Tragedy of Technology (London: Pluto Press, 1988).
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Preface
Postmodern Culture is an electronic journal of interdisciplinary studies. We hope to open the discussion of postmodernism to a wide audience, and to new and different participants. We feel that the electronic text is more amenable to revision, and that it fosters conversation more than printed publications can. Postmodern Culture can accommodate, and will include, different kinds of writing, from traditional analytical essays and reviews to video scripts and other new literary forms. Pos tmodern Cultureis formatted as ASCII text (the character-code used by all personal computers): this permits the items in the journal to be sent as electronic mail, and it means that you can download the text of the journal from the mainframe (where y ou receive your mail) to a wide variety of computers, and import it into most word-processing programs, should you want to. If you do call up the journal’s text in a word-processing program, make sure that line-spacing is set to single-space and that marg ins are set to accommodate a 65-character line (one-inch margins, in most cases).
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Finally, if you would like to discontinue your subscription to the journal, you can do so by sending the command
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Anouncements & Advertisements
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EFF News will present news, information, and discussion about the world of computer-based communications media that constitute the electronic frontier. It will cover issues such as freedom of speech in digital media, privacy rights, censorship, standards of responsibility for users and operators of computer systems, policy issues such as the development of national information infrastructure, and intellectual property. Views of individual authors represent their own opinions, not necessarily those of the EFF. ************************************************************ *** EFF News #1.00: Table of Contents *** ************************************************************ Article 1: Who's Doing What at the EFF Article 2: EFF Current Activities - Fall 1990 Article 3: Contributing to the EFF Article 4: CPSR Computing and Civil Liberties Project (Marc Rotenberg, Computer Professionals for Social Responsibility) Article 5: Why Defend Hackers? (Mitch Kapor) Article 6: The Lessons of the Prodigy Controversy Article 7: How Prosecutors Misrepresented the Atlanta Hackers -------------------- REPRINT PERMISSION GRANTED: Material in EFF News may be reprinted if you cite the source. Where an individual author has asserted copyright in an article, please contact her directly for permission to reproduce. E-mail subscription requests: effnews-request@eff.org Editorial submissions: effnews@eff.org We can also be reached at: Electronic Frontier Foundation 155 Second St. Cambridge, MA 02141 (617) 864-0665 (617) 864-0866 (fax) USENET readers are encouraged to read this publication in the moderated newsgroup comp.org.eff.news. Unmoderated discussion of topics discussed here is found in comp.org.eff.talk. This publication is also distributed to members of the mailing list eff@well.sf.ca.us. 13)============================================================== Seminar/Symposium on Problems of Affirmation in Cultural Theory October 4-6, 1991 The Society for Critical Exchange will sponsor an intensive seminar/symposium on "Problems of Affirmation in Cultural Theory," Oct. 4-6, at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio. Persons interested in participating should contact either David Downing (English, Indiana Univ. of Pennsylvania) or James Sosnoski (English, Miami Univ. of Ohio). 14)============================================================== ANNOUNCING KIDS-91 Schools, teachers, parents, and others interested in children in the age group 10 - 15 are invited to help out with KIDS-91. The project aims at having children participate in a global dialog from now and until May 12 1991. Some of it will be electronic--for those who have access to modems and computers --some of it will be by mail or in other forms. We want to collect the childrens' responses to these questions: 1) Who am I? 2) What do I want to be when I grow up? 3) How do I want the world to be better when I grow up? 4) What can I do NOW to help this come true? We want them to draw or in other creative ways "illustrate" themselves in their future role/world. The responses will be turned into an exhibition that will be sent back to the children of the world. By mid-January 1991 responses have been received from Japan, Australia, India, Israel, Norway, Finland, USSR, Latvia, the United Kingdom, Czechoslovakia, Spain, Argentina, Brazil, the United States and Canada. The responses are available for educators and others through the archives of the discussion list KIDS-91@vm1.nodak.edu. There is also a discussion list for participating kids. To subscribe to the discussion list, send e-mail to listserv@vm1.nodak.edu (or LISTSERV@NDSUVM1 on BITNET) with the BODY or TEXT of the message containing the command SUB KIDS-91 Yourfirstname Yourlastname For more information, contact Odd de Presno, Project Director at opresno@ulrik.uio.no 15)============================================================== MAGAZINE An Electronic Hotline/Conference moderated by Professor David Abrahamson New York University Center for Publishing Interested individuals are invited to participate in an electronic conference, MAGAZINE Hotline, addressing the journalistic/communicative/economic/technological issues related to magazine publishing. Though MAGAZINE's primary focus is journalistic, it also addresses other magazine-publishing matters of economic (management, marketing, circulation, production, research), technological, historical and social importance. In sum, MAGAZINE explores the history, current state and future prospects of the American Magazine. Among the topics included are: magazine editorial trends and practices; journalistic and management norms in magazine publishing; evolving magazine technologies (those currently in use and new ones envisioned); the economics of magazine publishing, including the economic factors influencing magazine content; the history of magazines; the role of magazines in social development; educational issues related to teaching magazine journalism; "laboratory" magazine- project concepts and resources; and studies and research exploring the issues above. The conference is edited and moderated by Professor David Abrahamson of New York University's Center for Publishing, where he teaches the editorial segments of the NYU Management Institute graduate Diploma Course in Magazine Publishing and the Executive Seminar in Magazine Editorial Management. Prof. Abrahamson is also the president of Plexus Research/Editorial Consultants, a management consulting firm, and the author of two teaching texts, "The Magazine Writing Workbook" and "The Magazine Editing Workbook." The MAGAZINE Hotline began discussion on October 1, 1990. Magazine journalism educators, scholars and students, magazine publishing professionals and other individuals interested in magazine issues are encouraged to participate. The MAGAZINE Hotline is sponsored by New York University's Center for Publishing and Comserve (the online information and discussion service for the communication discipline). Those interested in participating in MAGAZINE can subscribe by either: (a) sending an interactive message to COMSERVE@RPIECS with the following command: Subscribe Magazine First_Name Last_Name (Example:) Subscribe Magazine Mary Smith (b) sending this same command (with no other punctuation or words) in the message portion of an electronic mail message addressed to either: COMSERVE@RPIECS (Bitnet) COMSERVE@VM.ECS.RPI.EDU (Internet) The moderator of the MAGAZINE Hotline, David Abrahamson, may be contacted at: INTERNET: abrahamson@acfcluster.nyu.edu BITNET: abrahamson@nyuacf.bitnet VOICE: (212) 689-5446 FAX: (212) 689-1088 MCI-MAIL: 3567652@mcimail.com USPS: 165 east 32, ny ny 10016 For more information about Comserve, send an interactive message or electronic mail message to COMSERVE@RPIECS containing the word "help" (without quotation marks). For other questions about how to subscribe to the Hotline, send an electronic mail message to Comserve's editors at SUPPORT@RPIECS or write to: Comserve, Dept. of Language, Literature & Communication, Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Troy, NY 12180. 16)============================================================== CALL FOR PAPERS LITERATURE, COMPUTERS AND WRITING: THE ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING IN THE HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE ENGLISH CLASSROOM April 19,1991 The fourth annual Computers and English Conference for high school and college teachers of writing Sponsored by the Program in English New York Institute of Technology The 1991 conference on Literature, Computers and Writing will focus on the shared challenges high school and college English teachers face teaching literature and composition in a computer environment. The conference has two primary lines of inquiry: * how are the English studies canon and curriculum changing in response to computerized learning? * how should we design projects for collaborative learning in literature, computers and writing between high schools or between high schools and colleges to share pedagogical resources and methods? In addition to keynote addresses the conference supports presentations which can be either demonstrations of exercises (no longer than five minutes) that work well in the English classroom or arguments (ten to fifteen minutes long) that explain or justify a philosophy or method for a particular classroom practice. Please submit a brief abstract detailing your demonstration or argument. Panel discussions are also welcome. Be sure to include your name, high school or college affiliation, address, and daytime phone number. Suggested Topics: 1. How can computers develop more active readers of literature? 2. How can teaching writing teach literature? 3. How can we use computers to teach literary genre or metaphor? 4. How can we use computers to connect writing to literature? 5. How do computers widen or narrow the concept of literature? 6. How can we use computers to teach the role of audience in literature and writing? 7. How can rhetoric inform the experience of hypermedia? 8. How can speech-act theory apply to hypermedia? 9. How will hypermedia affect the student's understanding of critical consensus? 10. How do computer-based research projects affect students' conception of literary research? 11. How do computers in writing and literature classes change the role of the teacher? 12. How can we use computers to connect high school teachers to high school teachers and/or college teachers? 13. What resources are available to facilitate high school-to-high school and college-to-high school collaboration? 14. How can student collaborative writing, network writing, or talk-writing, be integrated into a literature class? Dates for Submission of Proposals The submission deadline is February 15, 1991. Notification of acceptance is March 10, 1991. Send proposals and requests for information to Department of English New York Institute of Technology Old Westbury, New York 11568 Attn: Ann McLaughlin (516) 686-7557 or r0mill01@ulkyvx.bitnet 72347.2767@compuserve.com rroyar on NYIT technet (CoSy) 17)============================================================== Call for Proposals Society for Literature and Science Annual Conference October 10-13, 1991 Montreal International, interdisciplinary organization invites proposals for papers and sessions on any aspect of the conference theme: Science and Literature -- Beyond Cultural Construction Possible topics might include: -- l'ecriture de la connaissance et la connaissance de l'ecriture -- the popular scientific essay -- literature as technology -- practices in professional life -- texts and contexts -- disciplinary and interdisciplinary language and values Alternative formats -- workshops, debates, poster sessions, roundtables, works-in-progress -- will be welcomed enthusiastically. Deadline for submissions: February 1, 1991 For further information and for submission guidelines, contact: David Lux Bryant College 450 Douglas Pike Smithfield, RI 02917 Bitnet: LDM116 at URIACC 18)============================================================== II INTERNATIONAL ENCOUNTER IN THE PHILOSOPHY OF LANGUAGE August 04-09, 1991. II WINTER INSTITUTE July 8 to August 3, 1991 Universidade Estadual de Campinas (Brazil) THE INTER-RELATIONS BETWEEN MENTAL AND VERBAL DISCOURSE INTERDISCIPLINARY PERSPECTIVES c a l l f o r p a p e r s Although the Greek term "Logos" referred both to language and to cognition, suggesting an intimate relationship between them, this relation has been traditionally assumed to be relatively simple: in production, a language-independent train of thought ("mental discourse") is translated (or "encoded") into language ("verbal discourse"); and in reception, verbal discourse is decoded into its appropriate mental counterpart. Such a picture of the inter-relations between the two most important of our intellectual activities has been challenged in the course of history on many grounds. Most recently, with the development of empirical disciplines such as artificial intelligence, cognitive science, semantics, pragmatics, neurophysiology, cognitive anthropology, and others -- interested both in language and in mental processes -- and with the renewed and intense interest of philosophy in these issues, it is clear that the traditional picture is, to say the least, excessively simplistic. Given the complexity of the two activities involved, and the wealth of information on each of them, a proficuous study of their inter-relations can only be the result of a co-operative, multi-disciplinary endeavor. It is the purpose of this Encounter to provide a forum for, and thereby to stimulate, such an endeavor. Here are some precisions concerning the kind of contributions and topics that the organizers are seeking: 1. By choosing the term `discourse', we intend to stress our interest in processes (mental, verbal), rather than on products. The latter are to be discussed only in so far as they illuminate the former. 2. The focus should be on the inter-relations of mental and verbal discourse, rather than on independent analyses of each. 3. The theme may be envisaged from a number of points of view, varying in aspect, methodology, and level of analysis. The following list is not intended to be exhaustive: METHODOLOGY: phenomenological description; experimental studies; statistical studies; epistemological analyses;... LEVELS: historical; comparative; metalinguistic; philosophical; pragmatic;... ASPECTS: description and theory; acquisition, development, loss; pathology; neurophysiology; therapy; applications;... Any particular kind of mental/verbal interaction can be looked at through the lense of a specific combination of aspect, methodology, and level. For instance, suppose one is interested in the mental/verbal inter-relations involved in the production and understanding of jokes. One can then investigate how such an ability is, say, acquired; one's methodology can be, say, experimental; and one can, say, either investigate only one culture, or else compare the acquisition of the ability across cultures. Different combinations of the above points of view are likely to be characteristic of different disciplines, or of various multi-disciplinary combinations, already established or radically new. PRACTICAL INFORMATION: 1. Deadline for submission of 500 words abstracts, in 4 camera-ready copies: February 28, 1991. 2. Address for correspondence: International Encounter in the Philosophy of Language CLE/UNICAMP C.P. 6133 13081 Campinas SP BRAZIL e-mail (bitnet): eifl@bruc.ansp.br 3. Fees: U$ 40.00 - if paid until if paid until March 15, 1991 U$ 80.00 - if paid after if paid after March 16, 1991 4. Official Languages: Portuguese, Spanish and English . 5. Winter Institute: There will be a Winter Institute, prior to the Encounter, for graduate students and faculty. This consists of up to six one-month intensive courses granting graduate credits. A list of the courses will be available early in 1991. Faculty will include well-known foreign and local researchers in fields related to the theme of the Encounter. Fellowships for Brazilian and Latin-american students are being negotiated with financing agencies. 6. Invited Scholars: So far, the following foreign scholars have agreed to participate as plenary lecturers: James Higginbotham (MIT), Yorick Wilks (COmputing Research Laboratory, Las Cruces, New Mexico), Stephen Stich (Rutgers), John Perry (Stanford University), Humberto Maturana (Universidad de Chile), Frantisek Danes (Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences). Yorick Wilks, Frantisek Danes and James Higginbotham will also teach graduate courses during the Winter Institute. 7. Organizing committee: Marcelo Dascal, chair Edson Francozo, secretary Claudia T. G. de Lemos Eduardo R. J. Guimaraes Itala L. D'Ottaviano Rodolfo Ilari, Winter Institute (director) Please, fill in the form below and mail it as soon as possible. ----------------------- cut here ------------------------------- Registration Form (fill in with block letters) Name:____________________________________________________________ Street Address:___________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________ Country:___________________________________________________ Check those which apply: __ I WILL contribute a paper. Title: ______________________ ________________________________________________________ __ I WILL NOT contribute a paper, but will attend the Encounter. __ I wish to attend the WINTER INSTITUTE. __ I would like to receive further information as soon as available. __ Included is cheque no.____________for US $_________. ----------------------- cut here ------------------------------- Send the registration form to: International Encounter in the Philosophy of Language CLE/UNICAMP C.P. 6133 13081 Campinas SP BRAZIL e-mail (bitnet): eifl@bruc.ansp.br You can send your registration through e-mail. In this case, append your 500-word abstract to the e-mail message. An acknowledgement will be forwarded within a week's time. PLEASE, PRINT AND POST 19)============================================================== programme of POSTMODERNIST POSTMORTEM (held on January 2, 1991) Claude Gandelman. Introductory words on the subject: "Various interpretations of the POSTMODERNIST concept... is there an "after"? David Gurevitch (Philosophy, Bar Ilan University):"Postmod: rejection of ideology and rejection of the 'avant-garde' conception". Mikhal Friedmann (Tel-Aviv University)"Postmodernist Cinema: from Godard to Godard". Dagan Moshli (Aechitecture Department, The Israel Institute of Technology - Technion): "The postmod-deconstructivist transition". Sanford Sheymann (Curator of the University Gallery):"On a postmod painter: Robert Yarbur". Claudine Elnekaveh (Haifa University). "Postmodernist theater in Spain". The afternoon session was devoted to two round-tables: 1. Roundtable session around the book of Brian McHale (Porter Institute, Tel-Aviv University):Post-Modernist Fiction. Brian McHale answered the numerous questions that mainly focused on two main problems: his division of fiction into ontological types and epistemological types; and his concept of "breaking the ontological frames" as a characteristic of postmod devices. 2. The second round-table was devoted to the state of postmodernism in French letters. According to Jacqueline Michel (Haifa University) none of the contemporary leading French poets use the term "postmodern" though some of them seem to be heavily under the influence of postmodernist American poetry. Sylvio Yeshuah (Tel-Aviv Univ.) evoked the "NON FINITO" component in Postmodernism and the relation between postmod literature and "the fragment". David Mendelson (Tel-Aviv University) evoked the Bible as the source of specific postmodernist games with typography. 20)============================================================== Sessions on SCIENCE, KNOWLEDGE, AND TECHNOLOGY at the Southwestern Social Science Association Annual Meetings in San Antonio, Texas. DATES FOR THE MEETINGS ARE MARCH 27 - 30, 1991. SCIENTIFIC KNOWLEDGE: CONSTRUCTION, SELECTION, AND DECONSTRUCTION Chair: Raymond A. Eve, University of Texas at Arlington 1. "Information Technology as Instantiation of Cultural Knowledge." Brian Moore, University of Texas at Dallas. 2. "Knowledge as Metaphor." Gretchen Sween, University of Texas at Dallas. 3. "The Selection and Ordering of Knowledge." John Pester. University of Texas at Dallas. 4. "Some Social Implications of Chaos Theory." Alex Argyros, University of Texas at Dallas. Discussant: Alex Argyros, University of Texas at Dallas SCIENTICE AND LEGITIMATION: SOME CRITICAL PERSPECTIVES Chair: Larry Stern, Collin Co. Community College 5. "The Autonomous Scientific Authority of an Unorthodox Theory about AIDS." Christopher P. Toumey. North Carolina State University. 6. "The Cultural Basis of American Medical Technology: Implications for Health Care." Kathryn J. Luchok, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. 7. "Cultural Risk: An Analysis of the Social Implications of Biotechnology." Will D. Boggs, The University of Texas at Austin. 8. "The Reception of Extrodinary Scientific Claims." Larry Stern, Collin Co. Community College. 9. "Departmental Structure and Scientific Productivity." Thomas K. Pinhey, Cal Poly State University and Michael D. Grimes, LSU. Discussant: Raymond A. Eve, University of Texas at Arlington 21)============================================================== NOTE ON UNC PRESS FIRE The staff of the University of North Carolina Press greatly appreciates the many expressions of support following the fire that destroyed our office building on December 5. Fortunately, no one was injured, and although we lost a great deal of Press history, we can now report that all books on the Spring 1991 list will be published on time. It is not surprising that, hearing news of the fire, many are concerned about the future of the Press. Despite the loss of our office building, we are in remarkably good shape. We have saved many paper and electronic files; our contracts are safe; our warehouse inventory was not involved in in the fire. And UNC Press editors and marketing staff were at our December book exhibits at the AHA, MLA, and AIA/APA as usual. Rebuilding our office building will take a number of months. In the interim, while we are housed in our temporary offices, you can reach us at the same telephone and FAX numbers--and at the same mailing address. Thank you for your good wishes. We have lost a building, but the University of North Carolina Press itself is very much in business, functioning well, and publishing award-winning books. The University of North Carolina Press David Perry PO Box 2288 Editor Chapel Hill, NC 27515 carlos@ecsvax 919-966-3561 carlos@uncecs.edu 919-966-3829 (FAX) 1-800-848-6224 (Orders) ----------------------------------------------------------------- -
Postface
[What follows is a written exchange between the editors about the contents of this issue of Postmodern Culture. As a “postface,” it is meant to be read after the other items in the issue; we hope it will serve as a preface to discussion among other readers. Please send your comments on the issue to the discussion group, PMC-TALK@NCSUVM (PMC-TALK@NCSUVM.NCSU.EDU on the Internet).]
- John:Many of the works in the last issue of PMC were concerned in one way or another with that “crude particular,” the body: this concern seems to carry over into the second issue, focusing on the body as one pole–positive or negative–in the field of identity. As you might expect, the body brings with it some familiar metaphysical pitfalls– nostalgia for presence and for the unitary sense of self, especially. What’s interesting is the way a number of the works in this issue address these problems.Eyal:While body and voice are conventional opposites, several of the works here also bring out the slippage between them, the way one can become the other. For Howe body becomes voice: the figure of other is “thin as paper,” present in her own writing and so made concrete, part of “invincible things as they are.” For O’Donnell voice becomes body: he singles out the “Frigicom process” proposed as an invention in
JR
- whereby voice is frozen, made portable. Both are kinds of transferal, bridging gaps, but one is redemptive and necessary to the identity of the present, the other threatening, potential ordinance.John:The technology of communication is directly implicated in both the redemptive and the threatening aspects of ‘language made portable’– redemptive for Ulmer, threatening for O’Donnell. Bernstein, talking about the way some postwar poets accept the materiality of language, makes a point which might be applied to many of these essays: he says that there is a “persistence of dislocation, of going on in the face of all the terms being changed” which nonetheless does not amount to a new “equilibrium grounded on repressing the old damage.” It is at least arguable that language or voice acquires materiality exactly in the moment of being dislocated from the body of the speaker, and though that dislocation is potentially dangerous (in that it makes it possible to commodify voice), it also makes it possible to break up and break into the authoritative monologues of history and identity, constructing a present out of the frozen (and shattered) voices of the past.Eyal:This dis-location, disjunction, and portability of language-as-body, material language, enables both openness and control. Because the self is disjunctive it can be reconstructed, reinvented (Trembath); poetry has a special claim on us because it is its own monument, because in it loss and presence coexist (Hart’s reading of Mills- Courts); and if we are to undertake a critical project that would disown what Bernstein calls the “nonbiodegradable byproducts” of logocentrism (as Ulmer urges us to do), such a project would have to acknowledge that nonbiodegradability and to contain the metaphors it deconstructs, the broken idols now made to dance in a godless pantheon. On the other hand, this disjunction stages language in the theater of mass-media production, making identity (as Dolan implies) especially susceptible to simulation and manipulation.John:These writers respond to disjunction in different ways, though. There’s Howe’s project of understanding how the past structures the present, which is the sort of project Bernstein; then there’s the activity of restructuring the manner in which we appropriate the past, which is a large part of what Ulmer wants us to do; there’s also a sort of reconstruction in bad faith (Dolan discusses this) where the present is justified with reference to a past reconstituted to suit the purposes of the moment; and finally, there’s the sense that one can never really adapt to disjunction. McCorkle’s “Combustion of Early Summer” is an example:
Sorting things out, nothing really fits: The puzzle of mountains with pieces from a regatta, We have pieces from other lives, The difficulty is to remember them . . . . If these responses have anything in common, it's a lack of nostalgia or the note of loss.- Eyal:There is no nostalgia here because nothing was there in the first place–if nothing was lost then nothing can be recovered–but there is no coldness in relation to the past. These writers feel the past, whether they find it to be immediate (as Bernstein does so explicitly) or inaccessible. In McCorkle’s work the past is intangible but its effect is not:
the past buzzes around us, A conversation in another room we thought dormant, Soon its occupants will crash through the door- The past makes us up, but we do not know it and so cannot be sure of ourselves, either. The effect is a lyrical desire that comes out of ignorance, out of absence rather than loss. Howe also recognizes the task of deciphering the “buried texts” of the past, and feels “haunted and inspired” by them. Hashmi’s posthumous Beckett is a Sibylline figure for the perseverance of the voice despite the dissolution of the body–or especially because of it.
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Graven Images
Henry Hart
The College of William & Mary
Karen Mills-Courts. Poetry as Epitaph, Representation and Poetic Language. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State Univ. Press, 1990. 326 pp. $39.95 cloth, $16.95 paper.
It might seem strange that a book erected on the deconstructionist foundations of Jacques Derrida should take its title from that celebrated advocate of hierarchies, T.S. Eliot. Since titles foreshadow unities of theme and stance, at first glance it would appear that Karen Mills-Courts’s Poetry as Epitaph courts the courtly values of Eliot, authorizing and ordering her own critical principles by locating them in Eliot’s authoritative shadow. Eliot’s presence certainly haunts much of her book, most noticeably at the end of the introduction where she quotes from “Little Gidding”: “Every poem [is] an epitaph.” She also provides the longer passage which sketches Eliot’s belief in poetic propriety, “where every word is at home / Taking its place to support the others, / The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, / An easy commerce of the old and new. . . .” For Mills-Courts, this endorsement of a poetic language that is decorous, humble, and unified, organically lodged in tradition yet politely asserting its modernity, mixing memory and desire, ends and beginnings, dead and living, is the gist of “T.S. Eliot’s remarkable moment of insight.”
The moment is also an end and a beginning for her own investigation into poetry’s ability to either present or represent, incarnate or imitate the mind’s inspired thoughts. Her attitude towards Eliot typifies the theme of the book. If she supplicates Eliot’s ghost, engraving his words on the gray, tombstone-like cover of her book, she also argues against and periodically expels his presence and the Platonic and Christian notions of spiritualized language (“tinged with fire beyond the language of the living”) that during privileged “timeless moments” supposedly incarnate the poet’s visions. She explains her own stance as poised between “Heidegger [who] thinks of language as presentational or ‘incarnative’” and “Derrida [who] thinks of language as ungrounded ‘representation’.” Through her bifocal lenses she examines representative texts from the beginning of what she would call, with Derrida, the logocentric tradition of western culture, and proceeds to map a gradual disillusionment with the capacity of the logos to embody or present intended meanings. She moves from Plato, the Bible, and Augustine through George Herbert, Wordsworth, and Shelley, and finishes with a lengthy discussion of John Ashbery. In some ways, however, Eliot remains her shadowy guide, her principle example of the poet torn between an ontotheological conviction that poetry is the living incarnation of the maker’s divinely inspired conceptions, analogous to God’s creation and incarnation, and the more sober recognition that word and world are always already fallen, that “Words strain, / Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, / Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, / Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, / Will not stay still,” as Eliot said in “Burnt Norton.” To this disillusioned view, words are simply dead or dying marks on the page, representations of representations that are continually losing their representational power and slipping into a confusion of tangential meanings.
Although Heidegger and Derrida provide most of the theoretical framework for her debate, dividing the book between a logocentric viewpoint at the beginning and a deconstructionist one at the end, Mills-Courts shies away from taking a firm, dogmatic stand on one side or the other. She is critical of Plato for his denigration of writing as a paltry substitute for speech but she is also critical of Derrida for his repudiation of authorial intentionality. If Plato is too idealistic, Derrida is too skeptical. In the end she sides with the poets who shy away from factional positions, who, in contrast with the ideologues, vacillate in the tense no-man’s-land between rival camps. Referring to Heidegger’s and Derrida’s conflicting linguistic views, she says: “Caught between them, the poet creates a poem that is overtly intended to work as ‘unconcealment,’ as the incarnation of a presence, the embodiment of a voice in words. Yet, he displays that voice as an inscription carved on a tombstone. In other words, he covertly acknowledges that the poem is representational, that it substitutes itself for a presence that has been absolutely silenced. For the very words that seem to give life simultaneously announce the death of the speaker.” Although Mills-Courts acts as a moderator to the two sides, occasionally stepping aside to note inconsistencies or biases in the views propounded by her theorists, the procedures and preoccupations of her book–the way she progresses from one major figure to another in western tradition, outlining and evaluating their attitudes toward speech, writing, being, and meaning–it readily becomes apparent that she favors one over the other, that her largest debt is to Derrida. In Poetry as Epitaph she has written her own Grammatology, although in a less eccentric style and from a more compromising point-of-view than Derrida’s. Still it is Derrida’s deconstructionist perceptions and tactics that captivate her most overtly.
The problem motivating the sort of linguistic discussion that attracts Derrida and Mills-Courts arises from a promise or ideal that language, on close examination, fails to fulfill. Ideally, language would mean what it says; it would communicate an unambiguous message and reveal in unmistakable terms, like a clear window, the being and intentions of its author. But because signs are not what they signify, because there is always a gap between mark and meaning, sign and signified, and because signs usually trigger off chains of significance rather than one, intelligible reference, all sorts of strategies have been concocted to circumvent linguistic imprecision and attain a more fulfilling way of communicating. Plato and Socrates advocated discovering the logos of reason, thought, and spirit through the logos of speech. Writing, they argued, distorted and distanced the mind’s meaning through dead representations which could not be questioned because the author was absent. Meaning and intention were veiled by the text rather than revealed by it. Only the voice through dialogue could present and clarify authorial truths. As a result, Socrates spoke rather than wrote. Christian and other religious ideologies frequently sought to dispense with the cumbersome medium of language altogether, associating it with the corrupt body or the fallen material world. The transcendental silence of meditation provided a more felicitous way to commune with inner spirit and external divinity. Frustrated by the circuitous way words refer to things, Jonathan Swift’s professors at the Academy of Lagado came up with their own way of short-circuiting traditional communication. According to them, it was “more convenient for all Men to carry about them, such Things as were necessary to express the particular Business they are to discourse on.” Swift is obviously ridiculing the linguistic idealists and their schemes to contain the sign’s ambiguous proliferation of meaning–what Derrida calls dissemination or play. In this case the linguistic purists must bear the burden of their rectified language on their backs. Like Mills-Courts, Swift favors a more realistic attitude. Behind her praise for Derrida, Ashbery, and the postmodernists is the same desire to expose and demystify linguistic idealism. She too criticizes the various tribes of Lagado that fail to accept the way language actually works.
Her culminating chapter posits Ashbery as Derrida’s closest cousin among postmodernist poets mainly because his poetry expresses the epitaphic way in which she feels language works. Throughout the book she argues that language, and specifically poetry, resembles a gravestone marking the presence of its absent author and the absence of its author’s presence. It is a dead representation haunted by the presence of a dead but somehow living person, one who once intended meanings though they are now obscure (not unfathomable or nonexistent, as some deconstructionists would maintain). In short, poetic language is Derridean as well as Heideggerean. Ashbery bridges these contraries, Mills-Courts believes, like no other contemporary poet. He is radically skeptical of language’s power to present or incarnate the spirit of the authorial logos, but still he believes–and this is why Mills-Courts celebrates him–in “Poetry as performance, as an epitaphic endeavor that displays both the absence and the presence of an intending ‘I,’ poetry that does not delude itself into believing that it has captured self-presence in a privileged moment, [but still exerts] . . . hope against all odds.” For Mills- Courts Ashbery is heroic and exemplary because he deconstructs the sacred tenets of the logocentric tradition, yet he never bottoms-out in nihilistic despair. His poetry keeps questioning and questing, tracing an elegant, quixotic path toward self-representation that never completely arrives. It resists the death of all conclusive representations and resolutions, all its temporary domiciles along the romantic way, in order to generate the desire for new ones which, in turn, must be deemed tentative and dismantled in order to keep the ongoing quest going on.
In her Acknowledgements Mills-Courts pays homage to one of her teachers for showing her “the elegance of theory.” Like Ashbery’s poetry, her book manages to be elegant and theoretical at the same time, which is quite a feat, especially when one considers the plethora of theoretical books which equate turgid style with profound thought. Deconstruction, she argues, does not necessarily entail stylistic butchery. This is one of the ironies she insists on: deconstructing often requires the most careful and rigorous constructing; it tears apart old, petrified conceptions but erects elegant scaffolding and newfangled equipment in the process. Its judicious reordering of hierarchies which have imprisoned though and oppressed conduct in the past does not simply scatter all thought, being, and meaning to the winds. Instead, it offers different systems for consideration and most notably advocates a tolerance of differences where intolerance and hierarchy were the rule. She makes this point in an examination of Ashbery’s “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror”: “The irony involved in writing words that ‘are no words’ has its roots in a gesture in which language is employed to convey even as it declares the impossibility of containing meaning.” Although Ashbery and Mills-Courts elegize the death of traditional concepts of meaning, presence, self, author, and so on, as in most elegies they acknowledge an afterlife for the deceased. Their Elysium is the haunted house of language. Their deconstructionist styles do not demolish the graveyards and empty tombs in anarchic revolt but, by contrast, reembody the remains in epitaphic valediction.
While Mills-Courts musters her theoretical arguments with a judicious clarity rare in academic books, and applies her tools to a wide variety of texts with great skill, the book would be even better if more writers were investigated or at least mentioned. After reading Poetry as Epitaph, for instance, one might assume that Ashbery is the only postmodernist poet concerned with such things as authorial status, linguistic dissemination, and logocentric myths. Yet these preoccupations are shared by dozens of other postmodern poets, some conservative and some radical, some formalist and some antiformalist. Geoffrey Hill, Seamus Heaney, Philip Larkin, James Merrill–to name just a few of the ‘neoformalist’ heirs to the New Critics and Modernists– as it turns out, address the same grammatological issues as the Language Poets, although they are stylistically and often ideologically different. It is odd that none of these poets is mentioned in Poetry as Epitaph. The last word in her book, which is taken from Ashbery, is “guidelines,” and Mills-Courts is probably as aware as we are that her book, which surveys so much, has its limits. Her chosen guidelines contribute to the book’s strengths, but as she says of Ashbery, “longing” surfaces when guidelines are delineated, and our natural response to her own book is to long for more.
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The Satanism Scare
Gerry O’Sullivan
University of Pennsylvania
The satanism scare has spawned its share of rumor panics over the last several years. This past Halloween, fundamentalist and evangelical pastors across the country fed faxes to one another about an international convocation of satanists allegedly held in Washington, D.C. in September. The gathering–or so self-described experts claimed–was intended to allow devil-worshippers from around the world to meet in order to further the downfall of Christendom, intensify the war on family values, and to continue consolidation of their stranglehold on government.
Based upon the dubious assertions of one self-styled former satanist, Hezekiah ben Aaron, the rumor achieved widespread currency. Pat Robertson made mention of the meeting on his “700 Club,” USA Today reported both on the tale and the Christian countermeasures, and one California- based ministry used it in a fundraising letter.
While the infernal ingathering never occurred, it did produce a flurry of counterfeit documents. Detailed day-to- day schedules of events were photocopied and circulated among church leaders, complete with reports of satanic weddings and baptisms. Christians across the country convened to wage a prayerful campaign of “spiritual warfare” against the perceived evildoers. And the complete lack of evidence regarding the convention was received as still further proof of the cunning of the conspirators, always able to successfully cover their hoofprints.
Several such “panics”–usually far more localized–have had tragic results. Several churches with largely black congregations have been vandalized or set ablaze when word spread that parishioners were, in actuality, practicing satanic rites behind closed doors. Preschools have been emptied of children by parents fearful that teachers were “ritually abusing” their charges. Timothy Hughes of Altus, Oklahoma murdered his wife after watching the now notorious 1988 Geraldo special on satanism, convinced that she was a devil-worshipper. And armed mobs in upstate New York threatened to assault punks who had gathered at a warehouse for a hardcore concert, fearing that they were “really” assembling to sacrifice a blonde-haired, blue-eyed child to Lucifer.
A handful of folklorists have tracked such regional rumor panics, finding startlingly similar patterns from case to case. One constantly recurring theme concerns the racial identity of the satanists’ “intended victim.” The ideal offering, at least according to popular mythology, is a young and virginal child–always white, always fair-haired, always blue-eyed. Jeffrey Victor, a sociologist at Jamestown Community College (Jamestown was the location of the New York warehouse scare cited above), has collected hundreds of such stories from across the country, all with this theme at its center. And in each case, the racial component is key. The unseen and vaguely identified satanist is therefore defined as desiring his or her other– the pure and virginal as opposed to the dark and contaminated. The binarism is assumed, and the selfhood of the devil-worshipper is automatically constituted, through its ritualized desire, by inversion.
For instance, in the wake of the Matamoros affair, when the bodies of a University of Texas student and the murdered rivals of a drug-running gang were found buried on a Mexican ranch, daycare centers along the Tex-Mex border were rife with rumors that “Mexican satanists” were planning to storm south Texas towns in retaliation for arrests in the case–an occult twist on the myth of the brown invading horde. And said devil-worshippers were again in search of blue-eyed, fair-haired children from surrounding communities.
Central to the satanism scare is a specific social (and, as we’ve seen, racial) fantasy of the family. Mythical satanists allegedly prey upon infants, young children, and pets–threshold figures and “weak links” in the household. Once abducted, the child, cat or dog is offered as a sacrifice during some sexually-charged, moonlit rite. But the victim is never simply slaughtered. In the lore of pop satanism, its body must be cannibalized and its blood consumed by the “coven” of devil-worshippers in order to allow for a transfer of power.
But the family is threatened from within as well as from without. While both children and pets are seen as satanic quarry, adolescents are depicted as ideal candidates for membership in such cults. Teenagers are cast as potential and unwitting dupes of cult leaders, properly socialized for the requisite ritual violence by the icons of their culture –heavy metal, hardcore and neo-gothic music, “occult” jewelry, black clothing, and Saturday morning cartoons which–as some pastors and Christian activists allege–are covertly training children in satanically- inspired, “new age” thinking.
In all of this, the teenager is never described as an agent, possessed of volition. Rather, feeling disempowered, the adolescent is said to seek out power “from below” (but through necromancy rather than, say, insurgency). His or her choice is never, however, seen as a simple act of willful defiance or resistance. It is conditioned by a kind of devious social programming which, in its way, parodies both consumerism and marketing.
The typical teenager, or so the professional lore of the satanologist has it, goes to his or her local music store to buy the latest Judas Priest, Dio, or King Diamond release. Little does he or she know, however, that certain tracks have been “backmasked” with demonic messages which are intended to engender devil-worship, mayhem, suicide and murder (usually of parents). There’s a kind of truth-in- advertising problem here–kids aren’t getting what they pay for. And once so hooked, they move on to ritual cannibalism, itself a fantasy of consumption gone wild.
Hundreds of professional training manuals on satanism and “occult-related crime” have appeared over the past several years, aimed at police officers, pastors, school administrators and psychologists. And in most cases, adolescent behavior of the most typical varieties is described as satanic or “pre-occultic.” Kids who question traditional religion or refuse to attend church, act rebelliously, meditate, or dress in black are, according to several checklists, automatically suspect. Adolescence is itself demonized as something wild, dark and uncontrollable.
Based upon incorrect information in such training manuals, schools in Kentucky, Florida and California–among others–have banned the wearing of peace symbols on t-shirts or in jewelry because it is, in reality, the satanic “cross of Nero”–a broken and inverted cross used by the “pagan” Romans (and later the nazis) to mock Christianity. This is an old right-wing canard originally promulgated by Louis Pauwels and Jacques Bergier in The Morning of the Magicians, later picked up and circulated by “former satanic high priest,” Mike Warnke, in a wildly popular little anti-occult book called The Satan Seller. Unfortunately, this piece of folklore has appeared and reappeared in police guides over the years.
Likewise, one high school principal in Annapolis, Maryland sent letters home to the parents of black-clad teens, warning that their sons and daughters might very well be involved in devil-worship and advising them to search rooms and bookbags for other tell-tale signs of occult dabbling. Anyone wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the name of a metal band was also picked out of the cafeteria line-up by the vigilant principal, to be later reported to parents. Unfortunately, some families have taken the satanic panic one step further, sending their children off to “de- metalizing” and “de-satanizing” camps for “treatment” at the hands of fundamentalist pastors. Centers with names like “Back in Control” and “Motivations Unlimited” have been established to forcibly deprogram the would-be teen satanist.
The satanism scare is “about” several things, among them: the demonization of adolescent behavior through folkloric and often lurid accounts of bloodletting, cannibalism and sex; a struggle over the constitution of knowledge elites (the satanologist–usually a self-described cult cop or pastor–versus “professional” educators and psychologists who may be skeptical of their claims: it’s no coincidence that most so-called cult cops are professing Christians and members of groups like Cops for Christ); and the ideological reinstitution of the family as racially pure, intact, and continually threatened from without by dark and hooded people emerging from the shadows to steal “our” tow-headed children. Combined with forged documents modelled upon The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, fears of bloodthirsty invaders from the south, and tales which simply reiterate the medieval blood libel, the fear of satanism seems to point in several different, and very dangerous, directions.
The satanic panic combines the worst of several scares peculiar to the eighties–terrorism, secular humanism, drugs and child-kidnapping–to frame a largely Christian, populist critique of mass cultural forms. But its analyses remain mired in conspiracy thinking, racism, eschatological anticipation, and the displacement of what are primarily familial ills (child abuse and incest) onto highly secretive and hooded outsiders.
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Crisis In The Gulf, by George Bush, Saddam Hussein, Et Alia. As Told tothe New York Times.
Frederick M. Dolan
University of California at Berkeley
. . . the bases for historical knowledge are not empirical facts but written texts, even if these texts masquerade in the guise of wars or revolutions.
— Paul de Man
In the life of a nation, we’re called upon to define who we are and what we believe. Sometimes the choices are not easy. As today’s President, I ask for your support in the decision I’ve made to stand up for what’s right and condemn what’s wrong all in the cause of peace.
— George Bush
The crisis in the Gulf, as today’s President acknowledges, is in large measure a crisis of self- definition: a matter of identity (as in defining America’s role in a post-cold war world, and indeed of writing the rules for such a world), of marking or highlighting the boundary between self and other (as in the ownership and control of “the world’s largest oil reserves,” or as between the civilized and the uncivil). Following a long Orientalist tradition, the West feels compelled to go elsewhere in search of its defining characteristics, even if this means, to use President Bush’s own metaphor, drawing lines in the sand. As his image forces one to reflect, sand–especially the shifting, wind-blown sand of the Arabian Empty Quarter–is a most unstable medium, and a line drawn in it is likely to be erased with the next change in weather. The contours of the boundary lines and identity President Bush hopes to define remain, it is true, somewhat murky. At the same time, for those who have followed literary theory over the past two decades, the battle over what meaning to assign Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait possesses an uncanny familiarity. The seemingly anarchic spin-doctoring of American officials charged with formulating war aims that seem at once defensible and feasible, and the way in which their efforts have been judged and interpreted in the press, have to do, in particular, with the much-discussed questions of allegory, symbol, and irony.
At first glance, the debate in Congress and the media appears to be an argument over the appropriate allegorical reading of the Gulf crisis, with the Bush administration insisting on the pre-text of World War II and the lessons of Munich, and its critics favoring the script of Vietnam. To much of the public, the Bush administration’s deployment of nearly 400,000 troops, and billions of dollars of weaponry both high-tech and low, is allegorically intelligible in terms of the story of America’s tragic and ambiguous “involvement” in Vietnam. As in Vietnam, it is said, the United States is taking the lead in fighting somebody else’s war; as in Vietnam, the Middle East is figured as a “quagmire” in which American troops will become–what else?–“bogged down.” The Middle East will be transformed into a huge Lebanon, with the emergence of hopelessly ambiguous and complex factions intractable to the Manichaean American mind. American morale will gradually be destroyed, and America’s standing in the world will once again be diminished.
Against this allegorical interpretation of the crisis, officials, media pundits, and a farrago of “experts” on matters from national security to Middle Eastern politics insist that the events taking place in the Gulf bear no relevant relationship to Vietnam. Our commitment in the Gulf is clear and forceful where it was ambiguous and shifting in Vietnam. As opposed to the gradual escalation that characterized Vietnam, plans for war in the Gulf, in so far as we can tell from press reports, suggest an all-out, all-or-nothing operation. More importantly–though for ideological reasons this point,qua allegory, must remain tacit–the campaign against Saddam Hussein involves “big principles” and “vital interests” (the tacit point being that Vietnam involved neither). The vital interests are variously described as oil or jobs; the big principles are those of territorial integrity, opposition to aggressive war, and respect for United Nations resolutions. The allegorical pre-text for the Persian Gulf crisis, in this optic, must be World War II, in which economic interests and unassailable principles fortuitously combined to produce a “Good War.” Indeed, the invasion of Kuwait was allegorized almost from the beginning of the crisis. The first reported invocation of the Munich Analogy is attributed to “Senator Claiborne Pell of Rhode Island, the Democratic chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, [who] called Mr. Hussein `the Hitler of the Middle East’ and criticized Mr. Bush for not having moved earlier to forestall an invasion.”1
The significance of the crisis was more fully articulated the next day in a column by Flora Lewis entitled “Fruits of Appeasement.”2 Characterizing the takeover of Kuwait as a “blitzkrieg invasion,” Lewis notes how it caused “European commentators to remember Hitler,” whose lust for power also provoked a “dithering argument over whether it was wiser to indulge him or try to isolate and block him . . . until it was too late.” Like Hitler, Hussein’s aims are not regional, but global: “he is determined to become the great leader of the Arab nation, and not just another nation but a world power based on guns and oil. His relentless drive for a nuclear weapon is not only to threaten his neighbors and Israel; it is to change the whole balance of power.” The day after Lewis’s column appeared, A.M. Rosenthal confirmed her reading, characterizing the invasion as “a declaration of war against Western power and economic independence” and asserting that “Western leaders have failed in their duty to prepare action against the plainest threats of aggression since Adolf Hitler.”3 A few days later he rounded out the picture by placing the invasion of Kuwait within a larger narrative whose plot is driven by anti-Semitism: “Hussein’s dream of dominating the Arab Middle East was never separate from his vision of ultimate duty and destiny–the elimination of the state of Israel. […] For all other Arabs who long for Israel’s extinction, Saddam Hussein’s passion against the Jews is what counts. . . .”4
Bush quickly caught on. Although in his first statements he invoked Hitler only obliquely, describing how “Iraq’s tanks stormed in blitzkrieg fashion through Kuwait in a few short hours,”5 and attempted to justify possible war by reference to U.S. economic and energy interests, by the middle of August he was relying heavily on the allegory of World War II. In a speech to the Pentagon, for example, the President reminded his audience that “A half a century ago, our nation and the world paid dearly for appeasing an aggressor,” and went on to vow that “We are not going to make the same mistake again.”6 Over the next few months, Bush struggled to make U.S. policy in the Gulf allegorically intelligible through reference to World War II. Iraqi aggression, Bush said in early November as he announced new troop deployments, “is not just a challenge to the security of Kuwait and other Gulf nations, but to the better world that we have all hoped to build in the wake of the cold war. The state of Kuwait must be restored, or no nation will be safe, and the promising future we anticipate will indeed be jeopardized.”7 In December Bush was still offering this theme. In Hussein, he insisted, like Hitler, we find “a dangerous dictator all too willing to use force, who has weapons of mass destruction and is seeking new ones and who desires to control one of the world’s key resources. . . .”8 Indeed, Hussein was at one point alleged to beworse than Hitler.
Whatis the allegorical significance of World War II? The obvious meaning has to do with the dangers of appeasing tyrants, of course, and this is the interpretation supplied by the Bush administration. But I think I can discern in the speeches and pronouncements and debates another meaning as well, one that becomes accessible through Paul de Man’s interpretation of the ideological function of the “symbol” in Romantic literature.9 The symbol was understood by the Romantics as a privileged representation whose meaning derived from its evocation of an extra-linguistic relationship as opposed to significance generated through linguistic conventions or relationships, such as allegory, where the meaning of a story depends upon a larger narrative. For de Man, the appeal of a symbolic understanding of representation is to allow the time-bound, finite subject to “supplement” himself with nature’s eternal laws:
The temptation exists . . . for the self to borrow, so to speak, the temporal stability that it lacks from nature, and to devise strategies by means of which nature is brought down to a human level while still escaping from "the unimaginable touch of time." (De Man, 197)
Wordsworth, for example, represents the “movements of nature” as “endurance within a pattern of change, the assertion of a metatemporal, stationary state beyond the apparent decay of a mutability that attacks certain outward aspects of nature but leaves the core intact” as in “The immeasurable height / Of woods decaying, never to be decayed / The stationary blast of waterfalls. . . .” (The Prelude, quoted in De Man, 197). Through such privileged signs, the subject moves beyond temporal limits to a confrontation with the eternal real. For de Man, however, the very idea of a symbol, as a figure, relies on an act of “ontological bad faith,” a mystification of language that suppresses the dependence ofalllinguistic figuration on a range of pre-texts or pre-existing literary signs.
The utility of de Man’s analysis is that it enables us to grasp that the official allegorizing of the Gulf crisis is notput forward as allegory; rather, the intent is to establish Iraqi aggression as asymbol in the Romantic sense. World War II was the “Good War” because it rescued us from our finite, mutable, temporal concerns and put us in direct contact with the Real: the eternal, unchanging moral and political principles that define us as a nation. President Bush hopes to convince us that Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait offers an opportunity to step outside the everyday administrative concerns of politics and business as usual, and renew our commitment to the principles that make us who we are; it is in this sense that, in Bush’s words, the Gulf crisis calls us to “define who we are and what we believe.” According to de Man, the way out of the bad faith of the symbolic leads through irony, but he is quick to warn that irony carries with it its own potential for mystification. Through irony, he argues, the self is led to recognize its constructed rather than original character:
The reflective disjunction [characteristic of irony] not only occursby means of language as a privileged category, but it transfers the self out of the empirical world into a world constituted out of, and in, language--a language that it finds in the world like one entity among others, but that remains unique in being the only entity by means of which it can differentiate itself from the world. (De Man, 213)
It is too crude, however, to say that irony subverts the claim of symbolic language to have accessed the Real by exposing and foregrounding the lack of closure between the linguistic sign and its meaning, because the latter is characteristic of figural language generally: the “structure shared by irony and allegory is that, in both cases, the relationship between sign and meaning is discontinuous, involving an extraneous principle that determines the point and the manner at and in which the relationship is articulated” (De Man, 209). What is unique about irony is its dynamism:
Irony is unrelievedvertige, dizziness to the point of madness. Sanity can exist only because we are willing to function within the conventions of duplicity and dissimulation, just as social language dissimulates the inherent violence of the actual relationships between human beings. Once this mask is shown to be a mask, the authentic being underneath appears necessarily as on the verge of madness." (De Man, 215-216)
For this reason, irony can operate as a trope of demystification, replacing the reassurance of interpretative conventions with the madness of endless interpretation. Yet as the current contest of allegories suggests, a mere plurality of competing perspectives, however healthy for politics, does not suffice for the purposes of demystification. And it is demystification–the sifting and evaluation of truth claims, the establishment of a reliable account of the world–upon which the institutional privilege of journalism thrives. In this context it is noteworthy that the press has resorted to irony in its attempt to cast doubt on official explanations of policy. In a world of agonistic interpretations–literally, apolemicalpublic sphere in which no absolute ground is recognized or can be discovered–the press can fulfill its pledge to deliver the Real only through ironizing the public agon, that is, only by analyzing it in terms of meanings which are different from and displace those signified by the public discourses themselves. To place itself on the ground of the Real, journalism must constantly foreground the discrepancy between the public claims and the “real” meaning of these claims. Thus the press forces to self-consciousness the constructed character of public discourse, in part simply by highlighting the availability of differing allegorical readings of the event. Bush’s Munich Analogy never quite took, and the public and press continued to find in the stories of Vietnam allegorical meanings of a more relevant nature. A few days after Bush’s November escalation of the U.S. troop presence in the Gulf, doubts about the Munich analogy and fear of a “repeat” of Vietnam were front-page news: “In a joint statement, the House Speaker, Representative Thomas S. Foley, Democrat of Washington, and the majority leader, Representative Richard A. Gephardt, Democrat of Missouri, said, `We urge the President to explain fully to the American people the strategy and aims that underlie his decision to dispatch additional forces to the region’.” The article moved quickly to frame the issue in terms of the appropriate allegorical reading:
On explaining the motives for American action, President Bush has stopped emphasizing the need to protect oil supplies, an issue he once cited along with the need to resist aggression. He now concentrates on opposing aggression, comparing Mr. Hussein to Hitler. There are critics of both rationales, and a fear of repeating the Vietnam experience--suffering great loss of life for little purpose. [...] One-third of voters surveyed on Election Day opposed American military action that would produce heavy casualties, a level of opposition reached during the Vietnam War only after several years of fighting. The survey also found the clear beginnings of the sort of partisan division that tore the country during Vietnam: two-thirds of those opposing American action in the gulf, and in particular, Black Americans, voted Democratic. But more than half of those who say the nation should persevere even in the face of many casualties voted Republican.10
A few days later, the public’s insistence on allegorizing the Gulf crisis through Vietnam was again front-page news: “as Americans confront the possibility of another war, history seems to present a troubling multiple-choice question: Would this be another World War II, or another Vietnam?”11
Amidst the clash of allegories, the Bush administration reeled to-and-fro from one explanation to another, to the point where narrative incoherency itself was explicitly thematized as a public concern. In early November, a week before the escalation, Bush tested the waters by issuing more condemnations of Iraq. The result was hysteria among Republicans running for re-election in the Senate and House, who attacked Bush for deploying confusing messages: “Republican strategists continued to express their disdain for the performance of the White House in this critical week before the election. `They don’t have their act together,’ one counselor to the White House said. `They’re living in a fog. They’re confusing the American public.’”12 The inability to tell a coherent story quickly became a public, not merely partisan, issue: “A common complaint . . . [among the public] was that the Bush Administration seemed unable to come up with a consistent–and compelling–account of what the United States was preparing to fight for. Was it to protect oil sources, they wanted to know, or to prevent further aggression, or simply to maintain the status quo?” (Kolbert, A10). Indeed, within a few weeks it began to appear as if journalists were more concerned about the incoherency of the narratives on offer than with the substance of policy itself, and by mid-November, the inability of the administration to construct a satisfying story had become a source of frustration within Bush’s cabinet itself: “Mr. Baker, Mr. Bush’s former campaign chairman, is said to have grown exasperated with White House speech writers’ inability to present the President’s gulf policy in a simple, coherent and compelling fashion so that it will have the sustained support of the American public.”13 Bush himself was eventually forced to acknowledge widespread fears of ambiguity and lack of closure: “if there must be war . . . I pledge to you there will not be any murky ending” (“Excerpts From President’s News Conference” 4). In effect, Bush promised that the war would be fought in such a way as to allow for the telling of coherent realist narratives, with endings implicit in their beginnings and unambiguous resolutions.
But the press also emphasizes the difference between sign and meaning by undermining in its own voice the coherency of the proffered explanations and justifications. Very early in the crisis, Thomas L. Friedman drew attention to the vagueness of the Bush administration’s justifications of policy and attributed this to U.S. officials’ unwillingness to state publicly the real rationale for the policy.14 “[S]peaking privately,” these officials list “three interests at stake in the Gulf. One is the price of oil. Another is who controls the oil. The third is the need to uphold the integrity of territorial boundaries so that predatory regional powers will not simply begin devouring their neighbors.” But Friedman goes on to question even these “private” reasons as valid explanations for the policy, suggesting at one point that, for Bush and his advisers, U.S. control of the Persian Gulf is such a deeply held assumption that they may be incapable of explicitly defending it. The real explanation, Friedman suggests, is that the United States wants to preserve the status quo in the Persian Gulf, a desire prompted by economic interest: “Troops have been sent to retain control of oil in the hands of pro-American Saudi Arabia, so prices will remain low.” Anna Quindlen bemoans the discrepancy between sign and meaning in a similar vein:
Our reality has outstripped the traditional stories of brave men going out to fight and die for a great cause while their women wait staunchly at home and provide security and normalcy for their children. We have become more complicated than the scripts of old movies. Now we have brave women going out to fight and die for a cause none of us is sure of while their children struggle to feel secure with grandparents or aunts and uncles. We are going to war for oil, and, by extension, for the economy. The President trots out his Hitler similes to convince us otherwise.15
At times, the general public awareness of this discrepancy, fueled, of course, by the rhetorical strategies of the press itself, acquires a news value of its own: “what marks the current crisis is the way Americans are talking openly about the President’s inability to `sell’ war to a wary populace” (Kolbert, A1).
The reader will have noticed that in these examples, the “dynamism” or “madness” that de Man attributes to irony is conspicuously lacking; instead, irony is presented as yet another journalistic factoid, to be objectively represented. As practiced byThe New York Times, ironization has the opposite effect of demystification. De Man cautions against seeing irony as “a kind of therapy, a cure of madness by means of the spoken or written word”:
When we speak . . . of irony originating at the cost of the empirical self, the statement has to be taken seriously enough to be carried to the extreme: absolute irony is a consciousness of madness, itself the end of all consciousness; it is a consciousness of a non-consciousness, a reflection on madness from the inside of madness itself. But this reflection is made possible only by the double structure of ironic language: the ironist invents a form of himself that is "mad" but that does not know his own madness; he then proceeds to reflect on his madness thus objectified. (De Man, 216)
This, de Man says, makes it easy to see irony as a kind of folie lucidewhich, in allowing “language to prevail even in extreme stages of self-alienation,” might be viewed as a remedy for the mad displacement of sign and meaning through rigorous self-consciousness about the irony of language. This indeed seems to be precisely the claim of the press, which, under the circumstances of a phantasmagoric public sphere, maintains its claim to a privileged surveillance and objectivity by delivering the truth that all public representations are false.
But to construe irony in this way, de Man argues, is the ultimate mystification. To illustrate, he discusses Jean Starobinski’s reading of E.T.A. Hoffmann’sPrinzessin Brambilla. In Hoffmann’s tale, an acting couple who confuse their own lives with the “meaningful” roles they play on stage are “`cured’ of this delusion by the discovery of irony,” after which they find happiness in domesticity. But as de Man insists, “the bourgeois idyll of the end is treated by Hoffmann as pure parody . . . far from having returned to their natural selves, [the hero and heroine] are more than ever playing the artificial parts of the happy couple” (De Man, 217-218). De Man concludes that “at the very moment that irony is thought of as a knowledge able to order and cure the world, the source of its invention immediately runs dry. The instant that it construes the fall of the self as an event that could somehow benefit the self, it discovers that it has in fact substituted death for madness” (De Man, 218). For de Man, then, “true irony” would be “irony to the second power or `irony of irony.’” Through continual invention, such ironizing would state “the continued impossibility of reconciling the world of fiction with the actual world” (De Man, 218). This is achieved only by refusing to see irony as a trope of mastery or reconciliation; and yet it is precisely as a sign of mastery that irony is deployed by the press. Ironically–I use the term advisedly–the Bush administration occupies the vanguard when it comes to the impossibility of reconciling world and text, in its insistence on the impossibility of knowing what the U.S. Constitution says about the authority to use force, and hence of knowing precisely how the Constitution is to be applied to the real world. While Congress insists on the text’s legibility (only Congress, Congress says, has the power to make war), Bush insists on its ambiguity:
On Tuesday, influential lawmakers pressed Mr. Bush to call a special session, with many members of Congress saying that the President would be usurping their constitutional power to send American troops into combat if he acted without Congressional approval. Mr. Bush responded today by pulling a copy of the Constitution from his suit pocket at a meeting with Congressional leaders from both parties and telling him that he understood what it said about the responsibility of Congress to declare war. But, he added, "It also says that I'm the Commander in Chief."
Later, Baker had a two-hour meeting with congressional leaders and held a news conference:
While agreeing that only Congress has the authority to declare war, Mr. Baker said, "There are many, many circumstances and situations indeed where there could be action taken against American citizens or against American interests that would call for a very prompt and substantial response." Mr. Baker said that Mr. Bush would follow the Constitution, but added with a smile, "It's a question of what the Constitution requires."16
But Bush’s insistence on the ambiguity of the Constitution should not lead us to assimilate his conduct in office to Ronald Reagan’s postmodern presidency. While Reagan taught us to celebrate, and above all to exploit, a political and social world in which distinctions between the simulated and the real were simply irrelevant, Bush, it would appear, intends to lead us back to the Real, to invent a politics beyond that of Reagan’s handlers–which, of course, means war, since death, as always, is the union card of the Real, the one “event” that escapes the handler’s grasp. Bush, we might say, is Romantic where Reagan was postmodern. Arrayed against Bush’s Romantic symbolism is the weak irony–that is, the mystified lucidity–of the press. Indeed, lucidity–in a precisely defined official sense–is fast becoming a condition of death as well as life. In the issue ofThe New York Times that featured the report on widespread public awareness of the discrepancy between political sign and political meaning, an editorial referred to the Louisiana Supreme Court’s ruling that a murderer who became insane after he was condemned to death could be forced to take a drug that would render him “mentally competent” to undergo execution. The weak irony cultivated by theTimes may well involve a similar economy: we must be just lucid enough–that is, just skeptical and uncertain enough–to feel that we master the world, so that we may sacrifice ourselves to its truths, and in particular to the truths of who we are and what we believe.
Notes
1. R.W. Apple, Jr., “Invading Iraqis Seize Kuwait And Its Oil; U.S. Condemns Attack, Urges United Action,”The New York Times, August 3, 1990, A1, A8.
2. Flora Lewis, “Fruits of Appeasement,”The New York Times, August 4, 1990, 24.
3. A.M. Rosenthal, “Making a Killer,”The New York Times, August 5, 1990, E19.
4. A.M. Rosenthal, “Saddam’s Next Target,”The New York Times, August 9, 1990, A23.
5. “Excerpts From Bush’s Statement on U.S. Defense of Saudis,”The New York Times, August 9, 1990, A18.
6. Quoted in R.W. Apple, Jr., “Bush Says Iraqi Aggression Threatens `Our Way of Life,’”The New York Times, August 16, 1990, A14.
7. “Excerpts From Bush’s Remarks on His Order to Enlarge U.S. Gulf Force,”The New York Times, November 9, 1990, A12.
8. “Excerpts From President’s News Conference on Crisis in Gulf,”The New York Times, December 1, 1990, 4.
9. See Paul de Man, “The Rhetoric of Temporality,” Blindness and Insight: Essays in the Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1983), 187-228.
10. Michael Oreskes, “A Debate Unfolds Over Going To War Against The Iraqis,”The New York Times, November 12, 1990, A1.
11. Elizabeth Kolbert, “No Talk of Glory, but of Blood on Sand,”The New York Times, November 15, 1990, A1.
12. Maureen Dowd, “Bush Intensifies A War Of Words Against The Iraqis,”The New York Times, November 1, 1990, A1.
13. Thomas L. Friedman, “U.S. Jobs at Stake in Gulf, Baker Says,”The New York Times, November 14, 1990, A8.
14. Thomas L. Friedman, “U.S. Gulf Policy: Vague `Vital Interests,’”The New York Times, August 12, 1990, A1.
15. Anna Quindlen, “New World at War,”The New York Times, September 15, 1990, A21.
16. Maureen Dowd, “President Seems to Blunt Calls For Gulf Session,”The New York Times, October 29, 1990, A1.
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Sartre and Local Aesthetics: Rethinking Sartre as an Oppositional Pragmatist
Paul Trembath
Colorado State University
And that lie that success was a moving upward. What a crummy lie they kept us dominated by. Not only could you travel upward toward success but you could travel downward as well; up and down, in retreat as well as in advance, crabways and crossways and around in a circle, meeting your own selves coming and going and perhaps all at the same time.
–Ralph Ellison,
Invisible ManThe tension between art and politics looms large in the life and work of Jean-Paul Sartre. The child-aesthete depicted in The Words, the celebrity of Post-World War II Existentialism, the Marxist revisionist of The Critique of Dialectical Reason and, arguably, the uneasy Freudian of The Idiot of the Family–all of these and more seem like a family of conflicting self-representations. Contemporary interpreters of Sartre find themselves addressing several related dilemmas. First, was Sartre a philosopher, an artist, or a political theorist? Second, to what extent did Sartre’s literary writings contribute productively to an effective oppositional politics? Finally, given the early Sartre’s modernist use of phenomenological metaphors (as an apolitical philosopher) and the later Marxist Sartre’s interest in political “totalization,” how can Sartre survive familiar postmodern and poststructural criticisms of phenomenology, ontology, and Marxist theories of totality? I think that the later Sartre understood the hermetic redundancies produced by such questions and–having lost interest in art, philosophy, and totalizing social theory– strove to manipulate his multivalent historical reception in the service of specific political projects. These projects were invariably oppositional. In retrospect, they illustrate how Sartre moved away from professional philosophy, literature, and totalizing social theory toward a commitment to specific political protests calculated to reinvent the social world and our experience of it. I propose that the later militant Sartre makes possible a new understanding of aesthetics itself, one that anticipates John Rajchman’s discussion of Michel Foucault’s “politics of revolt.”1
In his biographical narrative on Sartre, Ronald Hayman writes that Sartre “used his life to test ways of facing up to the evils of contemporary history. If he was not always honest, it was partly because honesty was a luxury he could not afford.”2 Hayman’s suggestion that Sartre “used his life” to affect what he considered the “evils” of contemporary history–racism, dictatorship, colonialism, multinational capitalism, the serial family, and so forth– requires us to consider how Sartre’s “life” was largely made up of the literary, philosophical, and political-theoretical representations that people had come to associate with his name and public reputation. These representations were what Sartre “used” or manipulated to give voice to different political positions and programs. Hayman is unclear about what the word “honesty” implies in this passage, but the word is provocative. Hayman’s use of “honesty” suggests something like an unprofitable lack of social versatility; in a world as diverse in knowledges, truths, economies, and political interests as Sartre’s in the 60s and 70s, unilateral moral concepts like “honesty” serve only to bury any versatile engagement of seemingly contradictory political commitments beneath an ultimately reactionary–and apologist– language of hypocrisy. If Sartre allowed himself to be described variously as an Existentialist, a Marxist, or a Maoist (to name only a few of his provisional “identities”), his lack of representational stability–his inconsistency in Kantian moral terms–made his larger objectives seem dubious to a public trained to recognize in Sartre’s political versatility only his inability to take a definitive political stance of his own.
Clearly such a stance–when compared to the complex, changing, and situation-specific political commitments of Sartre–would have limited Sartre’s concrete ability to contribute to political change. In fact, the “luxury” of political “honesty,” in Hayman’s supramoral sense, would have ultimately re-empowered the problematic concept of historical totality that the activist Sartre arguably left behind with his “theoretical” Marxism, or the luxurious assumption of representational accuracy he had once assumed for himself as the phenomenological ontologist of French Existentialism.3 For the militant Sartre, “honesty” became the political, theoretical, and philosophical luxury of stepping outside one’s specific historical situation, of stressing Truth to disguise the workings of power, of theorizing Totality at the expense of advocating difference, and of describing Consciousness and Authenticity authoritatively instead of letting languages speak uniquely for themselves. Such “luxuries,” I shall argue, became untenable for Sartre toward the end of his productive life, when he was not only post-aesthetic (at least in traditional terms), but post-philosophical and post-theoretical as well.
The working distinction I want to draw between Sartrean philosophy and Sartrean critical theory is roughly the distinction between Sartrean Existentialism and Sartrean Marxism. Sartre became dissatisfied with the former because of its ahistoricism and naive faith in the representational function of phenomenological metaphors. He became dissatisfied with the latter because it attempted to describe authoritatively and comprehensively the social freedom of others. Sartre’s rejection of Existentialism, and his reasons for it, are today commonly recognized and understood in intellectual circles. However, the differences between the theoretical Sartre of The Critique of Dialectical Reason and the militant Sartre of the later demonstrations and interviews remain to be elucidated.
The theoretical Sartre and the militant Sartre are not consistently the same Sartre. Both are Marxist. But the theoretical Sartre of the Critique is a Marxist revolutionary–that is, someone with a total political program in mind that will definitively transform society. The militant Sartre, in contrast, is one who rejects any such authoritative program and, in part, the goal of revolution with it. This Sartre sees “revolution” as the ongoing business of revolt, not as the political end of a long history of class struggles. The militant Sartre emphasizes the historical materialism of Marxism but de- emphasizes the totalizing objectives of Marxist theory; where he once stressed the importance of global revolution, Sartre now stresses the importance of strategic local rebellions. Neither does he do this in particular texts, something of a first for the endlessly writing Sartre; he does it in his acts. His attempts to get arrested in political demonstrations, his participation in explicitly political debates and discussions, his visit to a well-known Western “terrorist,” his endorsement of oppositional political regimes around the world, and his publicized travels to diverse third world countries struggling for political autonomy4–these and additional activities demonstrate how Sartre used his global fame to lend credence and voice to marginal or oppressed political causes worldwide. (I will demonstrate this at some length later on.) In each instance, we see a Sartre who, dissatisfied with his professional reputation as a novelist, playwright, philosopher, comprehensive social theorist, and so forth, strategically uses his Euro-American cultural reception to draw public attention to marginal politics and underprivileged peoples throughout the world.
This shift in emphasis from globalizing social theory, philosophy, and literature to militant local practice is not the only change we can recognize in the activist Sartre. Sartre also undertook an implicit revaluation of the aesthetic. In a historicist or even pragmatist way that anticipates Michel Foucault’s discussion of an “aesthetics of existence,”5 Sartre came to demonstrate that the whole notion of private creativity–so much a reified part of our collective Western culture–needed to be reinvested with a sense of public effectiveness. That is, Sartre strove to reinvent the concept of the aesthetic not merely in commonly expected terms of private expression and production, but in terms of public and historical effectivity. For the later Sartre, “artwork” was no longer something one did in quietistic solitude, only to emerge publically with the hermetic results of one’s private labor (a painting, a play, an opera, a new theory of art, and so forth). The aesthetic became the entire realm of social invention–a realm utterly mediated by our continuous responsibility for the freedom and power of self-determination of other social “selves.” This, I think, is Sartre’s most neglected contribution to contemporary arts, to philosophy and literary theory and, perhaps most important of all, to social criticism.
In Michel Foucault: The Freedom of Philosophy, John Rajchman describes the writings of Foucault in a way that makes possible a post-voluntaristic discussion of freedom. The later, activist Sartre both enacted and anticipated this conception of freedom. In his chapter entitled “The Politics of Revolt,” Rajchman explains that “[l]ike Sartre, Foucault was an ‘intellectual’ with public positions, and as such, he had to worry about the political aims and consequences of both his histories and their methods” (43). Consequently, Rajchman is willing to discuss similarities between Sartre and Foucault that have gone unexamined largely because of the success of poststructuralist rhetoric and its critique of voluntarism or, of late, what has been described as “philosophy of mind.”6 In response to the way Sartre has been received recently (he has been ignored), Rajchman acknowledges that:
Foucault has often been seen as Sartre's philosophical rival. Yet as an intellectual he shares with Sartre an inclination to present his work as nonacademic and nonspecialized, and as addressed in a nontechnocratic way to basic issues in the lives of all of us. And like Sartre, as Foucault assumes this intellectual role, he moves from primarily epistemological to primarily political concerns, identified with an oppositional Left, though not with a party, or with any claim to bureaucratic or charismatic authority. (Michel Foucault, 43.)
What Rajchman describes as the central difference between Sartre and Foucault is their different approaches to freedom. Sartre, who Rajchman asserts “attempted to make freedom into the philosophical problem” (Michel Foucault, p.44), conceptualized freedom in a way that gave the phenomenological subject priority over the contingencies of history, whereas “Foucault’s commitment [is] to a nonvoluntaristic, nonhumanistic freedom within history” (45). Rajchman describes the difference between Sartre’s voluntaristic idea of freedom and Foucault’s historical idea of freedom as the difference between “anthropological” and “nominalist” ideas of freedom. Sartre’s anthropological idea of freedom, according to Rajchman, remains tied to a politics of revolution which has the final liberation of Man as its objective, whereas Foucault’s nominalist/historicist conception of freedom manifests itself in the world as a continuous politics of revolt–a politics that attempts “to occasion new ways of thinking . . . and sees freedom not as the end of domination or as our removal from history, but rather as the revolt through which history may constantly be changed” (Michel Foucault, p.123). As Rajchman explains:
[a]nthropology entails that we are free because we have a nature that is real or one we must realize; nominalist history assumes that our "nature" in fact consists of those features of ourselves by reference to which we are sorted into polities and groups. Our real freedom is found in dissolving or changing the polities that embody our nature, and as such it is asocial and anarchical. No society or polity could be based on it, since it lies precisely in the possibility of constant change. Our real freedom is thus political, though it is never finalizable, legislatable, or rooted in our nature. (123)
I quote Rajchman at some length because his emphasis on a certain tacit idea of “freedom” in the texts of Foucault makes it possible to recast Sartre as a nonvoluntaristic local aesthetician. I suggested earlier that Sartre’s activism might encourage us to re-evaluate aesthetics, not in terms of the beautiful, the sublime, the innovative, the problematic, and so forth, but instead in terms of social efficacy. And because Sartre’s activism is oppositional, because it always takes on explicitly political and counter- hegemonic emphases, critics who wish to aestheticize Sartre’s political activities need to remind themselves that Sartre’s effective/aesthetic practices are always activities of protest against specific configurations of political authority. Thus Rajchman’s Foucauldian conception of a post-revolutionary politics of revolt, as it empowers my reinvention of Sartre, might usefully be redescribed as an aesthetics of revolt.
This use of “aesthetics” may pose problems for many contemporary readers, and with good reason. In “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Walter Benjamin warns us brilliantly and convincingly that the “aestheticization of politics” can coincide historically with the emergence of political fascism.7 Benjamin argues that critics and artists who wish in some way to associate artwork with political power must do so in projects that politicize artwork, not in projects that aestheticize politics. The politicization of artwork, Benjamin argues, helps break down political hegemony in a way that encourages Marxist participatory democracy. The aestheticization of politics, in contrast, elevates political regimes and their leading representatives to an almost mythic status of unquestionable authority, thus obscuring the real concrete workings of power and exploitation by drawing attention instead to transcendental narratives about national destiny, the greatness of the people, spirit of place, racial purity, and so on.
Benjamin’s useful distinction between politicized aesthetics and aestheticized politics has become too general and constraining in discussions of aesthetics and politics. Moreover, its unquestioned heuristic authority might make it possible for critics to interpret Sartre’s pragmatist aesthetics of revolt, prematurely and too simplistically, as an instance of aestheticized politics. Benjamin’s distinction, in short, has taken on a kind of automatic legitimacy in critical discussions; it divides political artists up all too neatly between the good guys and the bad guys, between desirable Marxist artists who shake up the artworld by exposing its complicity with forms of political power and domination, and undesirable fascistic mystifiers who, instead of demonstrating critically how art is a form of historical power, legitimate political power by giving it an aesthetic and mythical identity. The lauding of Hans Haacke in recent art criticism, for instance, and the complementary castigating of Joseph Beuys–the former for his “politicized art” and the latter for his “aestheticized politics”–demonstrate quite clearly just how automatic Benjamin’s overly polaric distinction has become.8
Writing critically of Joseph Beuys in his essay “Haacke, Broodthaers, Beuys,” Stefan Germer claims that “Beuys . . . made all historical reality disappear behind a self-created myth of the artist-hero,”9 and that Beuys’s theory of social sculpture presented “creativity . . . as the means to shape and change society” (OCTOBER 68). In a discussion that defers constantly, if implicitly, to the authority of Benjamin’s metaphors and the critical positions they shape, Germer writes:
[b]y identifying political and artistic practice with one another, Beuys avoids the relevance of his activity, since he borrows for it the aura of the political. The necessary precondition of this is the aestheticization of the political. Abstracting from actual conditions, Beuys in effect invents state and society, thus making both into artistic creation. (OCTOBER 68.)
Germer’s critique of Beuys allows me to demonstrate how Benjamin’s critique of aestheticized politics, although important and necessary, should not automatically discredit my Foucauldian revision of Sartre as a local aesthetician. Germer’s Benjaminian critique of Beuys is based largely on Beuys’s belief “that, by inventing rather than analyzing social conditions, he could actually contribute to their change” (italics mine; OCTOBER, p.66). Germer’s use of “invention” invokes a whole tradition of thinking in which voluntaristic subjects supposedly create the world in which they live, unconstrained by their historical conditions. In such a view politicians are indeed “artists” whose “wills” create the social world–privileged subjects who manipulate social individuals, with truly epic panache, as the medium of their heroic self-expression. But after Rajchman on Foucault, the word “invention” can take on an entirely different sense–one that has nothing to do with the “out- moded concept of creativity,” or of the equally out-moded concept of the voluntaristic hero-artist who invents our political reality in the manner of a high Modernist “genius” creating an innovative painting or poem. It is this more recent view of “invention”–as it implies a nominalist aesthetics of historical effects rather than an anthropological aesthetics of self-expression–that Sartre’s activism and Rajchman’s work on Foucault prepare us to consider.
Clearly Sartre’s “aesthetics of revolt” is as intolerant of aestheticized politics–and certainly of fascism–as is the politicized art Benjamin advocates. Any aestheticization of politics, in Benjamin’s sense as well as Germer’s, coincides with the valorization of a regime, that is, with the legitimation of some form of political authority or domination–precisely what Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt seeks constantly to challenge. In fact, if we were to understand Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt as a politics we would need first to redefine politics as the counter-hegemonic practice of local resistance rather than as the structured and hegemonic practice of political domination. In short, Sartre aestheticizes continual resistance to political power, not political regimes themselves.
I say that Sartre’s practices of resistance are inventive because, in Rajchman’s Foucauldian sense, they freely contribute to the social transformation of polities and groups and, in effect, reinvent the world (and our potential experience of it) by so doing. In no way does this sense of “invention,” as it pertains to a nominalist aesthetics of revolt, reproduce the modernist/anthropological vocabulary of “creativity,” “genius,” the “hero-artist,” and so forth that is so central to Benjamin’s description, and condemnation, of aestheticized politics. Germer, for example, criticizes Beuys’s work by suggesting that Beuys’s privileging of “invention” over “analysis” in discussions of how best to describe and initiate social change–as well as his corresponding belief that people “invent state and society, thus making both into artistic creation”–relies upon an inevitable anthropological conception of invention. But such a (modernist) conception of invention is not the only one at our critical disposal, and Germer writes as if it is. The fact is that after Foucault’s dicussions of ethics and aesthetics in The Use of Pleasure, and after Rajchman’s redescription of Foucault’s aesthetics as a free politics of resistance, Benjamin’s unequivocal identification of “invention” with a mythology of “creativity,” as it sometimes appears in art criticism of a materialist persuasion, has become as out-moded as the very concepts it set out to criticize.
My discussions of Rajchman on Foucault and of the Benjaminian Germer on Beuys put us in position to revaluate Sartre as a kind of oppositional pragmatist or local aesthetician. In contrast with Germer, Sartre realizes that analysis is simply one pragmatic tool that enables the reinvention of society by producing effects within and upon it, but that it is not the only tool at our disposal. In fact, analysis is only one kind of effective/inventive practice; there are numerous others, and no single one is unilaterally the most conducive to participatory democracy. Instead, the context and the desired objective of any political project must determine the tools and practices that, in a given situation, contribute most effectively to social change. Sartre also realizes that abstractions, ideologies, religions and so forth produce specific effects on simultaneously collective and local individuals. Such a critical position makes it possible for Sartre to acknowledge how his public reception as something as general and hopelessly over-determined as an “Existentialist” can nonetheless empower the specific effects his thought and practice have upon concrete social individuals.
The major difference between Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt and Beuys’s social sculpture–at least as Benjamin inspires automatic criticism of the latter–is that Sartre’s work pursues political ends whereas Beuys’s work pursues predominantly aesthetic ends. That is, Beuys’s theory of social sculpture is designed to give us new ideas about art, whereas Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt strives primarily to bring about political change. This suggests enormous dissimilarities between Sartre, as I see him, and Beuys, at least as Germer sees him. Germer seems to believe that Beuys’s social sculpture, as it strives to produce further mythologies for an already ahistorical theory of art, engenders historical confusion in the service of Beuys’s “artistic” reception, and does so at the expense of specific examinations of political praxis.
Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt, however, does just the opposite. At the point in Sartre’s life where his activities take on a local aesthetic emphasis, Sartre already has the received and overly-general identity of an Artist and all the charismatic authority that goes with it; in fact, he is often openly ambivalent about his mythic identity.10 Thus where Beuys’s theorization of social sculpture can be understood, perhaps too one-sidedly, as an attempt to obtain a mythic identity, Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt can be understood as an attempt to use such a troublesome identity in the service of counter-mythic and oppositional practices. Indeed, Sartre has considerably more by way of “myth” at his pragmatist/historicist disposal than the aesthetic Beuys: not only is he a canonical literary writer of mythic proportions (Nausea, Roads to Freedom, The Flies, The Words, etc.); he is also famous as a philosopher who tells us something dramatic about a “human condition” (Being and Nothingness), a political theorist who describes for us our social present and its histories (The Critique of Dialectical Reason), and a social critic who addresses current events in oppositional terms (“The Maoists in France,” “Elections: A Trap for Fools,” “Vietnam: Imperialism and Genocide,” etc.).11 Sartre thus achieves dubious charismatic status, in Benjamin’s propagandistic sense, as a cultural “celebrity.” And despite Rajchman’s claim to the contrary, Sartre does have “charismatic authority,” or at least more than Foucault, even if like Foucault he makes no claims to having such authority.12
Enter Sartre the pragmatist. Now Sartre knows that he has indeed obtained celebrity status as a writer and a philosopher. For example, The Words is in some sense an attempt to come to terms with, and criticize, the socially acquired motivations that encouraged him to pursue such a status.13 But Sartre also knows that, given the levels of fame he achieved as the 20th Century “Voltaire” of Post-WW II France14–and arguably of the North Atlantic area in general–that he can never simply erase his fame. He can, however, put it to some productive counter-hegemonic use, which he proceeds to do.
As a major cultural celebrity of most of the capitalist First World, Sartre realizes that his cultural fame covertly legitimates the political status quo of the Western world at large–with its political and economic interests in the exploitation of Third World countries–despite the fact that he overtly condemns those interests. So Sartre brings his fame to bear upon the very world from which he derives his cultural authority by reproducing it supportively in places where it is not expected to be. Algeria, the Soviet Union (which he later repudiated for its Stalinism), Israel and Palestine, China, Cuba, Yugoslavia, Brazil, and others all acquire some potentially sympathetic attention from Europeans and Americans when they see the “great” Sartre, keeper of the flame of Western culture, clearly advocating the political programs and interests of oppressed peoples contra the imperialist West’s negative representations of their interests and programs. Sartre thus becomes the enemy within, and the unforeseen statesman from without. But it is a curious sort of “statesman” that Sartre becomes for, unlike the comprehensive “theorist” we expect him to be, Sartre refuses to speak for others, to “lead” them on their behalf, or to presume to understand their historical needs and desires (unlike the authoritative West he supposedly represents) better than they do themselves. Instead he gets the West looking at him and listening to him, and then leaves the stage to its proper organic narrators, in Gramsci’s sense, for whom he or any other representative of the First World has nothing to say.15
Sartre’s use of his public identity demonstrates several related things pertinent to my reinvention of him. First, the revolutionary and theoretical Marxist of The Critique of Dialectical Reason has become unexpectedly a pragmatist of revolt. No longer making authoritative or transcendental claims for his pro-revolutionary “theories,” Sartre now uses the over-determined notoriety he has acquired for having “created” such theories to draw attention to specific problems in social polities.16 Sartre thus turns Western expectations inside out by allowing us to decide for ourselves that, politically and morally, we are not always what we proclaim ourselves to be.
Second, Sartre’s oppositional pragmatism coincides with his rejection of celebrity status as a hermetic cultural end in itself. Sartre at once demonstrates his critical dissatisfaction with concepts such as the “artist-hero,” “creativity,” “genius,” “eternal value,” “mystery”– precisely those concepts rejected by Benjamin and Germer in his criticism of Beuys–by moving toward oppositional nominalism while distancing himself, as much as his historical moment will allow, from any aesthetics or politics of creativity. Arguably, this distancing coincides with Sartre’s activist rejection of the voluntarism with which he is still too automatically associated, as well as with his rejection of the anthropology that Rajchman rightfully reinvokes where he distinguishes Sartre’s totalizing theoretical work from the nominalism we find, more profitably, in Foucault’s histories.
I call Sartre’s nominalist activism local aesthetic practice since it is at once inventive in a post- anthropological sense, and micro-political in its pragmatist suggestion that we resist authoritarianism, in Malcolm X’s words, by any means necessary. This last phrase has been popularly interpreted as an advocacy of militant violence; yet it is quite clear that “any means” can and should suggest a great deal more than simply “violent means.” Occasionally Sartre does speak out in support of “revolutionary” violence, as in his strategic 1961 preface to Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth–a book which, in its theories and objectives, does anticipate the thought of the mature Malcolm X.17 Other times, however, Sartre refuses to support the violent practices of militant revolutionaries, although he periodically idealizes what he refers to in one interview as the “militant intellectual.”18 For instance, we know that in 1974 Sartre visits the incarcerated Andreas Baader in a West German prison, that he goes to express solidarity with the oppositional militant and to protest the treatment of political prisoners worldwide, but that he refuses to condone the terrorist tactics of the Baader-Meinhof group.19
What accounts for Sartre’s willingness to support counter-authoritative violence in one instance and his unwillingness to do so in another? I would argue that Sartre chooses to represent himself as a “violent revolutionary” when he thinks it will serve the interests of oppressed peoples whose organic situations clearly demand such a representation, and that in other kinds of specifically oppressive circumstances he sees fit to represent himself in other ways entirely–but always in pursuit of the same political revisionism. I say “revisionism” because the pragmatist Sartre, if we think of him as a local aesthetician, no longer believes in a final revolutionized state, but instead in the ongoing need to invent provisional democratic situations which, because they risk becoming hegemonic in their own right, constantly require revision and modification.
One of Fanon’s critical distinctions can help us see why Sartre’s direct public response to Fanon is necessarily different from his ambiguous public response to Baader. On the one hand, Fanon suggests that capitalist societies rely largely on their infrastructures to keep things in order.20 Such infrastructures are maintained by “bewilderers”–teachers, lawyers, doctors, priests, clerics, and so on–who, themselves unconscious victims of power, mediate the hard realities of power by training citizens to believe that their governments work to protect their interests rather than those of the rich and powerful. On the other hand, Fanon suggests that colonized countries like Algeria require the immediate violent policing of occupied “natives” to protect the interests of the political powers that be. In the cases of both West Germany and Algeria, those who have power are those who either have or manage money. However, the actual tactics of oppression and exploitation in an infrastructural state such as West Germany in the 1970s–although arguably “occupied” by our even more infrastructural United States–are not as obviously violent to oppressed but serialized West Germans as are the visible guns and clubs of French militia to collectively oppressed Algerians.
Unlike the Fanon of French-occupied Algeria, Baader can thus be made to look like the only militant thing that exists in an otherwise peaceful West Germany. And because this is precisely what happens, it is not Baader’s illegality or militantism with which Sartre feels an urgent need to take issue–despite his disapproval of it–but rather with the way that Baader’s identity has been over- totalized by the First World press. Sartre understands that the French-occupied Algerians with whom Fanon is directly familiar, and whose plight encourages Fanon’s militant advocacy of a full-scale African revolution, collectively recognize an oppressive enemy in the French, and that the Algerian revolutionaries have organic narratives that can justify and explain their organic rebellion to counter- revolutionary Europeans. Europeans might not sympathize with the “self-descriptions” of oppressed Algerians, but these self-descriptions nonetheless exist, are collective, and make a certain sense; consequently, colonial countries will have to come to terms with them. This makes it productive for Sartre to support violence openly, for such violence, or its threat, will clearly yield counter- authoritative results by making negotiation necessary.
Baader, however, represents no full-scale revolutionary program and, as such, is easily “psychologized” and represented for public consumption only as a sociopath engaging in random acts of terrorism, when in fact other interpretations of militant protest merit public consideration. Sartre thus finds himself in the following dilemma. He must not allow the state to use Baader to condemn militancy in general on a symbolic level. But neither can he simply support Baader’s militancy on a specific level, for he risks enabling the state’s public representation of Baader as the Zeitgeist of terrorism, irrationality, anti-civilization, and so forth. Sartre is thus concerned that any blanket endorsement of militantism in a passive infrastructural state might affront uncritical citizens and opportunist state management enough for them to suppress those legal outlets for oppositional practice that already exist, and which already produce valuable counter- hegemonic effects. Yet arguably Sartre’s decision to visit the symbolic Baader in prison–an event which he knows will generate some attention–is an attempt to keep Europe’s interpretation of militancy open so people can question the state’s suggestion that all militant behavior is a priori pathological behavior.
Sartre’s strategic support of the student Maoists in France, to give another example, often takes the micro- political form of dialogues and open forums which are in turn publicized–dialogues and forums which then impart all the cultural credibility that a collaboration with Sartre carries in the Western world.21 (This is a specific strategy of Foucault’s as well, who more obviously than Sartre was no Maoist.22) Once again Sartre chooses the means which most effectively empower oppositional representations. Thus his commitment to the contextual specificity of inventive resistances resembles Jonathan Swift’s as Edward Said describes it in “Swift as Intellectual.” Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt is always reactive in Said’s sense23 (or “specific” in Foucault’s24); that is, it always responds to a concrete political situation and shapes the form of its resistance accordingly, despite the fact that Sartre’s aesthetics, unlike Swift’s, is activist to the point of abandoning traditional category of “art” entirely. And the nominalist quality of Sartre’s later oppositional practices demonstrates how Sartre’s aesthetics becomes a politics, and not an anthropology, of freedom; Sartre strives to invent political room for organic speech-acts, protests, and rebellions, and demonstrates that reform is never final in a manner that emancipates people from an oppressive Past, but that reforms are instead ongoing, specific, and endlessly provisional.
Sartre’s oppositional activism also suggests that the “success” of any aesthetics of revolt can never be gauged, as has the success of all aesthetic enterprise in the past, by the degree of fame or recognition it obtains, for local aesthetic practice never conceives of success simply as originality, wealth, cultural canonization, and so forth– all of those representations of success which quickly become commodities within the authoritative market systems they covertly legitimate. Instead Sartre, like Ellison’s invisible man in the epigraph that begins this paper, understands success purely in terms of efficacious resistance. The question is no longer “Am I well-known, rich?” and so on, but instead “Have I released any of the counter-hegemonic potential that is stored up in the current regime? That is, have I affected the world in ways which unleash the possibility of endless resistance to authority?” Sartre, of course, is not the unknown protagonist of Ellison’s novel; in fact, the circumstances of Sartre’s life, existence, and influence are obviously different from those of an impoverished member of a social minority. Nonetheless what goes for Sartre goes for others as well; everyone in their specific and local situations can resist authority in local aesthetic ways and can do so, in part, by manipulating their various socially assigned “selves” in the service of inventive microphysical revolts. Moreover, the story I tell here of Sartre might usefully empower our unique resistances by lending them some (provisional) authority for which they are in dire need.
One inconsistency remains, but it is one that enables Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt in practice as much as it might seem to disable it in theory. If the reactive quality of Sartre’s aesthetics of revolt makes his activism “microphysical” in Foucault’s well-known sense of the word, a large portion of Sartre’s specific power–that is, the power he derives from his fame–is unavoidably drawn from the “mythologies” of creativity criticized by Benjamin and Germer. I think it is unproductive, however, simply to berate mythology for its “ideological” status, for such berating implies that we can “expose” mythology as pure false-consciousness, when in fact no such form of mythology exists. Rather mythology must be understood for what it is: a concrete force of history which can be used inventively and oppositionally against exploitive powers, or which will be used instead, almost invariably, to conserve those powers. In fact, we have no humane choice at present but to follow Sartre’s example and to redirect authoritative mythologies against themselves. Our failure to do so automatically leaves mythologies in the hands of those exploitive powers who, pragmatists already, use mythologies to legitimate their authoritarian politics. Just as honesty is a luxury that Sartre cannot afford, neither can we afford the a priori anti-mythologism of Benjamin’s automatic following. Such a rejection of the historically-constituted currency of struggle is the strategic equivalent of putting down guns in the thick of battle, of refusing to tell Attila a lie, as the famous illustration of Kant’s imperative goes, though it mean the death of an entire population.
Let us then reconsider Benjamin’s distinction between politicized art and aestheticized politics. If there are good reasons to avoid theoretical syntheses of aesthetics and politics (and there certainly are), Sartre’s local aesthetics cautions us against taking these “good reasons” too far, because they risk disempowering us entirely. If we should never equate power, in some mythic and glorious sense, with art, neither should we allow cultural materialism, since it is often our area of critical commitment, to become passive, commodifiable, and politically unengaged. This latter possibility is a far greater threat to critical activism than the social sculpture of Joseph Beuys, for it discourages many of the keenest critical minds in cultural studies, simply for fear of reprisal, from directing their inventive powers explicitly toward political issues. Sartre, for his part, refuses to practice an aesthetics which is not at once an effective historicism, and strives, in keeping with his larger democratic objectives, to affect social polities in ways that encourage us to criticize authority, to conceptualize political alternatives, and to empathize with the plights of suffering social selves. His nominalist aesthetics, which considers invention from a viewpoint radically different from that of Benjamin’s followers, neither simply aestheticizes politics nor politicizes art but, ceasing to privilege artwork altogether, politicizes the potential of our ongoing nominalist freedom.
Notes
1. John Rajchman, Michel Foucault: The Freedom of Philosophy (New York: Columbia UP, 1985). I am indebted to Rajchman’s superb reading of Foucault in this paper.
2. Ronald Hayman, Sartre: A Life (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987), 13.
3. See Simone de Beauvoir, “Conversations with Jean- Paul Sartre,” Adieux, trans. Patrick O’Brian (New York: Pantheon Books, 1984), 165. The later activist Sartre questions the impossibly broad scope of his theoretical Critique of Dialectical Reason when he suggests to de Beauvoir in an interview that he finds it too “idealistic.” And in an attempt to provide the phenomenological vocabulary of Existentialism with something of a historicist emphasis Sartre claims that Existentialism is autonomous with Marxism. See Jean-Paul Sartre, “Self-Portrait at Seventy,” Life/Situations: Essays Written and Spoken, trans. Paul Auster and Lydia Davis (New York: Pantheon Books, 1977), 60.
4. See Annie Cohen-Solal, Sartre, ed. Norman Macafee, trans. Anna Cancogni (New York: Pantheon Books, 1987). Cohen-Solal gives examples of Sartre’s political protests (e.g, 141-22), his numerous travels as an “anti- ambassador” (391-414), his brief arrest in 1970 for distributing La Cause du peuple (479-480), his visit to the imprisoned Andreas Baader (507), and suggests that these and other of his activities are instances of Sartrean engagement. See also Keith A. Reader, Intellectuals and the French Left since 1968 (New York: St. Martins Press, 1987), 31. Reader mentions Sartre’s “involvement with the banned Maoist newspaper La Cause du Peuple, and subsequently with Liberation, participation in demonstrations, and attempts to get himself arrested” which are “shrewdly rebutted by the regime.”
5. For Foucault on his treatment of an “aesthetics of existence” see Michel Foucault, “Introduction,” The Use of Pleasure, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Pantheon Books, 1985), especially 11-12.
6. See Richard Rorty, “Epistemology and ‘the Philosophy of Mind,’” Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature (New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1979), 125-27.
7. See Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Illuminations, trans. Harry Zohn (New York: Schoken Books, 1969), 241-242.
8. See Thierry de Duve, “Joseph Beuys, or the Last of the Proletarians”; Stefen Germer, “Haacke, Broodthaers, Beuys”; and Eric Michaud, “The Ends of Art according to Beuys” in OCTOBER, eds. Joan Copjec, Douglas Crimp, Rosalind Krauss, Annette Michelson (Cambridge: MIT Press), Number 45, Summer 88.
10. Sartre indeed has mixed feelings about the fame he has acquired as a cultural figure. He sometimes discusses his fame openly, his early reasons for desiring it, and speculates about his relation to “posterity” in a matter-of- fact manner. See de Beauvoir, Adieux, 162-64. Other times, however, he is defensive about his fame, and attempts to deny that it empowers him since he associates celebrity status very unfavorably with “bourgeois” society. See Sartre, “Self-Portrait at Seventy,” 25-31. Nonetheless, the later politicized Sartre capitalizes on his fame (or his “mythic identity”) to draw attention to political alternatives. Moreover, in reference to Sartre’s 1968 interview of the less famous Daniel Cohn-Bendit–in which Sartre was provided with the opportunity to use his fame while playing it down–Reader writes in Intellectuals that “[f]rom being famous for being Sartre, the curse that had dogged him for years, it was as though he were moving toward ‘un-being’ Sartre,” 32.
11. See Sartre, “Elections: A Trap for Fools,” and “The Maoists in France,” Life/Situations; and Jean-Paul Sartre, “Vietnam: Imperialism and Genocide,” Between Existentialism and Marxism, trans. John Mathews (New York: Pantheon Books, 1974).
13. Jean-Paul Sartre, The Words, trans. Bernard Frechtman (New York: George Braziller, 1964).
14. See Cohen-Solal, 415. Cohen-Solal writes that de Gaulle’s response to continued French disapproval of Sartre’s political views and activities in 1960 was the famous “You do not imprison Voltaire.”
15. For an excellent summary of Antonio Gramsci’s distinction between the organic intellectual and the traditional intellectual see Edward Said, “Swift as Intellectual,” The World, the Text, and the Critic (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1983), 82.
16. For a similar view of how Sartre uses his cultural recognition to enable projects of resistance which are not necessarily his own, see Reader, 32. Regarding Sartre’s close relation with the French student Maoists in the late 1960s and early 70s, Reader writes that “Sartre subordinates himself to the Maoists, using his prestige to amplify and propogate their ideas rather than ideas he has himself developed.”
17. See Jean-Paul Sartre’s “Preface” to Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington (New York: Grove Press, 1966); and for an interpretation of how the thought of the later Malcolm X resembled the “revolutionary socialism” of a “Third World political perspective” (237) see Ruby M. and E.U. Essien-Udom, “Malcolm X: An International Man” in Malcolm X: The Man and his Times, ed. John Henrik Clarke (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., 1969), 235-267.
18. See Sartre, “Self-Portrait at Seventy,” 61. In this interview Sartre characterizes the Maoist Pierre Victor as a “militant intellectual” and expresses hope that Victor “will carry out both the intellectual work and the militant work he wants to.”
19. Sartre discusses his reasons for visiting Baader, the public’s reaction to his visit, and his judgment of the visit itself in “Self-Portrait at Seventy,” 27, 31. Despite all the attention his visit drew, Sartre claims: “I think it was a failure, which is not to say that if I had to do it over again I would not do it.” Sartre acknowledges that, although many people did interpret his visit as an expression of approval for Baader specifically or, even worse, exploited it as a political opportunity to question the aging Sartre’s lucidity through the press, the fact that some attention was drawn to the merits of oppositional militancy more than justified Sartre’s visit, and would have justified it again. I think Sartre used Baader as an available representation of militant activism simply to keep the possibility of such activism alive in the European imagination. For even if Baader’s practices were specifically unproductive and even questionable as activities of “resistance,” Sartre knew that the state would manipulate Baader’s reception on a symbolic level to condemn militancy in general, when militancy might in some cases be necessary, effective, and absolutely desirable. Sartre thus strove to respond to the state’s symbolic over- totalization of oppositional militancy by producing alternative symbolics. See also Cohen-Solal, 507, and Hayman, 462, 465, 467.
20. For Fanon’s characterization of the difference between capitalist and colonized countries and the role that “bewilderers” play in the former see The Wretched of the Earth, 38. Fanon does not use the word “infrastructure” to characterize institutional activities of “bewilderment; however, I think the word “infrastructure,” with some qualification, communicates the sense of his argument well. I am not using “infrastructure” to imply the base (or substructure) of a society, but instead to suggest the more microphysical practices of subjectivization that take place in complex societies which cannot be explained simply in terms of base or superstructure.
21. See Sartre, “The Maoists in France,” Life/Situations, 162-171. This article first appeared as the introduction to Michele Manceaux’s Maos en France (Paris: Editions Gallimard, 1972). Manceaux’s book is a collection of interviews with Maoists, and Sartre was eager to endorse the Maoists’ moral commitment to illegal action. Sartre did so, I think, both to provoke France to consider the merits of illegal action, and to provide a moral discourse that could justify the necessity of such action to uncritical citizens who were otherwise trained to understand illegal action as a priori illegitimate action. See also Cohen-Solal on Sartre and the Maoists, 474-88, 494.
22. Michel Foucault, “On Popular Justice: A Discussion with Maoists,” Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972-1977, trans. Colin Gordon, Leo Marshall, John Mepham, Kate Soper (New York: Pantheon Books, 1977), 1-36. This interview is largely a conversation with Sartre’s close associate toward the end of his life, the Maoist Pierre Victor.
23. For Said on the “reactive” intellectual see “Swift as Intellectual,” 78. Elsewhere in this essay Said describes Swift as a “local activist” (77) and characterizes Swift’s writings and practices as “local performances” (79). These distinctions are all pertinent to my reinvention of Sartre.
24. For Foucault on the “specific” intellectual see “Truth and Power,” Power/Knowledge, 126.
-
A Poem
–SBB with Alamgir Hashmi
Islamabad, PakistanPost Scrotum
Watt? Yes. But the same when the Mal’oun died
in the island; this island severed,
repousse, reeling with peat-reek;
this drizzle of grief–
interminable falling on the wide sea.
Moll’s face saffron-coloured, hair like
petals plucked from a white chrysanthemum;
local boys on stout or busy at hurling;
and our scriveners, on regular beat up in London,
aping accents of the English gentry.
I broadcast in Irish then, from Radio Eireann,
the right embers and all that fall to the ashes
or whatever I often whispered to myself
through Murphy, Philips, or Grundig.
No, not Grundig, for the word grounds the air,
the mind slips out of form in that language,
is not hand in glove as now. Example:
with a handschuh your hands feel they wear shoes;
the foot’s in the mouth; and you write with your feet.
Paris is O. K. Paris is all right. Paris is O. K. All right.
I was lecteur d’anglais in that place, teaching Doublin’
English and writing like Thom A. Becket what no one,
except J. J. in some arseholy state or other, would attempt–
in a language of my own.
I hear now that across the Chunnel
one side tells the other it’s French I wrote;
the other side calls it English, or by other appelatives;
such as would divide the protestant cake in catholic portions
and make for a nice debate
in the Parliament of European Foules.
If I said Parnell was no string-pulling
politician, women would be tightening the girth
of their drawers with double-knotted strings.
I left because truelove had run out of the vein,
the earth turning no end but negative;
its slow poisons free a sweet violet in my lungs.
And, yes, French had a point or two.
That dusty potato dropped in 1921 or 1845,
it named the apple of the earth–
to say nothing of the rotten core.
Peeling. Peeling. -
The Second War and Postmodern Memory
Charles Bernstein
State University of New York at Buffalo
Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand, Draw a deep breath; stop thinking, count fifteen, And you’re as right as rain. . . . Books; what a jolly company they are, Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves . . . . they’re so wise . . . .
–Siegfried Sassoon, “Repression of War Experience” (1918)
We never discussed the Second World War much when I was growing up. I don’t feel much like discussing it now. It seems presumptuous to interpret, much less give literary interpretations of, the Systematic Extermination Process or the dropping of the H-Bomb, the two poles of the Second War.
When Stanley Diamond asked me to speak on “Poetry after the Holocaust”–to replace but also to respond to Jerome Rothenberg, who could not attend the symposium–my first reaction was to wonder what qualifications I had to speak– as if the topic of the war made me question my standing, made me wonder what I might say that could bear the weight of this subject matter. Diamond reassured me that the audience would be small: “For many the Holocaust is too far in the past to matter; for most of the rest, it’s too painful to bring to mind.”
My father-in-law, who left Berlin as a teenager on a youth aliyah and spent the war in Palestine, had a different reaction: all these Holocaust conferences are a fad. This reaction is as disturbing as it is right. The Holocaust has come to stand for a kind of Secular Satanism–everyone’s against it, anyone can work up a feverish moral fervor denouncing the Nazi Monster.
Yet I’ve been struck by just the opposite: that the psychological effects of the Second War are still largely repressed and that we are just beginning to come out of the shock enough to try to make sense of the experience.
We stormed the citadel under the banner of amnesia, Winning absolute victory over the Germans in 1943. Fantasy that could leave nothing out but the pain . . . [Barrett Watten,Under Erasure]
Crysiles of cristle, piled ankle high, as wide as sound carries. Am I-- hearing it--algebras worth? There is a wind erases marks. I felt it on my cheek Summers long you can cross it & still not approach time, de- solidified, approaching mothish mists felled, the way a price knocked down puts purchase on its feet. Stammering painful clamor by coincidents appraised. Refuse is a spilled constant. Let it loose. [Benjamin Friedlander, "Kristallnacht"]I don’t remember when I first heard about the war, but I do remember thinking of it as an historical event, something past and gone. It’s inconceivable to me now that I was born just five years after its end; each year, the Extermination Process seems nearer, more recent. Yet if the Systematic Extermination of the European Jews seemed to define, implicitly, the horizon of the past for me, the Bomb defined the foreshortened horizon of the future.
hear hear, where the dry blood talks where the old appetite walks . . . where it hides, look in the eye how it runs in the flesh / chalk but under these petals in the emptiness regard the light, contemplate the flower whence it arose with what violence benevolence is bought what cost in gesture justice brings what wrongs domestic rights involve what stalks this silence what pudor or perjorocracy affronts how awe, night-rest and neighborhood can rot what breeds where dirtiness is law what crawls below . . . [Charles Olson, "The Kingfishers" (1949)]Fifty years is not a long time to absorb such a catastrophe for Western Civilization. It seems to me that the current controversies surrounding Paul De Man, and, more significantly, Martin Heidegger reflect the psychic economy of reason in face of enormous loss. In all our journals of intellectual opinion, we are asked to consider, as if it were a Divine Mystery, how such men of learning, who have shown such a profound and subtle appreciation for the art and philosophy of the West, could have countenanced, indeed be complicit with, an evil that seems to erode any possible explanation, justification, or contextualization, despite the attempt of well-meaning commentators to evade this issue by just such explanations, justifications, and contextualizations.
The Heidegger question merely personalizes the basic situation of the war: that European learning, the Enlightenment tradition, and the Ideals of Reason as embodied in the Nation State, were as much a cause of the war as a break to it. For to understand how Heidegger could be complicit in the Second War is to understand how the Second War is not an aberration but an extension of the Logos of Western Civilization. Jack Spicer’s dying words–“My vocabulary did this to me”–could be the epitaph of the Second War as well: Our vocabulary did this to us.
Walter Benjamin, Primo Levi, Paul Celan committed suicide; De Man and Heidegger went on to prosper. What did the former know that the latter never absorbed? To acknowledge the Second War means to risk suicide and in the process to politicize philosophy; and if we desire to avoid death and evade politics, repression is inevitable. Which is to say that the death an acknowledgement of this war brings on is not only the death of individuals but also of an Ideal–of reason unbounded to politics, of, that is, rationality as such.
fear smashes into my double out of nowhere would shrink flesh back in itself before it vomits a wet night from neck or forehead passes into the vague air swallows the liquid stays inside my corneas extend along the axis of the flow dries [Rosmarie Waldrop,The Road Is Everywhere Or Stop This Body]I’d be reluctant to say any of my own poems was about the war or should be read within that frame–none would hold up to the scrutiny such a reading would promote. But I do want to make a broad, very provisional, claim that much of the innovative poetry of these soon to be fifty years following the war register the Twined events of Extermination in the West and Holocaust in East in ways that hardly have been accounted for.
From the stately violence of the State a classic war, World War Two, punctuated by Hiroshima all the action classically taking place on one day visible to one group in invisible terms beside a fountain of imagefree water "trees" with brown "trunks" and "leafy" green crowns 50s chipmunks sitting beneath, buck teeth representing mental tranquility, they sit in rows and read their book and the fountain gushes forth all the letters at once, permanently a playful excrescence, an erotic war against nature.... [Bob Perelman, "The Broken Mirror"]Every cultural development I ascribe to the Second War can be just as readily traced to some other cause and can also be said to preexist the war. My argument is not deterministic; rather I want to suggest that the frame of the Second War, Auschwitz and Hiroshima, transforms the social meaning of these cultural developments. Racism and cultural supremacism do not begin or end with the Second War but they are the precise ideological instruments that mark the most unrecuperable aspects of the war–the Lagers and the mutilated survivors of the bomb. The war did not make racism and cultural supremacism intolerable, they always were, but it demonstrated, as if demonstration was necessary, their absolute corrosiveness.
The war made it apparent, if it wasn’t already, that racism and cultural supremacism are not correctable flaws of Western logocentrism but its nonbiodegradable byproduct. I don’t mean this as a thesis to be systematically argued. Rather, I am suggesting that the war undermined, subliminally more than consciously, the belief in virtually every basic value of the Enlightenment, insofar as these values are in any way Eurosupremacist or hierarchic.
Not one death but many, not accumulation but change, the feed-back proves, the feed-back is the law Into the same river no man steps twice When the fire dies air dies No one remains, nor is, one . . . To be in different states without a change is not a possibility . . . [Olson, "The Kingfishers"]Racism and cultural supremacism contaminate everything that is associated with them; if this guilt-by-association is necessarily too far-reaching, that is because it sets loose a radical skepticism that knows no immediate place to stop.
The Second War undermines authority in all its prescriptive forms and voices: the rights of the Father, of Law, of the Nation and National Spirit, of Technorationality, of Scientific Certainty, of Axiomatic Judgement, of Hierarchy, of Progress, of Tradition. It’s a chain reaction. No truths are self-evident, certainly not the prerogatives of patriarchy, authority, rationality, order, control.
“But it’s not reason but unreason that caused the war! It’s just a parody of the Enlightenment to associate it with Nazi dementia, or to see the telos of science in a mushroom cloud! The Enlightenment was a force fortoleration and consideration as opposed to mysticism, irrationality, and theological or state authority. Didn’t the Allies represent these Western values against the Nazis!” But the matter is altogether more complicated and my account risks swerving into something too grandiose: for this is not a matter of principle but of shock and grief. If the values associated with Enlightenment are undermined, this is not to remove the Romantic legacy from its undoing. For if the Second War casts doubt on systematicity, it is no less destructive to the vatic, the occult, the charismatic, the emotional solidarity of communion.
There are new difficulties. It’s difficult to see order in the same way after the war, hard to accept control as a neutral value or domination by one group of another as justifiable, hard not to associate systematic operations with the systematicity of the Extermination Process or preemptory Authority with Fascism. These associations overgeneralize: but the pairs are subliminally linked, the one stigmatized by the other. Benjamin said it best and the Second War made it ineradicable (roughly): Every act of Civilization is at the same time an act of Barbarism.
When the attentions change / the jungle leaps in even the stones are split they rive . . . [Olson, "The Kingfishers"]The vehemence of the civil rights movement and the anti- Vietnam War movement can be seen in this context: the shadow of the Second War, growing darker as the immediate compensatory shock of the first postwar decades wore off, spurred the pace of demands for change and contributed to a sometimes millenarian we-can’t-go-on-the-old-way-anymore zeal. In the U.S., the war on the war in Vietnam inaugurates the externalization of the response to the Second War–the beginning of the end of the repression of the experience of the war.
The realization that white, heterosexual Christian men of the West have no exclusive franchise on articulating the “highest” values of humankind was certainly around prior to the Second War, but the war added a nauseating repulsiveness to such “canonical” views; as if they were not just something to dispute but could no longer be stomached at all. The depth and breadth of the challenge to the Western canon may be a measure of the effect of the war, though few of the parties to the controversy choose to frame it this way. It’s now a commonplace to read the poetry that followed the Great War in the context of the bitter disillusionment brought about by that cataclysm; just as we better understand the Romantics when we keep in mind the context of the French Revolution. The effects of the Second War are all the greater than those of the first, but less frequently cited.
I don’t mean “War Poetry” in the sense of poems about the war; they are notoriously scarce and beside the point I want to make here. Of course, there are many accounts of the war–documentary, personal, theoretical–and many visualizations of the war in film, photography, painting. But the scope or core of the Second War cannot be represented only by the conventional techniques developed to depict events, scenes, battles, political infamies. Only the surface of the war can be pictured.
To be sure, the crisis of representation, which is to say the recognition that the Real is not representable, is associated with the great radical modernist poems of the period immediately before and after the First World War. In the wake of the Second War, however, the meaning, and urgency, of unrepresentability took on explosive new force as a political necessity, as the absolute need to reground polis. That is, such work which had started as a heady, even giddy, aesthetic investigation had become primarily an act of human reconstruction and reimagining. Radical modernism can be characterized by the discovery of the entity-status of language–not just verbal language but signification systems/processes; thus, the working hypothesis about the autonomy of the medium, of the compositional space; the flattening of the Euclidian space of representing and its implicit metaphysics of displacement and reification of objects. I think all of these fundamental ontological and aesthetic discoveries and inventions are carried forward into the radical late 20th century work but with a different critical understanding of the implications of this new textual space.
as if we could ignore the consequences of explosions fracture the present warm exhaust in our lungs would turn us inside out of gloves avoid words like "war" needs subtler poisons as if conscious of ends and means scream in every nerve every breath every grain of dust to dust cancers over the bloodstream the bloodstream the bloodstream the bloodstream the bloodstream [Waldrop, The Road is Everywhere]After the Second War, there is a more conscious rejection of lingering positivist and Romantic orientations toward, respectively, master systems and the poetic Spirit or Imagination as transcendent. The meaning of the modernist textual practice has been interpreted in ways that contrast with some of its original interpretations:toward the incommensurability of different discourse systems,against the idea of poetry as an imperializing or world-synthesizing agency (of the zeitgeist), not only because these ideas tend to impart to the Poet a superhistorical or superhuman perspective but also because they diminish the partiality, and therefore particularity, of any poetic practice. Thus, the emphasis in the New American Poetry and after on particularity, the detail rather than the overview, form understood as eccentric rather than systematic, process more than system, or if system then system that undermines any hegemonic role for itself.
In the center of movement, a debate. Before beginning, a pause. . . . Pianissimo. Curious symptom, this, that the man appears mildly self-satisfied, as if, in spite of his obvious confusion and . . . so ill at ease [Nick Piombino,Poems]After the war, there is also greater attention to the ideological function of language: taking the word/world-materializing techniques of radical modernism and applying them to show how “everyday” language practices manipulate and dominate; that is, the investigation of the social dimension of language as reality-producing through the use of radical modernist procedures.
how we read it line after line given one look refresh the eyes against the abyss [Larry Eigner,another time in fragments]Poetry after the war has its psychic imperatives: to dismantle the grammar of control and the syntax of command. This is one way to understand the political content of its form.
We are in a sandheap We are discovered not solid the floor based on misunderstanding. [Susan Howe,The Liberties]If racism and cultural supremacism are no longer tolerable, then literary history has to be rewritten. This has its primary expression in the proliferation of poetry that rejects a monoculturally centric point-of-view.
Jerome Rothenberg’s anthologies epitomize one aspect of this development.Technicians of the Sacred insisted on the immediate (rather than simply historical or anthropological) relevance of the “tribal” poetries of Native Americans (on both American continents), Africans, peoples of Oceania. This was a concerted assault on the primacy of Western high culture and an active attempt to find in other, non-Western/non-Oriental cultures, what seemed missing from our own. Moreover, the “recovery” of Native American culture by a Jewish Brooklyn-born first generation poet-as-anthologist whose aesthetic roots were in the European avant-garde implicitly acknowledges our domestic genocide. This gesture cannot be fully appreciated without recognizing that it functions as a way of recovering from the Second War by refusing to cover over the genocide that has allowed a false unity to the idea of American Literature. Rothenberg’s anthologies present a multicultural America of many voices in a way that explicitly rejects Eurosupremacism fromwithin a European perspective–that is, dispensing with the demagogic rejection of Europe as such in favor of idealized “America.”
The effect of the Second War is audible not only in the subject matter of the New American Poetry of the 1950s but also in its form, in its insistence on form (as never more than the extension of content, in Creeley’s phrase, echoed by Olson).
He had been stuttering, by the edge of the street, one foot still on the sidewalk, and the other in the gutter . . . like a bird, say, wired to flight, the wings, pinned to their motion, stuffed. The words, several, and for each, several senses. "It is very difficult to sum up briefly . . ." It always was. [Robert Creeley,For Love]“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked” does not refer to the war, but it can’t help doing so despite itself. “Howl” makes it apparent that something has gone wrong with America by the early 1950s: the whole “calm” of this period can be read as a repression that Ginsberg, and others, reacted– powerfully, resonantly–against. Not as Sassoon–“I’m going crazy; I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns”; that’s the difference between the two wars: the malaise is not locatable as the official event of the war, the battles: the whole of everyday life has lost its foundations. And the poetry–or some of it–either registered this loss of foundation in the everyday, or invented ways of articulating new foundations, strikingly without the grandiosity or optimism of some of its modernist sources.
On the street I am met with constant hostility
and I would have finally nothing else around me,
except my children who are trained to love
and whom I intend to leave as relics of my intentions.[Creeley, “A Fragment”]
These lacustrine cities grew out of loathing Into something forgetful, although angry with history. They are the product of an idea: that man is horrible, for instance. Though this is only one example. . . . [John Ashbery, "These Lacustrine Cities"]The New American Poetry, by and large, rejected the grandiosity of scheme, of world-spirit, of progress, of avant-garde advance: the positivist, quasi-authoritarian assumptions of Futurism, Voriticism or the tradition of Eliot. It rejected the heroic universalizing of poetic genius in favor of particularization, process, detail; extending the innovations of the 1910 to 1917 period, but giving them an entirely different psychic registration. Think of the role of the ungeneralizable particular in Creeley or Eigner as opposed to the Controlling Allegories of Pound or Eliot, think of Ashbery’s or Spicer’s self- cancellation compared to Williams’s relaxed prerogatives of self or Stein’s exuberant hubris.
This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.[Jack Spicer, “Thing Language”]
Or think of Olson suggesting his project as a poet is to find a way out of the “Western Box,” or Duncan’sBefore the War, or Rothenberg, in his essay on the war, writing of discontent with “regularity and clarity as a reflection of the nature of God.” (In his essay, Rothenberg quotes Creeley’s recent poem fromWindows: “Ever since Hitler / or well before that / fact of human appetite / addressed with brutal / indifference others / killed or tortured . . . / . . . no possible way / out of it smiled or cried / or tore at it and died”.) To link the New American poetry with the Second War in this way suggests that the Systematic Extermination Process had a profound effect on American attitudes in the 1950s. No doubt this projects more than is evident. While the effect of World War 2 on the United States has been far-reaching, and not only for those who fought in the war and their families, the Lagers may well have been a distant issue for most Americans. In contrast, the Cold War and the U.S.’s new hegemonic global role would be a more obvious context for a sociohistorical reading of the New American Poets. But something else lurks in these poems of the “other” tradition that suggests a discomfort with American complacency that the Cold War does not quite account for.
1st SF Home Rainout Since. Bounce Tabby-Cat Giants. Newspapers Left in my house. My house is Aquarius. I don't believe The water-bearer Has equal weight on his shoulders. The lines never do. We give equal Space to everything in our lives. Eich- Mann proved that false in killing like you raise wildflowers. Witlessly I Can- not accord sympathy to those who do not recognize The human crisis. [Spicer,Language]The human crisis seems to have wounded a different, slightly younger cluster of American poets that keeps forming and reforming in my mind and I find it difficult to ignore the fact that they were born during the Second World War. Susan Howe gives an explicit account of what I take here to be significant:
For me there was no silence before armies. I was born in Boston Massachusetts on June 10th, 1937, to an Irish mother and American father. . . . By 1937 the Nazi dictatorship was well established in Germany. All dissenting political parties had been liquidated and Concentration Camps had already been set up. . . . In the summer of 1938 my mother and I were staying . . . in Ireland and I had just learned to walk, when Czechoslovakia was dismembered . . . . That October we sailed home on a ship crowded with refugees. When I was two the German army invaded Poland and World War II began in the West. . . . American fathers march off into the hot Chronicles of global struggle but mothers were left. . . . From 1939 until 1946 in news photographs, day after day I saw signs of culture exploding into murder. . . . I became part of the ruin. In the blank skies over Europe I was Strife represented. . . . Those black and white picture shots--moving or fixed--were a subversive generation.
I wouldn’t want to give an inclusive list of this just more extraordinary part-generation ofNewerAmerican Poets born between 1937 and 1944, but a partial list would include Clark Coolidge, Michael Palmer, Lyn Hejinian, David Melnick, Tom Mandel, Michael Lally, Ted Greenwald, Ray DiPalma, Nick Piombino, Ann Lauterbach, Peter Seaton, Jim Brodey, Charles North, Fanny Howe, George Quasha, Charles Stein, Robert Grenier, Ron Padgett, Stephen Rodefer, John Taggart, Mauren Owen, Lorenzo Thomas, Lewis Warsh, Michael Davidson, Tony Towle, Bill Berkson, Geoff Young, Kathleen Fraser, John Perelman–all contemporaries of John Lennon, Bob Dylan, and Richard Foreman. (I recognize how arbitrary it is to leave off the years just before and after, or not to mention Tom Raworth, born in England in 1938.)
o - u - u - u -ni - form - ity - o - u - u - u - ni - formity - o - u - unit - de - formity - u - unit deformity [Robert Grenier, "Song"]While I don’t want to stereotype individuals who, if anything, stand radically and determinately against stereotyping, generalizing, sweeping claims, ideological pronouncements and the like, I’ve been struck by how much these individual artists havethat in common: as if they share, without ever so stating, a rejection of anything extrinsic to the poetic process and to the poem–an insistence on the particularity of that process, the nonreducible nature of the choices made, the obscenity or absurdity of paraphrase or extra-poetic explanation, and a suspicion or rejection of conventional literary, and equally, nonliterary, career patterns. In short, they share a radical rejection of conventional American values of conformism, fitting in, getting along / going along,–of accessibility to the point of self-betrayal.
An evening . . .
Spent thinking
About what my life would be . . .
If I’d’ve been accepted to and gone
Where I applied . . .
Where I’d learned
Different social graces
Than the ones I have
Where some of the material
Values of the American dream
Had rubbed off . . .
If I’d settled down
And settled
For the foundation
On a house
For future generations
Instead of assuming
Immediately past generations
My foundation to mine
If I’d been
A little quicker to learn
What was expected of me . . .
I’ve probably been saved
By a streak of stubbornness
By a slow mind
And a tendency to drift
That requires
My personal understanding
Before happening . . .[Ted Greenwald, “Whiff”]
Uncompromising integrity is one way I’d put it, emphasizing that the social costs of such uncompromising integrity– inaudibility or marginality, difficult immediate personal and economic circumstance, isolation, feisty impatience with less exacting choices–are not unknown to some of these individuals.
it's embarrassing to feel my self body image etc (often) defined by people around me (my reaction to their reactions) that embarrasses me a lot zeal embarrasses me, your zeal for instance always lining up poets and their poems one up one down in relation to you and your poems . . . most of all . . . I'm embarrassed by death death is really the only embarrassing thing and sometimes (unexpectedly these days more often) it scares the shit out of me [Greenwald, "For Ted, On Election Day"]Or put it this way: I find in many of the works of these poets an intense distrust of large-scale claims of any kind, an extreme questioning of “public” forms, a tireless tearing down or tearing away at authoritative / authoritarian language structures. I hear in their works an explosion of self-reflectiveness and a refusal of the systematic combined with a pervasive engagement with dislocation up to the point of personal terror: An insistence on the “human” scale of poetry–on the “human crisis”–in a culture going bonkers with mass markets, high technology, and faith in science as savior.
the lost family of scatter cabal
thought under disorder and music
filling the crumpled space owned
by another taught under disorder
to make a path through judgement . . .[Ray DiPalma,RAIK]
While I would surely point to the remarkable amount of what is now reductively called “theory” that is implicit in the work of most of these poets, many of them have eloquently refused the “mantle” of poetics and theory, as if to engage in such secondary projects would implicate them in a grandiosity or even megalomania that the work itself abjures.
What we know is the way we fall
when we fall off the little we ride
when we ride away from the things we’re given
to make us forget the things we gave up[Michael Lally, “In the Distance”]
While the formal invention and innovations among these poets is enormous, few of them have chosen to promote them in an impersonal or art-historical way; invention is not seen in avant-garde or canonical terms but rather as a necessary extension of a personally eccentric investigation, crucial because of the “internal” needs of the articulation and not justified or justifiable by external criteria.
We're strange features, ignoring things. Our hero Separates from a problem in pink, the thought To be able to thing in the world. . . . So this is the perfect plan. And here's a creative code. For all its on or off old self, immersion, power and Command. When the world was wars and wars, according To cause breaking out from the conditions for events And their obsessed leaders. Brute editing, the way The frame's the response to survival aids to lust Contains the round rations on an actual summit. One teaches sense to a child saying you sense How we've always talked. . . . A deeper shelter, a deeper skin leaving Tracks the brain blew away . . . Predatory signs which whiz by and stop, The lid and the soul, there are reasons for this. [Peter Seaton, "Need from a Wound Would Do It"]So the absence of a substantial amount of poetics or commentary (the exceptions are striking but not contradictory), more, the refusal of commentary as explanation, mark a complete engagement with the poetic act asnecessarily self-sufficient. Thus: a reluctance to link up formal innovation–which is understood as eccentric and self-defined rather than ideologically or socially defined–with larger political, social or aesthetic activities, as in groups or movements, while at the same time refusing to Romanticize or sentimentalize “individuality” in place of the values of poetic work itself.
Not by `today' but by recurrent light its course of blossoming is not effected by the sun at all? `powers of darkness' at large? it `unfolds' `unfolding' flowering of powers of darkness at large? I `see' at `dawn'? [Grenier, "Rose"]This formulation suggests a relatively sharp demarcation with the generation born after 1945–the so-called baby boomers who came of age during a time when personal discomfort with, or distaste for, dominant American value could be linked up to national and international cultural and political movements that seem to share these values. In 1958 cultural and political dissidence would have taken place against a totally different ground than ten years later. The situation of the fifties may have induced a sense of isolation or self-reliance in contrast to the sixties version of sometimes giddy group-solidarity.
Damage frightens sometimes–reminder
of present danger–loss, deprivation. . . .
One didn’t want to view the wreckage constantly
but sought the consolation of lovely sights and
subtle sounds. One could accept a single scratch
but in the midst of the thicket, the brambles burn
and the delay in walking at last annoys and one
loses patience.[Piombino,Poems]
The poetry of murder helped instigate the murder of poetry. Looking for the root, I forgot the sun. [Piombino, "9/20/88"]Perhaps this can be described as a process of internalization, looking downward or inward (“the root”) rather than outward (“the sun”)–not upward as in Idealism but falling down with the gravity of the earth, the grace of the body, even the body–the materiality–of language. There is, in many of the poems of these poets, a persistence of dislocation, of going on in the face of all the terms being changed while refusing to return to, to accept, normalcy or a new equilibrium grounded on repressing the old damage. This can be as much a cause for comedy as solemnity.
weracki dciece hajf wet pboru eitusic at foerual bif thorus t'inalie thodo to tala ienstable ate sophoabl [David Melnick,Pcoet]Poets are seismographs of the psychic realities that are not seen or heard in less sensitive media; poems chart or graph realities that otherwise go unregistered. And they do this more in the minute particulars of registration than any idea of subject matter would otherwise suggest.
What is said
long before
the chronicle
is told Smokey
Stuff in damp rooms
Carved out
Blocked out
Piled with slits
And windows . . .[Ray DiPalma,Chan]
The psychic dislocation of the Second War occurred when these poets were toddlers; their first experience of language, of truth and repression, of fear and future, are inextricably tied to the Second War. Perhaps poetry presented a possible field for articulation for those who atypically stayed in touch with–perhaps could not successfully repress–these darker realities.
A great block of wedge wood stint stays at the star of its corner which. A divider in pierces depends, wans. For is what I have made be only salvage? Sat in my robes, folds. Decomposed, fled. The world a height now brine, estuaries drained to the very pole. Geometric, a lingual dent? Drainage, albany. Where at the last stand all this sphere that herded me? My cell a corner on the filtering world, all out herein my belts. Things in trim they belt me, beg me, array my coined veils. . . . The world in anger is an angled hole? . . . The light that leaks from composition alone. Scalded by a tentative. Expels the tiny expounds thing huge, things made be. Any and it's large. A universe is not of use. [Clark Coolidge,Melencolia]These tentative angles into the unknown are a far cry from Rothenberg’s explosive, disturbing, graphic struggle with the memories of the Second War inKhurbn:
“practice your scream” I said
(why did I say it?)
because it was his scream & wasn’t my own
it hovered between us bright
to our senses always bright it held
the center place
then somebody else came up & stared
deep in his eyes there found a memory
of horses galloping faster the wheels dyed red
behind them the poles had resolved
a feast day but the jew
locked in his closet screamed
into his vest a scream
that had no sound therefore
spiralled around the world
so wild that it shattered stones . . .[“Dos Geshray (The Scream)”]
Khurbn risks the pornographic or voyeuristic out of a need to exorcise the images that hold us captive if not spoken or revisualized, marking an end to Rothenberg’s own past refusal to depict the Extermination Process.
In contrast, Charles Reznikoff’s last book,Holocaust (1975), which is based on documentary evidence about the Lagers gathered from the records of the Eichmann and Nuremberg trials, presents a series of details, fragments cut away from the horror. Reznikoff offers no explanation of the depicted events and he provides neither explicit emotional nor moral response to them: he leaves us alone with our reactions, making us to find our own screams or to articulate our own silences. Seemingly flat, documentary, particularized,Holocaust–like all of Reznikoff’s work since his first book in 1917–is a mosaic of salient incidents:
A visitor once stopped one of the children: a boy of seven or eight, handsome, alert and gay. He had only one shoe and the other foot was bare, and his coat of good quality had no buttons. The visitor asked him for his name and then what his parents were doing; and he said, "Father is working in the office and Mother is playing the piano." Then he asked the visitor if he would be joining his parents soon-- they always told the children they would be leaving soon to rejoin their parents-- and the visitor answered, "Certainly. In a day or two." At that the child took out of his pocket half an army biscuit he had been given in camp and said, "I am keeping this half for Mother;" and then the child who had been so gay burst into tears.This detail from Reznikoff brings forward, in an ineffably shattering way, the atmosphere of willed forgetting of the 1950s, or now. We blithely go about our business–busy, gay, distracted; until that blistering moment of consciousness that shatters all hopes when we recognize that we are orphaned, have lost our parents–in the sense of our foundations, our bearing in the world; until, that is, a detail jolts the memory, when we feel, as in the fragments in our pocket, what we have held back out of denial.
Denial marks the refusal to mourn: to understand what we have lost and its absolute irreparability. Reznikoff and Rothenberg initiate this process, but no more than other poets, ranges of poetry, that register this denial in the process of seeking forms that find ways out of the “Western Box”.
In contrast to–or is it an extension of?–Adorno’s famous remarks about the impossibility of (lyric?) poetry after Auschwitz, I would say poetry is a necessary way to register the unrepresentable loss of the Second War.
Sources for Poems Cited
- John Ashbery. Rivers and Mountains. Ecco Press, New York, 1966.
- Clark Coolidge,Melencolia. Great Barrington, Massachusetts: The Figures, 1987.
- Robert Creeley, “A Fragment,” inThe Charm (early poems) and “Hart Crane,” the opening poem ofFor Love, both in The Collected Poems. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982. “Ever since Hitler . . .” inWindows. New York: New Directions, 1990.
- Ray DiPalma,RAIK. New York: Roof Books, 1989. “Five Poems fromChan” in “43 Poets (1984),” ed. Charles Bernstein, inboundary 2, XIV: 1-2 (1986).
- Larry Eigner, frontpiece poem inanother time in fragments. London: Fulcrum, 1967.
- Ben Friedlander,Kristallnacht: November 9-10, 1938. Privately printed, 1988.
- Allen Ginsberg,Howl. San Francisco: City Lights, 1956.
- Ted Greenwald,Common Sense. Kensington, California: L Publications, 1978.
- Robert Grenier,Phantom Anthems: Oakland: O Books, 1986.
- Susan Howe, The Liberties (1980), inThe Europe of Trusts (Los Angeles: Sun & Moon, 1990).
- Michael Lally,Rocky Dies Yellow. Berkeley: Blue Wind, 1975.
- David Melnick,Pcoet. San Francisco: G.A.W.K., 1975.
- Charles Olson,The Collected Poems, ed. George F. Butterick. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987.
- Bob Perelman,The First World. The Figures, 1986.
- Nick Piombino, “in the center of movement, a debate” and “A Simple Invocation Would Be,” inPoems. Sun & Moon Press, 1988; “9/20/88” in “Postmodern Poetries”, ed. Jerome McGann, inVerse, Vol. 7, No. 1 (1990).
- Charles Reznikoff, “Children”, inHolocaust. Los Angeles: Black Sparrow, 1975.
- Jerome Rothenberg,Khurbn & Other Poems. New Directions, 1989.
- Jack Spicer,Language (1964) inThe Collected Books of Jack Spicer, ed. Robin Blaser. Black Sparrow, 1975.
- Rosmarie Waldrop,The Road Is Everywhere Or Stop This Body. Columbia, Missouri: Open Places, 1978.
- Barrett Watten,Under Erasure, excerpted in “Postmodern Poetries” inVerse.
-
Two Poems
James McCorkle
Hobart and William Smith Colleges
Combustion of Early Summer
The elation of the past is over, the news tells us,
Suggesting it was there to begin with
Or recoverable, like a heavy ore or a shipwreck.But on closer inspection, the past buzzes around us,
A conversation in another room we thought dormant,
Soon its occupants will crash through the doorWearing green sequin blouses that remind us of mermaids,
The ones seen years ago in waterless tanks among dried starfish
And draped nets, waving to us from a place free of storms.You wonder about other places, less advertised,
If another design had not been accomplished
That drew upon a new notion of heaven.Cushioned by the afternoon’s orchid heat,
Enveloping us with implied betrayals–
It is possible, the narrator might be whispering–There we might be unfurling like sails,
Never going taut, the wind pulls us over the water,
Whole populations streaming over reefs with marlin and sailfish.Stories that make us up, until we are bankrupt,
And we wonder who these people are claiming their pound
Of flesh off our backs, pushing us into the dusty crowd.We are trapped in the same voices we’ve known for years,
Words drop among the glowing debris of streets–
Which are yours or mine, what was said or when, unknown.Sorting things out, nothing really fits:
The puzzle of mountains with pieces from a regatta,
We have pieces from other lives,The difficulty is to remember them, hoping
Caligula or Curie do not figure
As the locking piece, the keyhole, the knob.Dreams stare back at us, a coiled snake
Leading us deeper into houses or along streets
To a harbor whose palms have rotted, the furniture staved-in.Along the shore the dead talk with us–they are the waves
And the salvage-birds, the jackals that swarm
Through the old hotels and in the weedy temples.These sidereal landscapes compound: for a moment
You are there, in the mullein-heat of ruins, before we lose sight
Of the landscape, the dream chopped to a memoryAt other times, there are sections we dimly remember:
Another bay’s cerulean expanse tips into the sky,
Scattered sails tack for an unseen buoy.The regatta holds its shape, like dreams that continue after
waking,
The city fills out for us again, with its seepage-stained
Water-towers and the pigeon-clutter of roofs.In the dense exhaust of afternoon, we move in and out of shadows
Along Houston Street, as though bathing in ink
And then washing clean of all traces,The remaining light is so strong our white shirts
Blanch the photographs of all tone: were you to the left,
Or is that someone else strayed into the frame?The shield of light expands over the imagined horizons,
Everything fills itself with all else,
That anything could be no longer interests.The traffic lights change like dominoes falling,
All the way up town as we move each to another,
A roundel where passion is only in the figure.Everything said spirals to a period,
A rose that has dried almost to blackness,
Its scent a window left open long ago.We slide to this point perspectives chart,
Infinite movement allowed only one course,
What was meant to happens remains off stage,So much for the pavane we whirled into;
Sticking your tongue out, crossing your eyes, you spin
Across stage, into the water-meadows abutting tank-farms.The stage goes black, the curtains tear,
Children are sent in to rip the floorboards up
For firewood, pigeons circle out of the cracked vault.Returning dripping with sedge and reeds,
Tannic perfume soaks your clothes: no one can describe
Your departure or arrival, yet we all have ideas.Momentary grace or seduction?–no one knows
Your reasons for taking up with us, perhaps the loneliness
Of watching cities turn more fatal and rapturousEach epoch slides into the next and claims its dead:
What is the cost of all this, what has been put aside
To keep the body tandem to the sulphur-lit city.When you spun into your volute, there was a dazzle of sails:
I saw you spinning on the round stones of a harbor,
The howling from below the ground stopped.The first bodies were temples crowded with space,
With different voices you spun through them,
Until the howling started again, and the bull slammed the wallsDeep below us, mired in its own demands:
We talk to the dead, now that the fields far inland
Are burning up and our history is seen as strings
Of small blunders, the sky emptied of its regattas.
The Love of My Life
Out of practice, all that is left is theory,
The sun has risen hours ago, but the day
Hangs like a dream whose edges will be skirted
In collaboration with gravity. The clouds will lift
Is all the radio omens, the stage is left
For newcomers, the bureau cluttered with the weeks’s
Unforgiving letters and bills. And theory,An elaboration of what is gone, is not an explanation,
But the fine ribs lifted from fossil
Sediments, glistening and senseless
Unless understood by what followed, if anything.
And there they are, all twenty-six, sternum side-up,
The wind catching rags and paper shreds in them,
The day trudges on, the traffic caught like hairOn the bathroom floor; suburbia not far past
The bridges. What a day this has turned into
We exclaim, for once, getting it off
Our chests. Somewhere each of us has left a corpse,
Or many, honeyed or scattered by birds.
While we talk, I too am a diminishing figure,
Sitting next to you, then in another room, and at lastAcross the river, on the other side of the city,
Walking backwards into what must be only theory
Of what comes to happen. Discussed later
Over dinner, the higher forms of life, the cooperative
Societies of animal species–blue whales and mountain gorillas–
While we have learned the practice of severing
And the routes marking separation: this isThe practice, the plan of every city. In this plan
Someone dragging shimmering cages of ribs already
Nears you. On pellets of ice, in the store window
Before you, swordfish arch their black leather trunks
Around mounds of pink shrimp and mirrored cuts of salmon.
The avenue is packed and steaming cold: which one
Is he, nearing you with his theories and criminal good looks? -
Incloser
Susan Howe
Temple University
Some of this essay has been published in The Politics of Poetic Form; Poetry and Public Policy, edited by Charles Bernstein, Roof Books. [What follows is an excerpt from a book to be published in 1991 by Weaselsleeves Press. –Eds.]
Turned back from turning back as if a loved country faced away from the traveler No pledged premeditated daughter no cold cold sorrow no barrier EN-CLOSE. See INCLOSE. IN-CLOSE, v.t. [fr. %enclos*; Sp. It. incluso; L. inclusus, includo; in and claudo or cludo.] 1. To surround; to shut in; to confine on all sides; as to inclose a field with a fence; to inclose a fort or an army with troops; to inclose a town with walls. 2. To separate from common grounds by a fence; as, to inclose lands. 3. To include; to shut or confine; as to inclose trinkets in a box. 4. To environ; to encompass. 5. To cover with a wrapper or envelope; to cover under seal; as to inclose a letter or a bank note. IN-CLOS ER, n. He or that which encloses; one who separates land from common grounds by a fence. Noah Webster, An American Dictionary of the English Language Incloser THOMAS SHEPARD Anagram: O, a map's thresh'd (WIII 513) The first and least of these Books [by Shepard] is called, The Sincere Convert: Which the Author would commonly call, His Ragged Child : And once, even after its Fourth Edition, wrote unto Mr. Giles Firmin, thus concerning it: once saw it. It was a Collection of such Notes in a dark Town in, The Sincere Convert:I have not the Book : I once saw it. It was a Collection of such Notes in a dark Town in England, which one procuring of me, published them without my Will, or my Privity. I scarce know what it contains, nor do I like to see it; considering the many Typographia, most absurd; and the Confession of him that published it, that it comes out much altered from what was first written. Cotton Mather, Magnalia Christi Americana * * * My writing has been haunted and inspired by a series of texts, woven in shrouds and cordage of classic American 19th century works, they are the buried ones, they body them forth. The selection of particular examples from a large group is always a social act. By choosing to install certain narratives somewhere between history, mystic speech, and poetry, I have enclosed them in an organization although I know there are places no classificatory procedure can reach where connections between words and things we thought existed break off. For me, paradoxes and ironies of fragmentation are particularly compelling. Every statement is a product of collective desires and divisibilities. Knowledge, no matter how I get it, involves exclusion and repression. National histories hold ruptures and hierarchies. On the scales of global power what gets crossed over? Foreign accents mark dialogues that delete them. Ambulant vagrant bastardy comes looming through assurance and sanctification. _Thomas Shepard:_ A long story of conversion, and a hundred to one if some lie or other slip not out with it. Why, the secret meaning is, I pray admire me. (WII 284) When we move through the positivism of literary canons and master narratives, we consign ourselves to the legitimation of power, chains of inertia, an apparatus of capture. _Brother Crackbone's Wife:_ So I gave up and I was afraid to sing because to sing a lie, Lord teach me and I'll follow thee and heard Lord will break the will of His last work. (C 140) * * * A printed book enters social and economic networks of distribution. Does the printing modify an author's intention, or does a text develop itself? Why do certain works go on saying something else? Pierre Macherey says in A Theory of Literary Production: "the work has its beginnings in a break from the usual ways of speaking and writing--a break which sets it apart from all other forms of ideological expression" (52). Roman Jakobson says in "Dialogue On Time In Language and Literature": "One of the essential differences between spoken and written language can be seen clearly. The former has a purely temporal character, while the latter connects time and space. While the sounds we hear disappear, when we read we usually have immobile letters before us and the time of the written flow of words is reversible" (20). Gertrude Stein says in "Patriarchal Poetry": "They said they said./ They said they said when they said men./ Many men many how many many many many men men men said many here" (123). Emily Dickinson writes to her sister-in-law Susan Gilbert Dickinson: "Moving on in the Dark like Loaded Boats at Night, though there is no Course, there is Boundlessness--" (L 871). Strange translucencies: letters, phonemes, syllables, rhymes, shorthand segments, alliteration, assonance, meter, form a ladder to an outside state outside of States. Rungs between escape and enclosure are confusing and compelling. _Brother Crackbone's Wife:_ And seeing house burned down, I thought it was just and mercy to save life of the child and that I saw not after again my children there. And as my spirit was fiery so to burn all I had, and hence prayed Lord would send fire of word, baptize me with fire. And since the Lord hath set my heart at liberty. (C 140) * * * There was the last refuge from search and death; so here. (WII 195) I am a poet writing near the close of the 20th century. Little by little sound grew to be meaning. I cross an invisible line spoken in the first word "Then." Every prescriptive grasp assertion was once a hero reading Samson. There and here I encounter one vagabond formula another pure Idea. To such a land. Yet has haunts. The heart of its falls must be crossed and re-crossed. October strips off cover and quiet conscience. New England is the place I am. Listening to the clock and the sun whirl dry leaves along. Distinguishing first age from set hour. The eternal and spirit in them. A poem can prevent onrushing light going out. Narrow path in the teeth of proof. Fire of words will try us. Grace given to few. Coming home though bent and bias for the sake of why so. Awkward as I am. Here and there invincible things as they are. I write quietly to her. She is a figure of other as thin as paper. Sorrow for uproar and wrongs of this world. You convenant to love. * * * _Emily Dickinson:_ Master. If you saw a bullet hit a Bird - and he told you he was'nt shot - you might weep at his courtesy, but you would certainly doubt his word. (L 233) If history is a record of survivors, Poetry shelters other voices. Dickinson, Melville, Thoreau, and Hawthorne guided me back to what I once thought was the distant 17th century. Now I know that the arena in which scripture battles raged among New Englanders with originary fury is part of our current American system and events, history and structure. _Goodwife Willows:_ Then I had a mind for New England and I thought I should know more of my own heart. So I came and thought I saw more than ever I could have believed that I wondered earth swallowed me not up. And 25 Matthew 5--foolish virgins saw themselves void of all grace. I thought I was so and was gone no farther. And questioned all that ever the Lord had wrought, I'll never leave thee. I could now apprehend that yet desired the Lord not to leave me nor forsake me and afterward I thought I was now discovered. Yet hearing He would not hide His face forever, was encouraged to seek. But I felt my heart rebellious and loathe to submit unto Him. (C 151) An English relation of conversion spoken at a territorial edge of America is deterritorialized and deterred by anxiety crucial to iconoclastic Puritan piety. Inexplicable acoustic apprehension looms over assurance and sanctification, over soil subsoil sea sky. Each singular call. As the sound is the sense is. Severed on this side. Who would know there is a covenant. In a new world morphologies are triggered off. * * * Under the hammer of God's word. (WI 92) During the 1630's and 40's a mother tongue (English) had to find ways to accommodate new representations of reality. Helplessness and suffering caused by agrarian revolution in England, and changing economic structures all across Europe, pushed members of various classes and backgrounds into new collectivities. For a time English Protestant sects were united in a struggle against Parliament, the Jacobean and Stuart Courts, the Anglican Church, and Archbishop Laud. Collective resistance to political and religious persecution pushed particular groups to a radical separatism. Some sects broke loose from the European continent. Their hope was to ride out the cry and accusation of kingdoms of Satan until God would be all in all. _Thomas Shepard:_ And so, seeing I had been tossed from the south to the north of England and now could go no farther, I then began to listen to a call to New England. (GP 55) Schismatic children of Adam thought they were leaving the "wilderness of the world" to find a haven free of institutional structures they had united against. They were unprepared for the variability of directional change the wilderness they reached represented. Even John Winthrop complained of "unexpected troubles and difficulties" in "this strange land where we met with many adversities" (Heimert 361). A Bible, recently translated into the vernacular, was owned by nearly every member of the Bay Colony. It spoke to readers and non-readers and signified the repossession of the Word by English. The Old and New Testaments, in English, were indispensible fictive realities connecting the emigrants to a familiar State-form, and home. Though they crossed a wide and northern ocean Scripture encompassed them. From the first, Divinity was knotted in Place. If the Place was found wanting, and it was by many, a rhetoric had to be double-knotted to hold perishing absolutism safe. First-generation leaders of this hegira to new England tied themselves and their followers to a dialectical construction of the American land as a virgin garden pre-established for them by the Author and Finisher of creation. "Come to me and you shall find rest unto your souls." To be released from bonds. . . absorbed into catastrophe of pure change. "Flee, save your lives, and be like the heath in the wild." Here is unappropriated autonomy. Uncounted occupied space. No covenant of King and people. No centralized State. Heavy pressure of finding no content. Openness of the breach. "The gospel is a glass to show men the face of God in Christ. The law is that glass that showeth a man his own face, and what he himself is. Now if this glass be taken away. . ." (WI 74). _Widow Arrington:_ Hearing Dr. Jenison, Lamentations 3--let us search and turn to the Lord--which struck my heart as an arrow. And it came as a light into me and the more the text was opened more I saw my heart. And hearing that something was lost when God came for searching. And when I came I durst not tell my husband fearing he would loath me if he knew me. And I resolved none should know nor I would tell. . . . (C 184-5) * * * On October 3, 1635, Thomas Shepard and his family arrived in Boston Harbor on the ship Defense. "Oh, the depths of God's grace here," he later wrote, "that when he [man] deserves nothing else but separation from God, and to be driven up and down the world as a vagabond or as dried leaves fallen from our God--" (GP 14). There is a direct relation between sound and meaning. Early spiritual autobiographies in America often mean to say that a soul has found love in what the Lord has done. "Oh, that when so many come near to mercy, and fall short of it, yet me to be let in! Caleb and Joshua to be let into Canaan, when they rest so near, and all perish" (WII 229). Words sound other ways. I hear short-circuited conviction. Truth is stones not bread. The reins are still in the hands of God. He has set an order but he is not tied to that order. Sounds touch every coast and corner. He will pick out the vilest worthy never to be beloved. There is no love. I am not in the world where I am. In his journal Mr. Shepard wrote: "To heal this wound, which was but skinned over before, of secret atheism and unbelief" (GP 135). * * * Finding is the First Act (MBED 1043) After the beaver population in New England had been decimated by human greed, when roads were cut through unopened countryside, the roadbuilders often crossed streams on abandoned beaver dams, instead of taking time to construct wooden bridges. When other beaver dams collapsed from neglect, they left in their wake many years' accumulation of dead bark, leaves, twigs, and silt. Ponds they formed disappeared with the dams, leaving rich soil newly opened to the sun. These old pond bottoms, often many acres wide, provided fertile agricultural land. Here grass grew as high as a person's shoulder. Without these natural meadows many settlements could not have been established as soon as they were. Early narratives of conversion, and first captivity narratives in New England, are often narrated by women. A woman, afraid of not speaking well, tells her story to a man who writes it down. The participant reporters follow and fly out of Scripture and each other. All testimonies are bereft, brief, hungry, pious, authorized. Shock of God's voice speaking English. Sound moves over the chaos of place in people. In this hungry world anyone may be eaten. What a nest and litter. A wolf lies coiled in the lamb. Silence becomes a Self. Open your mouth. In such silence women were talking. Undifferentiated powerlessness swallowed them. When did the break at this degree of distance happen? Silence calls me himself. Open your mouth. Whosoever. Not found written in the book of life. During a later Age of Reason 18th century Protestant gentlemen signed the Constitution in the city of Philadelphia. These first narratives from wide open places re-place later genial totalities. * * * _Thomas Shepard:_ Object. But Christ is in heaven; how can I receive him and his love? Ans. A mighty prince is absent from a traitor; he sends his herald with a letter of love, he gives it him to read; how can he receive the love of the prince when absent? Ans. He sees his love in his letter, he knows it came from him, and so at a distance closeth with him by this means; so here, he that was dead, but now is alive, writes, sends to thee; O, receive his love here in his word; this is receiving "him by faith." (WII 599-600) In Europe, Protestant tradition since Luther had maintained that no one could fully express her sins. In New England, for some reason hard to determine, Protestant strictures were reversed. Bare promises were insufficient. Leaders and followers had to voice the essential mutability they suddenly faced. Now the minister's scribal hand copied down an applicant for church membership's narrative of mortification and illumination. In The Puritan Conversion Narrative; The Beginnings of American Expression, Patricia Caldwell points out that during the 1630's, in the Bay Colony, a disclaimer about worthlessness and verbal inadequacy had to be followed by a verbal performance strong enough to convince the audience- congregation of the speaker's sincerity. New England's first isolated and independent clerics must have wrestled with many conflicting impulses and influences. Rage against authority and rage for order; desire for union with the Father and the guilty knowledge they had abandoned their own mothers and fathers. In the 1630's a new society was being shaped or shaping itself. Oppositional wreckers and builders considered themselves divine instruments committed to the creation of a holy commonwealth. In 1636 the Antinomian controversy erupted among this group of "Believers, gathered and ordained by Christ's rule alone. . . all seeking the same End, viz. the Honor and Glory of God in his worship" (VS 73). The Antinomian Controversy circled around a woman, Anne Hutchinson, and what was seen to be "the Flewentess of her Tonge and her Willingness to open herselfe and to divulge her Opinions and to sowe her seed in us that are but highway side and Strayngers to her" (AH 353). Thomas Shepard made this accusation. Paradoxically he was one of the few ministers who required women to recite their confessions of faith publicly, before the gathered congregation. Mr. Peters lectured Anne Hutchinson in court: "You have stept out of your place, You have rather bine a Husband than a Wife and a preacher than a Hearer; and a Magistrate than a Subject. and soe you have thought to carry all Thinges in Church and Commonwealth, as you would and have not bine humbled for this" (AC 383). Peters, Cotton, Winthrop, Eliot, Wilson, Dudley, Shepard, and other men, had stepped out of their places when they left England. She was humbled by them for their Transgression. Anne Hutchinson was the community scapegoat. "The Mother Opinion of all the rest. . . . From the womb of this fruitful Opinion and from the Countenance here by given to immediate and unwarrented revelations 'tis not easie to relate, how many Monsters worse than African, arose in the Regions of America : But a Synod assembled at Cambridge, whereof Mr. Shepard was no small part, most happily crushed them all" (M III87). _Noah Webster:_ SCAPE-GOAT, n. [escape and goat.] In the Jewish ritual, a goat which was brought to the door of the tabernacle, where the high priest laid his hands upon him, confessing the sins of the people, and putting them on the head of the goat; after which the goat was sent into the wilderness, bearing the iniquities of the people." Lev. xvi. (WD 986) Kenneth Burke says in A Grammar of Motives, "Dialectic of the Scapegoat": "When the attacker chooses for himself the object of attack, it is usually his blood brother; the debunker is much closer to the debunked than others are. Ahab was pursued by the white whale he was pursuing" (GM 407). Rene Girard says in The Scapegoat, "What is a Myth?" "Terrified as they [the persecutors] are by their own victim, they see themselves as completely passive, purely reactive, totally controlled by this scapegoat at the very moment when they rush to his attack. They think that all initiative comes from him. There is only room for a single cause in their field of vision, and its triumph is absolute, it absorbs all other causality: it is the scapegoat" (43). I say that the Scapegoat Dialectic and mechanism is peculiarly open to violence if the attacker is male, his bloodbrother, female. Kenneth Burke and Rene Girard dissect grammars and mythologies in a realm of discourse structured, articulated, and repeated by men. _Thomas Shepard:_ We are all in Adam, as a whole country in a parliament man; the whole country doth what he doth. And although we made no particular choice of Adam to stand for us, yet the Lord made it for us; who, being goodness itself, bears more good will to man than he can or could bear to himself; and being wisdom itself, made the wisest choice, and took the wisest course for the good of man. (WI 24) * * * A Short Story _Governor Winthrop:_ She thinkes that the Soule is annihilated by the Judgement that was sentenced upon Adam. Her Error springs from her Mistaking of the Curse of God upon Adam, for that Curse doth not implye Annihilation of the soule and body, but only a dissolution of the Soule and Body. _Mr. Eliot:_ She thinks the Soule to be Nothinge but a Breath, and so vanisheth. I pray put that to her. _Mrs. Hutchinson:_ I thinke the soule to be nothing but Light. (AH 356) * * * The Erroneous Gentlewoman _Governor Winthrop:_ We have thought it good to send for you to understand how things are, that if you be in an erroneous way we may reduce you that you may become a profitable member here among us. (AC 312 ) _Thomas Shepard:_ I confes I am wholy unsatisfied in her Expressions to some of the Errors. Any Hereticke may bring a slye interpretation upon any of thease Errors and yet hould them to thear Death: therfor I am unsatisfied. (AC 377) _Anne Hutchinson:_ My Judgment is not altered though my Expression alters. _Brother Willson:_ Your Expressions, whan your Expressions are soe contrary to the Truth. (AC 378) _Noah Webster:_ EX-PRES SION, (eks presh un.) n. 1. The act of expressing; the act of forcing out by pressure, as juices and oils from plants. 2. The act of uttering, declaring, or representing; utterance; declaration; representation; as, an expression of the public will. (WD 426) _Mrs. Hutchinson:_ I doe not acknowledge it to be an Error but a Mistake. I doe acknowledge my Expressions to be Ironious but my Judgment was not Ironious, for I held befor as you did but could not express it soe. (AC 361) _Noah Webster:_ ERRO NE OUS, a. [L. erroneus, from erro, to err.] 1. Wandering; roving; unsettled. They roam Erroneous and disconsolate. Philips. 2. Deviating; devious; irregular; wandering from the right course. (WD 408) Erroneous circulation of blood Arbuthnot. _Anne Hutchinson:_ So thear was my Mistake. I took Soule for Life. (AH 360) _Noah Webster:_ Noah is here called Man. (WD xxiii) * * * A Woman's Delusion A seashore where everything. A tumult of mind. Sackcloth and run up and down. Every durable thread. Mediator. There is rebellion. A man cannot look. The sacrifice of Noah is a type. We dress our garden. There are properties. Proof must be guiding and leading. Stooped so far. Bruising lash of the law. Tender affections bear with the weak. An answerable wedge. But where is the work? Why is the church compared to a garden? We are dark ages and young beginners. Apprehending ourselves we want anything. These are words set down. Surfaces. Who has felt most mercy? Preaching to stone. A thin cold dangerous realm. Tidings. He appears. Anoint. Echoes and reverberations of love. Anoint. Washed and witnessing. Peter denies him. Anoint. Whole treasures of looks to the heart. It is one thing to trust to be saved. Selfpossession. She heard his question. Never thought of it. No thought today. Unapproachable December seems to be. The sun is a spare trope. Shadow cast. Moment of recognition. The conclusion of years can any force of intellect. That such ferocities are drowned by double act or immediate stroke. So much error. Old things done away. Name and that other in itself opposite. Expression. I was born to make use of it. Schism. What is the reason of it? Zeal. An instance of our crime is blunder. Object. It may be a question. Narration. Can there be a better pattern? Weary. What do we imagine? Swearing. If I had time and was not mortal. But he. Scraps of predominance. Answer. So there is some grievance driven out of the way. Objection. Relation to the speaker. Speech to the wind. Particulars. How shall I put on my coat? Distance beyond comparison. Sleep between two. * * * His name and office sweetly did agree, SHEPARD by name, and in his ministry. (WI clxxix) _Thomas Shepard:_ And I considered how unfit I was to go to such a good land with such an unmortified, hard, dark, formal, hypocritical heart. (GP 61) Thomas Shepard was an evangelical preacher who comforted and converted many people. "As great a Converter of Souls as has ordinarily been known in our Days" (MIII 84). Before he came to America, "although [he] were but a young Man, yet there was that Majesty and Energy in his preaching and that Holiness in his Life, which was not ordinary": said Cotton Mather (MIII 86). Edward Johnson called him "that gracious sweet Heavenly minded Minister . . . in whose soul the Lord hath shed abroad his love so abundantly, that thousands of Souls have cause to bless God for him" (77). Thomas Prince said he "scarce ever preached a sermon but someone or other of his congregation was struck in great distress and cried out in agony, What shall I do to be saved?" (GP 8). Jonathan Mitchell remembered Shepard's Cambridge ministry: "Unless it had been four years living in heaven, I know not how I could have more cause to bless God with wonder" (C 13). Mitchell also recalled a day when, "Mr. Shepard preached most profitably. That night I was followed with serious thoughts of my inexpressible misery, wherein I go on, from Sabbath to Sabbath, without God and without redemption" (WI cxxxi). Thomas Shepard called his longest spoken literary production, a series of sermons unpublished in his lifetime, The Parable of the Ten Virgins, Opened and Applied. He married three times. Two wives died as a result of childbirth. His three sons, Thomas, Samuel, and Jeremiah, became ministers. The earnest persecutor of Anne Hutchinson and repudiator of "erroneous Antinomian doctrines," confided to his Journal: "I have seen a God by reason and never been amazed at God. I have seen God himself and have been ravished to behold him" (GP 136). The author of The Sound Believer also told his diary: "On lecture morning this came into my thoughts, that the greatest part of a Christian's grace lies in mourning for the want of it" (GP 198). Edward Johnson pictured the minister of the Cambridge First Church as a "poor, weak, pale-complexioned man" (GP 8), whose physical powers were feeble, but spent to the full. He wept while composing his sermons, and went up to the pulpit "as if he expected there to give up his account of his stewardship" (WL clxxix). When Thomas Shepard died after a short illness, 25 August 1649, he was forty-three. "Returning home from a Council at Rowly, he fell into a Quinsie, with a Symptomatical Fever, which suddenly stop'd a Silver Trumpet, from whence the People of God had often heard the joyful Sound" (M 88). Some of his last words were: "Lord, I am vile, but thou art righteous" (GP 237). Cotton Mather described the character of his conversation as "A Trembling Walk with God" (MIII 90). * * * } S : _Thomas Shepard:_ thou wert in the dangers of the sea in thy mothers woombe then & see how god hath miraculously preserued thee, that thou art still aliue, & thy mother's woombe & the terrible seas haue not been thy graue; (S side of MB) Probably sometime in 1646 Thomas Shepard wrote a brief autobiography entitled "T. { _My Birth & Life_: } S:" into one half of a small leatherbound pocket notebook. Theatrical pen strokes by the protagonist shelter and embellish the straightforward title that sunders his initials. Conversion is an open subject. Or is it a question of splitting the author's name from its frame of compositional expression. The narrative begins with an energetic account of the author's birth "upon the 5 day of Nouember, called the Powder Treason Day, & that very houre of the day wher in the Parlament should haue bin blown vp by Popish preists. . . which occasioned my father to giue me this name Thomas. Because he sayd I would hardly beleeue that euer any such wickednes could be attempted by men agaynst so religious & good Parlament" (MB 10). 74 pages later the autobiography breaks off abruptly, as it began, with calamity. This time the death in childbed of the author's second wife, here referred to by her husband, as "the eldest daughter of Mr Hooker a blessed stock" (CS 391). Shepard married this eldest daughter of one of the most powerful theocrats in New England in 1637, the same year Mrs. Hutchinson was first silenced. Unlike Mrs. Hutchinson, Mrs. Shepard was a woman of "incomparable meeknes of spirit, toward my selfe especially . . . being neither too lauish nor sordid in any things so that I knew not what was under her hands" (CS 392). When she died nine years and four male children later, "after 3 weekes lying in," two of her sons had predeceased her. On her deathbed this paragon of feminine piety and humility "continued praying vntil the last houre. . Ld tho I vnwoorthy Ld on woord one woord &c. & so gaue vp the ghost. thus______ god hath visited me & scourged me for my sins & sought to weane me from this woorld, but I have ever found it a difficult thing to profit even but a little by sorest and sharpest afflictions;" "T. { _My Birth & Life_: } S:" is littered with the deaths of mothers. The loss of his own mother when Shepard was a small child could never be settled. Creation implies separation. The last word of "T. { _My Birth & Life_: } S:" is "afflictions." 89 blank manuscript pages emphasize this rupture in the pious vocabulary of order. The reader reads empty paper. The absence of a definitive conclusion to Shepard's story of his life and struggles is a deviation from the familiar Augustinian pattern of self-revelation used by other English nonconformist Reformers. Allegoria and historia should be united in "T {_My Birth & Life_:} S": Doubting Thomas should transcend the empirical events of his times to become the figura of the Good Shepard but the repetitive irruption of death into life is mightier than this notion of enclosure. "Woe to those that keep silent about God," warns St. Augustine, in the De Magistro, for where he is concerned, even the talkative are as though speechless" (RR 53). "Silence reveals speech--unless it is speech that reveals silence" (TP 86), Pierre Macherey has written in A Theory of Literary Production. State of the manuscript. Leaves that stood. Labor of elaboration. he is the god. A word is the beginning of every Conversion. The purpose of editing is to reach the truth. Mr. Shepard's manuscript is a draft. Shortcomings and error. The minister made no revisions in this unsettled account of his individual existence. Rational corrections by editors lie in wait. Leaf of the story. Distortion will begin in the place of flight. _Thomas Shepard:_ He is the god who tooke me vp when my own mother dyed who loued me, & wn my stepmother cared not for me, & wn lastly my father also dyed & foorsooke me wn I was yong & little & could take no care for my selfe. (T side of MB) * * * T . { Is it not hence@ (T side of MB p19) There is no title on the binding of the notebook that contains the manuscript. The paper is unlined. There are no margins. There is no front or back. You can open and shut it either way. Over time it has been used in multiple ways by Shepard and by others. Thomas Shepard, its first owner, used both ends of the book to begin writing. Each side holds a personal history in reverse. On the side I have here called S is the uninterrupted interrupted Autobiography. Then there is the empty center. But I can turn the book over, so side S is inverted, and begin to read another narrative by the same author. Now the protagonist's more improvisational commentary decenters the premeditated literary production of "T. { _My Birth & Life_: } S:". Subjects are chosen then dropped. Messages are transmitted and hidden. Whole pages have been left open. Another revelation or problem begins with a different meaning or purpose. Although dates occur on either side, it is unclear which side was written first. We might call the creation on this side an understudy. I will call this T side An Inside Narrative. Then there is the empty center. * * * with honey within, with oil in public : / God's Plot : The Paradoxes of Puritan Piety Being the Autobiography & Journal of Thomas Shepard (1972) edited with an introduction by Michael McGiffert is the fourth published edition of Shepard's Autobiography and the standard reference for reading this text. McGiffert, who tells us he restored some of the blunt vocabulary that had been expunged by two genteel nineteenth century editors, overlooked the structural paradox of the material object whose handwritten pages he laboriously and faithfully transcribed. McGiffert's is the fourth edition of Shepard's Autobiography. An earlier verbatim text was edited by Allyn Bailey Forbes for The Colonial Society of Massachusetts, Publications, XXVII (Transactions, 1927-1930). Both editors included sections from the T side of the manuscript book in their editions. Forbes called the sections "random notes" and placed them last, under the title "Appendix." McGiffert also put them last, under the heading: "[The following material consists of notes written by Shepard in the manuscript of the Autobiography ]." Neither editor saw fit to point out the fact that Shepard left two manuscripts in one book separated by many pages then positioned them so that to read one you must turn the other upside down. Both editors deleted something from each history. McGiffert decided the financial transactions on side S were of no autobiographical importance. Forbes included them, but buried Shepard's hostile reference to John Cotton on side T in a footnote to side S. Shepard placed this cryptic list of accusations against his fellow Saint alone on the recto side of leaf three. Far from being a "random," or a footnote, the list provides a vivid half-smothered articulation of New England's savage intersectine Genesis. Possibly the Colonial Society of Massachusetts balked at displaying this ambiguous sample of colonial ideology. Mr. Cotton: repents not: but is hid only. 1. Wn Mrs. Hutchinso- was conuented he commeded her for all that shee did before her confinement & so gaue her a light to escape thorow the crowd wt honour, 3. He doth stiffly hold the reuelatio- of our good estate still, without any sign of woord or work: / (MB 3) Here is the correct order of the sections written by Shepard in side T, or An Inside Narrative. 1. A Roman being asked . 2. Mr. Cotton: repents not: but is hid only. 3. Law. that the magistrate kisse the Churchs feet: 4. My Life: Lord Jesu pdo-: / euery day. 5. April: 4 1639: prep: for a fast. 6. Is it not hence@ 7. An: 1639/ The good things I have received of the Lord: (MB&GP&CS) Shepard's list of "The good things I haue receiued of the Lord" has fourteen sections and continues for eight pages. The nonconformist minister meant to give praise and thanksgiving to God, but images of panic, haste, and abandonment disunite the Visible and Spiritual. The Lord is the Word. He scatters short fragments. Jonah cried out to the Word when floods encompassed him. A Sound Believer hears old Chaos as in a deep sea. A narrative refuses to conform to its project. Side S ends abruptly with afflictions sent by God to "scourge" the author. Side T also breaks off suddenly. The author is remembering his earlier ministry in Earles Colne, "a most prophane" English town. "Here the Lord kept me fro troubles 3 yeares & a halfe vntill the Bishop Laud put me to silence & would not let me liue in the town & this he did wn I looked to be made a shame & confusio to all:" (CS 395). From confusion in old England to affliction in new England. Problematical type and antitype. Everything has its use. "To tell them myself with my own mouth" (CS 352). Some of the eighty-nine blank manuscript pages separating T and S have been written on since, by various mediaries. All of these men see a higher theme to side S. They follow its trajectory as if side T were an eccentric inversion. Their additions form a third utterance of authority in the Sincere Convert's transitory division of T. from S: { life from birth: } On the second leaf (r) of side T, or An Inside Narrative, Mr. Shepard wrote down a single citation of discord. "A Roman, being asked how he lived so long-- answered--intus melle, foris oleo: / Quid loquacius vanitate, ait Augustinus." (MB T 1) Forbes had the discretion to stay away from translating the nonsensical Latin in his interpretation of the minister's script. "A Roman being asked how he liud so long. answered intus melle, foris oleo: quid loquacior, vanitate, ait augustinus" (CS 397). McGiffert agreed with Forbes transcription. But in Latin, "quid" and "loquacior" cannot agree with each other. This didn't stop McGiffert from offering the following: "On the inside, honey; on the outside, oil. Which babbled more of Vanity? said Augustine" (GP 77). The translation is grammatically incorrect. A more exact and enigmatic reading would be: "A Roman being asked how he lived so long--answered with honey within with oil in public:/ What is more garrulous than vanity, said Augustine." We will never know if this entry refers to John Cotton, Thomas Shepard, or the human condition. It could be a questionable interpretation of any evangelical minister's profession. It could be a self-accusation or a reference to John Cotton's preaching. It could be a note for a sermon or merely a sign that the author knows St. Augustine. In the seventeenth century the word oil, used as a verb, often meant "to anoint." The holy oil of religious rites. Five foolish virgins took their lamps but forgot the oil for trimming. They went to meet the bridegroom. The door was shut against them. "I say unto you I know you not." To oil one's tongue meant, and still means, to adopt or use flattering speech. "Error, oiled with obsequiousness, . . . has often the Advantage of Truth.--1776" (OUD). "Their throat is an open sepulcher. One may apply this verse to greed, which is often the motive behind men's deceitful flattery. . . for greed is insatiably openmouthed, unlike sepulchres which are sealed up" (AP 57). St. Augustine, Enarrationes. "They that observe lying vanities forsake their own mercy." Jonah, to the Lord. Alone on the second leaf the citation assumes its own mystery. Shepard's epigraph, if it is an epigraph to side T, or An Inside Narrative, is a dislocation and evocative contradiction in the structure of this two-sided book that may or may not be a literary work. In 1819, James Blake Howe turned the book upside down, probably to conform with the direction of the Autobiography, and inscribed his own name, place of residence, and the date on the same page. * * * _Mr. Prince:_ Though [Shepard's] voice was low, yet so searching was his preaching, so great a power attending, as a hypocrite could not easily bear it, & it seemed almost irresistable. (S side of MB) Study in Logology _Noah Webster:_ Oil is "an unctious substance expressed or drawn from various animal and vegetable substances. The distinctive characteristics of oil are inflammability, fluidity, and insolubility in water. Oils are fixed and greasy, fixed and essential, volatile and essential." (WD 770) _Kenneth Burke:_ Let us recall, for what it might be worth, that in his [St. Augustine's] treatise "On The Teacher" (De Magistro), a discussion with his son on the subject of what would now popularly be called "semantics," he holds that the word verbum is derived from a verb meaning "to strike": (a verberando)--and the notion fits in well with the lash of God's discipline. See, for instance, Confessions (xm vi), where he says he loves God because God had struck (percussisti) him with his Word. (RR 50) * * * THOMAS SHEPARD Anagram: More hath pass'd (WIII 515) Between 1637 and 1640, Thomas Shepard transcribed into another leatherbound pocket notebook, containing 190 pages, the testimonies of faith given in his church by 51 men and women who were applying for church membership. 30 pages of the little book are filled with sermon notes. He said of 1637 that God in that year alone "delivered the country from war with the Indians and Familists; who rose and fell together" (WI cxxvi). A canditate for membership in the congregation of the Church of Christ in Cambridge in New England had been carefully screened by the church elders before he or she presented a personal "confession and declaration of God's manner of working on the soul" in public. Canditates had to settle private accusations against them and present private testimonies first. Sometimes the preliminary screening process took months. After a person had been cleared by the church authorities, he or she delivered the public confession, usually during the weekday meeting. The congregation then voted by a show of hands and their decision was supposed to be unanimous. During Sunday service an applicant was finally accepted into church fellowship. The applicants, during this tumultuous time when it seemed dangerous to speak at all, especially to express spiritual enthusiasm, were from a wide social spectrum. A third of them could read or write. Almost half of them were women. The speakers included four servants, two Harvard graduates, traders, weavers, carpenters, coopers, glovers, and one sailor. Most were concerned with farming and with acquisition of property. Most applicants were in their twenties, some in their forties. Most were starting to raise families. Elizabeth Cutter and Widow Arrington were in their sixties. Each person believed that reception into church fellowship was necessary in order to gain economic and social advantage in the community. Some later became rich; some are untraceable now through geneological records. Both male servants who spoke gained financial and political freedom. Two women in Shepard's notebook were servants. Geneological trace of them has vanished with their surnames. Two applicants were widows who managed their own estates. The rest generally spent their days cleaning, sewing, marketing, cooking, farming, and giving birth to, then caring for, children. Some later died in childbirth. Mrs. Sparhawk died only a month after Shepard recorded her narrative. Some survived their husbands by many years. Thomas Hooker, who became Shepard's father-in-law in 1637, and was the previous minister of the Cambridge parish, moved to Connecticut partly because he felt the colony's admission procedures were too harsh. Hooker insisted that confessions by women should be read aloud in public by men. Governor Winthrop in his History of New-England, citing feminine "feebleness," and "shamefac't modesty and melanchollick fearfulness," preferred that women's "relations" remain private; a male elder should read them before a select committee. Shepard and one or two other ministers felt differently. The Confessions of diverse propounded to be received & were entertained as members, shows that although Shepard thought women should defer to their husbands in worldly matters, in his theology of conversion they were relatively independent. These narratives reflect this autonomy. Some are as long or longer than those spoken by men. * * * THOMAS SHEPARD Anagram: Arm'd as the shop. (WIII 515) Notes written in the minister's hand on the flyleaf of the manuscript he called "The Confessions of diverse propounded to be received & were entertayned as members." 1. You say some brethren cannot live comfortably with so little. 2. We put all the rest upon a temptation. Lots being but little, and estates will increase or live in beggary. For to lay land out far off is intolerable to men; nearby, you kill your cattle. 3. Because if another minister come, he will not have room for his company--Religion--. 4. Because now, if ever, is the most fit season; for the gate to be opened, many will come in among us, and fill all places, and no room in time to come at least, not such good room as now. And now you may best sell. 5. Because Mr. Vane will be among our skirts. (GP 90) * * * MATT.xviii.11. -- "I came to save that which was lost." (WI 111) Each confession of faith is an eccentric concentrated improvisation and arrest. Each narrator's proper name forms a chapter heading. Wives and servants are property. Their names are appropriated for masculine consistency. Goodman Luxford His Wife Brother Collins His Wife Brother Moore His Wife Brother Greene His Wife Brother Parish's Wife Brother Crackbone His Wife The Confession of John Sill His Wife John Stedman His Wife's Confession Brother Jackson's Maid Written representation of the Spirit is sometimes ineffectual; words only images or symbols of the clear sunshine of the Gospel. "Go to a painted sun, it gives you no heat, nor cherishith you not. So it is here, etc." Often the minister surrounds a name with ink-scrawls and flourishes. Flights or freezes. Proof and chaos. Immanent sorrow of one, incomplete victory of another. Use, oh my unbelief. Confessions are copied down quickly. Translinguistic idiosyncracies infer but block consistency. A sound block will not be led. Mistaken biblical quotations are transcribed and abandoned. As the sound is the sense is. Few revisions civilize verbal or visual hazards and webs of unsettled sanctification. The minister's nearly microscopic handwriting is difficult to decipher. He uses a form of shorthand in places. A wild heart at the word shatters scriptural figuration. Once again by correcting, deleting, translating, or interpreting the odd symbols and abbreviated signals, later well-meaning editors have effaced the disorderly velocity of Mr. Shepard's evangelical enthusiasm. For readability. * * * Matt In this setdown the ques tion of C's desiples why they asks him not men ought sometimes to askes questions pacificaly when they hear the word upon sum occasion (written in another hand inT side of MB) Writing speed of thought moving through dominated darkness (the privation) toward an irresistible confine possibly becoming woman. The Soul's Immediate Closing with the Person (WII 111) _Barbary Cutter:_ The Lord let me see my condition by nature out of 16 of Ezekiel and by seeing the holiness of the carriage of others about, her friends, and the more she looked on them the more she thought ill of herself. She embraced the motion to New England. Though she went through with many miseries and stumbling blocks at last removed and sad passages by sea. And after I came hither I saw my condition more miserable than ever. (C 89) A Narrator-Scribe-Listener-Confessor-Interpreter-Judge- Reporter-Author quickly changes person, character, country, and gender. Walk darkly here, This is to cross Scripture. These words are questions. Compel them to come in when Jonah is cast out of sight. He singles them out. His spirit goes home to them quiet as an ark above waters; rest and provender being desire to lay under Lord. Praying for him and hearing. Words drift together. Washed from her heart. Many foolish pray from the mouth. Some are condemned. Blossoms fly up as dust. He will not leave. Death can not. "In favor is life." This outline is extracted. Now you will have him. She calls him so. Some are asleep. Ten virgins trim their lamps. My house is a waste. To doctrine to reason cry peace peace. This is that which fills a man. For this long ago Corinthians, Philippians, Thessalonians: motives differ. We are his people we stumble. What a wandering path confinement is when angels had not fallen. Pale clarity of day. Why no heart. Iniquities are not all I might "Five were wise and five were foolish." These virgins once the doors were shut were surely kept out. Glimpses. Explication. What is acceptable? Toother. Miswritten he thoght. He thought. Other redundancies. Reduced to lower case these words are past. To the supposed sepulcher. Purest virgin churches and professors, they took their lamps. What can we do? Prevail again? Against what do we watch? Fiery law and tabernacles I beat the air. Therefore as her and distancing. * * * "Went forth to meet the Bridegroom." (WII 111) _Old Goodwife Cutter:_ I desired to come this way in sickness time and Lord brought us through many sad troubles by sea And when I was here the Lord rejoiced my heart. But when come I had lost all and no comfort and hearing from foolish virgins those that sprinkled with Christ's blood were unloved. (C 145) _John Sill His Wife:_ Oft troubled since she came hither, her heart went after the world and vanities and the Lord absented Himself from her so that she thought God had brought her hither on purpose to discover her. (C 51) _Goodwife Willows:_ And when husband gone, I thought all I had was but a form and I went to Mr. Morton and desired he would tell me how it was with me. He told me if I hated that form it was a sign I had more than a form. (C 150) _Brother Winship's Wife:_ Hearing 2 Jeremiah 14 -- two evils broken cisterns -- I was often convinced by Mr. Hooker my condition was miserable and took all threatenings to myself. . . And I heard He that had smitten He could heal Hosea 6. Hearing -- say to them that be fearful in heart, behold He comes - Mr. Wells - pull off thy soles off thy feet for ground is holy. And hearing Exodus 34, forgiving iniquity, I thought Lord could will was He willing. . . Hearing whether ready for Christ at His appearing had fears, city of refuge. . . Hearing - oppressed undertake for me - eased. (C 147-9) _Hannah Brewer:_ And I heard that promise proclaimed - Lord, Lord merciful and gracious etc.- but could apply nothing. (C 141) _Brother Winship's Wife:_ Hearing of Thomas' unbelief, he showed trust in Lord forever for there is everlasting strength and stayed. (C 149) _Goodwife Usher:_ And I heard -- come to me you that be weary -- and Lord turn me and I shall be turned - and so when I desired to come hither and found a discontented heart and mother dead and my heart overwhelmed. And I heard of a promise -- fear not I'll be with thee. And in this town I could not understand anything was said, I was so blind, and heart estranged from people of people. (C 183) _Mrs. Sparhawk:_ And then that place fury is not in me, let Him take hold of my strength. . . . And she there was but two ways either to stand out or to take hold, and saw the promise and her own insufficiency so to do. and mentioning a Scripture, was asked whether she had assurance. She said no but some hope. (C 68-9) _John Stedman His Wife:_ Hearing Mr. Cotton out of Revelation -- Christ with a rainbow on his head, Revelation 10-- I thought there was nothing for me. I thought I was like the poor man at the pool. (C 105) _Goodwife Grizzell:_ Hearing Mr. Davenport on sea -- he that hardened himself against the Lord could not prosper -- and I thought I had done so. But then he showed it was continuing in it and I considered though I had a principle against faith yet a kingdom divided cannot stand. (C 188-9) _Widow Arrington:_ And in latter end that sermon there was obedience of sons and servants then I thought--would I know? And I thought Lord gave me a willing heart, etc. And they that have sons can cry--Abba--Father, and so have some stay and I wished I had a place in wilderness to mourn. (C 185-6) _Brother Jackson's Maid:_ When Christ was to depart nothing broke their heart so much as then. (C 121) * * * Walking alone in the fields These first North American Inside Narratives cross the wide current of Scripture. I meet them in the fields. They show me what rigor. I dare not pity. When she went to meet the Bridegroom it was too early. Then there is nothing to believe. Scholars of the world, then there is no authority at all. The iron face of filial systems. The colonies of America break out. Consider the parable of these wise and foolish virgins. They went to work to trim their lamps. What did the foolish say to the wise? That there is no difference? What a crossing. All their thoughts and searching. Is that what love is? Bewildered by history did they see iniquity? Did they spend whole days and nights trimming? When was the filth wiped off? People of His pasture, does this give peace? Sheep of His hand, is this the temptation of the place? Mountains are interrupted by mountains. Planets are not fixed. They run together. Planets are globes of fire. Imagination is a lense. Pastness. We find by experience. A sentence tumbles into thought. A disturbance calls itself free.Notes
Patricia Caldwell’s study is concerned with how and when English voices begin to speak New-Englandly. The Puritan Conversion Narrative demonstrates how careful examination and interpretation of individual physical artifacts from a time and place can change our basic assumptions about the New England pattern and its influence on American literary expression.
This essay is profoundly indebted to her work.
I have followed each quoted source in spelling and punctuation. In the books I used as sources, revisions, deletions, and spelling differences, have been modernized, and then again “modernized”; I have tried to preserve those changes as part of the form and content of my essay. Someday I hope there will be facsimile versions of the “Confessions,” the “Journal,” and the “Autobiography,” with facing transcriptions in typeface.
I have taken editorial liberties in places. It was my editorial decision to turn some sections of the narratives into poems.
Key
AC = The Antinomian Controversy: Patricia Caldwell.AH = Anne Hutchinson.
C = Thomas Shepard’s Confessions.
CS = The Colonial Society of Massachusetts. Thomas Shepard’s T. {My Birth and Life:} S:
GP = God’s Plot: Thomas Shepard.
L = The Letters of Emily Dickinson.
M = Magnalia Christi Americana: Cotton Mather.
MB = Manuscript Book: Thomas Shepard’s Autobiography.
MBED = Emily Dickinson’s Manuscript Books.
ML = The Master Letters of Emily Dickinson.
OUD = The Oxford Universal Dictionary.
RR = The Rhetoric of Religion: Kenneth Burke.
VS = Visible Saints: Geoffrey Nuttal.
W = The Works of Thomas Shepard.
WD = An American Dictionary of the English Language: Noah Webster.
ASCII text cannot reproduce certain marks used in this work. We have used a @ to represent mirror-imaged (backward) question marks. We have used o- to represent an o with a bar over it. –PMC Eds.
Works Cited
- Burke, Kenneth. A Grammar of Motives. New York: George Braziller, 1955.
- —. The Rhetoric of Religion: Studies in Logology. Boston: Beacon P, 1961.
- Caldwell, Patricia. The Puritan Conversion Narrative: The Beginnings of American Expression. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1983.
- Dickinson, Emily. The Letters of Emily Dickinson. Ed. Thomas H. Johnson and Theodora Ward. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1958.
- —. The Manuscript Books of Emily Dickinson. Ed. Ralph Franklin. Harvard UP, 1981.
- Girard, Rene. The Scapegoat. Trans. Yvonne Freccero. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1986.
- Hall, David D., ed. The Antinomian Controversy, 1636-1638; A Documentary History. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 1968.
- Heimert, Alan. “Puritanism, the Wilderness and the Frontier.” New England Quarterly (Sep. 1953): 361-82.
- Jakobson, Roman. Verbal Art, Verbal Sign, Verbal Time. Ed. Krystyna Pomorska and Stephen Rudy. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1985.
- Johnson, Edward. Wonder-Working Providence of Sion Saviour in New England. Ed. J. Franklin Jameson. (1912) 1969.
- Macherey, Pierre. A Theory of Literary Production. Trans. Geoffrey Wall. London: Routledge, 1978.
- Mather, Cotton. Magnalia Christi Americana or, the Ecclesiastical History of New England. (London, 1702) Hartford, 1820.
- Melville, Herman. Billy Budd, Sailor (An Inside Narrative). Ed. Harrison Hayford and Merton Sealts. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1962.
- Nuttal, Geoffrey F. Visible Saints: The Congregational Way, 1640-1669. Oxford: Blackwell, 1957.
- The Oxford Universal Dictionary. London: Amen House, 1933.
- Shepard, Thomas. “Autobiography.” Ed. Allyn Bailey Forbes. The Colonial Society of Massachusetts, Publications, XXVII. Boston: Transactions, 1927-1930.
- —. God’s Plot: The Paradoxes of Puritan Piety, Being the Autobiography and Journal of Thomas Shepard. Ed. Michael McGiffert. Amherst: U of Massachusetts P, 1972.
- —. Manuscript Book. Unpublished ms. The Houghton Libray, Harvard U, Cambridge.
- —. The Works of Thomas Shepard. Ed. John A. Albro. 3 vols. 1853. New York: AMS, 1967.
- —. Thomas Shepard’s “Confessions.” Ed. George Selement and Bruce C. Woolley. Collections of the Colonial Society of Massachusetts 58. Boston: The Society, 1981.
- Stein, Gertrude. “Patriarchal Poetry.” The Yale Gertrude Stein. Ed. Richard Kostelanetz. New Haven: Yale UP, 1980.
- Webster, Noah, ed. An American Dictionary of the English Language.
-
Grammatology Hypermedia
Greg Ulmer
University of Florida at Gainesville
This article is about an experiment I conducted for publication in a volume collecting the papers read at the Sixteenth Annual Alabama Symposium on English and American Literature: “Literacy Online: the Promise (and Peril) of Reading and Writing with Computers,” October 26-28, 1989 (organized by Myron Tuman). My talk at the conference placed the current developments in Artificial Intelligence and hypermedia programs in the context of the concept of the “apparatus,” used in cinema studies to mount a critique of cinema as an institution, as a social “machine” that is as much ideological as it is technological. The same drive of realism that led in cinema to the “invisible style” of Hollywood narrative films, and to the occultation of the production process in favor of a consumption of the product as if it were “natural,” is at work again in computing. Articles published in computer magazines declare that “the ultimate goal of computer technology is to make the computer disappear, that the technology should be so transparent, so invisible to the user, that for practical purposes the computer does not exist. In its perfect form, the computer and its application stand outside data content so that the user may be completely absorbed in the subject matter–it allows a person to interact with the computer just as if the computer were itself human” (Macuser, March, 1989). It was clear that the efforts of critique to expose the oppressive effects of “the suture” in cinema (the effect binding the spectator to the illusion of a complete reality) had made no impression on the computer industry, whose professionals (including many academics) are in the process of designing “seamless” information environments for hypermedia applications. The “twin peaks” of American ideology–realism and individualism–are built into the computing machine (the computer as institution).
The very concept of the “apparatus” indicates that ideology is a necessary, irreducible component of any “machine.” Left critique and cognitive science agree on this point, as may be seen in Jeremy Campbell’s summary of the current state of research in artificial intelligence: A curious feature of a mind that uses Baker Street [Holmes] reasoning to create elaborate scenarios out of incomplete data is that its most deplorable biases often arise in a natural way out of the very same processes that produce the workmanlike, all-purpose, commonsense intelligence that is the Holy Grail of computer scientists who try to model human rationality. A completely open mind would be unintelligent. It could be argued that stereotypes are not ignorance structures at all, but knowledge structures. From this point of view, stereotypes cannot be understood chiefly in terms of attitudes and motives, or emotions like fear and jealousy. They are devices for predicting other people’s behavior. One result of the revival of the connectionist models in the new class of artificial intelligence machines is to downgrade the importance of logic and upgrade the role of knowledge, and of memory, which is the vehicle of knowledge (Campbell, The Improbable Machine. New York, 1989: 35, 151, 158).
Critique and cognitive science hold different attitudes to the inherence of stereotypes in knowledge, of course. Critique is right to condemn the acceptance of or reconciliation with the given assumptions implicit in cognitive science, but its own response to the problem, relying on the enlightenment model of absolute separation between episteme and doxa, knowledge and opinion, is too limited. This split is replicated in the institutionalization of critique in academic print publication resulting in a specialized commentary separated from practice. Postmodern Culture could play a role in exploring alternatives to the current state of the apparatus. Grammatology provides one possible theoretical frame for this research, being free of the absolute commitment to the book apparatus (ideology of the humanist subject and writing practices, as well as print technology) that constrains research conducted within the frame of critique. The challenge of grammatology, against all technological determinism, is to accept responsibility for inventing the practices for institutionalizing electronic technologies. We may accept the values of critique (critical analysis motivated by the grand metanarrative of emancipation) without reifying one particular model of “critical thinking.” But what are the alternatives? The experiment I contributed to the volume differed from the paper delivered at the conference, being not so much an explanation of the problem–the inability of critique to expose the disappearing apparatus–as an attempt to write with the stereotypes of Western thought, using them and showing them at work at the same time. The essay is entitled “Grammatology (In The Stacks) of Hypermedia: A Simulation.”
My research has been concerned with exploring various modes of “immanent critique,” a reasoning capable of operating within the machines of television and computing, in which the old categories (produced in the book apparatus) separating fiction and truth are breaking down. Rhetoric has always been concerned with sorting out the true from the false, and it will continue to function in these terms in the electronic apparatus, as it did in oral and alphabetic cultures. The terms of this sorting will be transformed, however, to treat an electronic culture that will be as different from the culture of the book as the latter is different from an oral culture. It is important to remember, at the same time, that all three dimensions of discourse exist together interactively. I am particularly interested in the figure of the mise en abyme, as elaborated in Jacques Derrida’s theories, in this context. The mise an abyme is a reflexive structuration, by means of which a text shows what it is telling, does what it says, displays its own making, reflects its own action. My hypothesis is that a discourse of immanent critique may be constructed for an electronic rhetoric (for use in video, computer, and interactive practice) by combining the mise en abyme with the two compositional modes that have dominated audio-visual texts–montage and mise en scene. The result would be a deconstructive writing, deconstruction as an inventio (rather than as a style of book criticism).
“Grammatology (In The Stacks) of Hypermedia” is an experiment in immanent critique, attempting to use the mise en abyme figure to organize an “analysis” of the current thinking about hypermedia. The strategy was to imitate in alphabetic style the experience of hypermedia practice–“navigating” through a database, producing a trail of linked items of information. I adopted the “stack” format of hypercard, confining myself largely to citations from a diverse bibliography of materials relevant to hypermedia. These materials were extended to include not only texts about hypermedia from academic as well as journalistic sources, but also texts representing the domains used as metaphors for hypermedia design in these sources. Two basic semantic domains, then, provided most of the materials for the database: the index cards, organized in “stacks,” to be linked up in both logical and associative ways, and the figure of travel used to characterize the retrieval of the informations thus stored. The critical point I wanted to make had to do with a further metaphor that emerged from juxtaposing the other two–an analogy between the mastery of a database and the colonization of a foreign land. The idea was to expose the ideological quality of the research drive, the will to power in knowledge, by calling attention to the implications of designing hypermedia programs in terms of the “frontiers” of knowledge, knowledge as a “territory” to be established. The goal is not to suppress this metaphorical element in design and research, but to include it more explicitly, to unpack it within the research and teaching activities. In this way stereotypes may become self-conscious, used and mentioned at once in the learning process.
The design of the experiment was influenced not only by the principle of the mise en abyme (imitating in my form the form of the object of study), but also by several other compositional strategies available in current critical theory. One of these is Walter Benjamin’s Arcades Project, for which hypermedia seems to be the ideal technological format. Indeed, one might hope, following her superb alphabetic (re) construction of Benjamin’s project in The dialectics of seeing (MIT, 1989) that Susan Buck-Morss would direct a hypermedia version of the Arcades. A point of departure (but only that) for this version might be the “Cicero” project, in which students of Classical civilization and Latin explore Rome (a representation on videodisc, composed using microphotography of a giant museum model of the city at its height in 315 A.D.) assisted by a “friendly tour guide” (Cicero). It is worth recalling, in this context, that Cicero was an advocate of artificial memory as part of rhetoric, and that Giulio Camillo’s Memory Theater (designed during the Venetian Renaissance) was “intended to be used for memorising every notion to be found in Cicero’s works” (Frances Yates, The Art of Memory. Chicago, 1966: 166). In fact, the design of hypermedia software in general, and not just the Cicero project, has much in common with the hypomnemic theaters of the Renaissance Hermetic-Caballist tradition. The unfinished Arcades project exists in the form of a “massive collection of notes on nineteenth-century industrial culture as it took form in Paris–and formed that city in turn. These notes consist of citations from a vast array of historical sources, which Benjamin filed with the barest minimum of commentary, and only the most general indications of how the fragments were eventually to have been arranged” (Buck-Morss, ix). In the hypermedia Arcades, an interactive Benjamin would guide students through a Paris whose history could flash up in the present moment with the touch of a key. Meanwhile, I was interested in the resonance of the card file metaphor for hypermedia and Benjamin’s views on the obsolescence of the academic book:
And today the book is already, as the present mode of scholarly production demonstrates, an outdated mediation between two different filing systems. For everything that matters is to be found in the card box of the researcher who wrote it, and the scholar studying it assimilates it into his own card index. (Benjamin, Reflections, New York, 1978: 78.)
The other strategy that is relevant to the experiment is the postmodernist fondness for allegory. Thus any item of fact reported in the database could also function as a sign, signifying or figuring another meaning. The specifics of this meaning are to be inferred in the reading, leaving the construction of the critical argument to the reader. These strategies constitute an outline for a potent pedagogy in which research functions as the inventio for an expressive text (thus producing a hybrid drawing upon both scholarship and art). This possibility suggests another role for electronic publications–to explore productive exchanges between the electronic and alphabetic apparatuses, emphasizing the usefulness of computer hardware and software as figurative models for written exercises. It is perfectly possible to compose an essayistic equivalent of a hypermedia program, and to think electronically with paper and pencil.
My version of a hypermedia essay consists of some 29 cards simulating one trail blazed through a domain of information about hypermedia–concerned, that is, with a sub-domain holding data on the semantic fields of the terminology of program design for hypermedia environments. The entries are drawn from the categories listed below in random order (the entries evoke these categories). In hypermedia, the cards could be accessed in any order, but in the alphabetic simulation, which is an enunciation or utterance within the system, the sequence does develop according to an associative logic (it is precisely an experiment with the capacity of association for creating learning effects). In hypermedia, the scholar does not provide a specific line of argument, an enunciation, but constructs the whole paradigm of possibilities, the set of statements, leaving the act of utterance, specific selections and combinations, to the reader/user. Or rather, the scholar’s “argument” exists at the level of the ideology/theory directing the system of the paradigm, determining the boundaries of inclusion/exclusion.
–hypermedia design
–methods and logic of composition
–the computer conference at the University of Alabama
–computers in general
–critique of cinema (apparatus theory)
–grammatology
–Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
–colonial exploration of America (Columbus, the overland trails).
–stereotypes
–“Place” in rhetoric, memory
–Situationism
–mis en abyme.The fundamental idea organizing the grammatological approach to hypermedia (theorizing the institutionalization of computer technology into education in terms of the history of writing) emerges out of a comparison of three textbooks, introducing students to the operations of the three memory systems dominating schooling within three different apparatuses: the Ad Herenium, main source of the classical art of memory, in the pre-print era when oratory was the predominant practice (cf. Camillo’s Memory Theater); the St. Martin’s Handbook, representing (as typical among a host of competitors) the codification of school writing; and a textbook yet to come, doing for electronic composition what the other two examples do for their respective apparatuses. It is certainly too soon for a “codification” of electronic rhetoric, considering that the technology is still evolving at an unnerving pace. The position of Postmodern Culture in this situation should not be conservative or cautious (that slot in the intellectual ecology being already crowded with representatives). Rather, it should serve as a free zone for conceptualization, formulating an open, continually evolving simulacrum of that electronic handbook. Some of the elements of that handbook (but a new word is needed for this program) might be glimpsed in the citations collected and linked in my hypermedia essay. In the remaining sections I will reproduce, in somewhat abbreviated form, one of the series included in the original article (but with the addition of a few selections not used previously). In this recreation I will omit the sources, noting only the name of the author. My principal concern is with the transformation of the rhetorical concept of “place” that is underway in the electronic environment. A review of the history of rhetoric reveals that “place” is perhaps the least stable notion in this history, the one most sensitive to changes in the apparatus.
“What seems necessary to me is the development of a completely new discipline that embraces the whole augmentation system. What are the practical strategies that will allow our society to pursue high-performance augmentation? My strategy is to begin with small groups, which give greater ‘cultural mobility.’ Small groups are preferable to individuals because exploring augmented collaboration is at the center of opportunity. These small groups would be the scouting parties sent ahead to map the pathways for the organizational groups to follow. You also need outposts for these teams” (Douglas Engelbart).
“Between 1840 and the California gold rush, fewer than 20,000 men, women, and children followed those roads westward–the Santa Fe Trail, the Oregon Trail, the Bozeman Trail. Yet the story of the overland trails was told a thousand times for every one telling of the peopling of the Midwest. Why? Excitement was there, of course: Indian attacks and desert hardship and even cannibalism. But I suspected that the greatest appeal of the trails lay in the role they played as avenues for progress of the enterprising. The roads that the pioneers followed symbolized the spirit of enterprise that sustained the American dream” (Ray Allen Billington).
Originally, theoria meant seeing the sights, seeing for yourself, and getting a worldview. The first theorists were “tourists”–the wise men who traveled to inspect the obvious world. Theoria did not mean the kind of vision that is restricted to the sense of sight, but implied a complex but organic mode of active observation–a perceptual system that included asking questions, listening to stories and local myths, and feeling as well as hearing and seeing. The world theorists who traveled around 600 B.C. were spectators who responded to the expressive energies of places, stopping to contemplate what the guides called “the things worth seeing.” Local guides–the men who knew the stories of a place–helped visiting theorists to “see” (Eugene Victor Walter).
“Information would be accessible through association as well as through indexing. The user could join any two items, including the user’s own materials and notes. Chains of these associations would form a ‘trail,’ with many possible side trails. Trails could be named and shared with other information explorers. ‘There is a new profession of trailblazers, those who find delight in the task of establishing useful trails through the enormous mass of the common record.’ We need fundamentally new organizing principles for knowledge, and we need new navigation and manipulation tools for the learner. Instead of regarding an intelligent system as a human replacement, we can consider the system as a helpful assistant or partner” (Stephen A. Weyer).
“The two recognized, contemporary authorities on Columbus are his son Ferdinand and the traveling monk Bertolome de las Casas. Both cite the reasons why Columbus believed he could discover the Indies as threefold: ‘natural reasons, the authority of writers, and the testimony of sailors.’ As to the ancient authorities, Columbus’ son cites Aristotle, Seneca, Strabo, Pliny, and Capilonius. None of these ancient writers gave a route plan– it had to come from another source. The source for that plan had to be St. Brendan, the Navigator. Brendan lived in the 6th century, A.D. The Irish clergy were a devout group and practiced a form of wandering in the wilderness. Not having a desert nearby, they did their wandering at sea. In the Navigatio Sancti Brendani the style and manner of navigational reports are as excerpts relating the interesting events, taken from a diary or logbook. The subsequent versions of the Navigatio were penned by monks in monasteries. These contain religious matter of a mythical nature which has obviously been added to the original” (Paul H. Chapman).
“For the Aboriginal nomad, the land is a king of palimpsest. On its worn and rugged countenance he is able to write down the great stories of Creation, his creation, in such a way as to insure their renewal. Walking from one sacred spot to another, performing rituals that have changed little over the millennia, are in themselves important aspects of a metaphysical dialogue. Since Aboriginal society is pre-literate, this dialogue relies on intellectual and imaginative contact with sacred constructs within the landscape that have been invested with miwi or power, according to tradition or the Law. The language is one of symbolic expression, of mythic reportage. We begin to see at this point the seeds of conflict between two opposing cultures existing in the same landscape. On the one hand we have an Aboriginal culture that regards the landscape as an existential partner to which it is lovingly enjoined; on the other, we find a European culture dissatisfied with the landscape’s perceived vacuity and spiritual aridity, thus wanting to change it in accordance with facile economic imperatives so that it reflects a materialistic world- view” (James Cowan).
“Can the hypermedia author realize the enormous potential of the medium to change our relation to language and texts simply by linking one passage or image to others? One begins any discussion of the new rhetoric needed for hypermedia with the recognition that authors of hypertext and hypermedia materials confront three related problems: First, what must they do to orient readers and help them read efficiently and with pleasure? Second, how can they inform those reading a document where the links in that document lead? Third, how can they assist readers who have just entered a new document to feel at home there? Drawing upon the analogy of travel, we can say that the first problem concerns navigation information necessary for making one’s way through the materials. The second concerns exit or departure information, and the third arrival or entrance information” (George Landow).
“Removed from the tangible environment of their culture, travelers came to rely on this most portable and most personal of cultural orders as a means of symbolic linkage with their homes. More than any other emblem of identity, language seemed capable of domesticating the strangeness of America. It could do so both by the spreading of Old World names over New World place, people, and objects, and by the less literal act of domestication which the telling of an American tale involved. This ability to ‘plot’ New World experience in advance was, in fact, the single most important attribute of European language. Francis Bacon, primary theorist of a new epistemology and staunch opponent of medieval scholasticism, extrapolated Columbus himself into a symbol of bold modernity. His voyager was decidedly not the man of terminal doubt and despair whom we encounter in the Jamaica letter of 1503. He was instead a figure of hopeful departures, a man whose discovery of a ‘new world’ suggested the possibility that the ‘remoter and more hidden parts of nature’ also might be explored with success. The function of Bacon’s Novum Organum was to provide for the scientific investigator the kind of encouragement which the arguments of Columbus prior to 1492 had provided for a Europe too closely bound to traditional assumptions” (Wayne Franklin).
“Perhaps the most fragile component of the future lies in the immediate vicinity of the terminal screen. We must recognize the fundamental incapacity of capitalism ever to rationalize the circuit between body and computer keyboard, and realize that this circuit is the site of a latent but potentially volatile disequilibrium. The disciplinary apparatus of digital culture poses as a self-sufficient, self-enclosed structure without avenues of escape, with no outside. Its myths of necessity, ubiquity, efficiency, of instantaneity require dismantling: in part by disrupting the separation of cellularity, by refusing productivist injunctions by inducing slow speeds and inhabiting silences” (Jonathan Crary).
One more suggestion of a function of electronic publishing: To experiment with other metaphors for the research process in the electronic apparatus, as alternatives to the metaphor of colonial imperialism.
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His Master’s Voice: On William Gaddis’sJR
Patrick J. O’Donnell
University of West Virginia
In William Gaddis’sJR, voice partakes of the “postmodern condition” where, as Jean Baudrillard says, everything is constituted by “the force which rules market value: capital must circulate; gravity and any fixed point must disappear; the chain of investments and reinvestments must never stop; value must radiate endlessly and in every direction.”1 Gaddis’s unwieldy parody of American capitalism is a 700-plus page palimpsest of vocal exchanges where the agency of transmission–telephones, televisions, tape recorders–has, in a sense, taken over the discourse, so that human commerce and conversation reflect the nearly total instrumentality of human life and the “capitalization” of identity in the late twentieth century. “Voice,” in Gaddis’s novel, has become the cipher for human exchange, and like surplus capital, inflationary and without content.
In this context, it is appropriate to recall an image produced by the advertising agencies that Gaddis lampoons in JR while striking at the wastefulness of their “product” in the piles of junk mail that the pre-adolescent JR ceaselessly sorts through on his way to the foundation of a financial empire. One of the more memorable icons of American culture is the logo of the Recording Company of America, perhaps most familiar to the generation which listened to ’78’s which bore the image of Victor, that patient canine listening to the speaker of a Victorola phonograph. The trademark suggests that the quality of the recording is so faithful to the original that Victor thinks he is hearing “his master’s voice”–an idea so compelling that RCA protected the phrase “His Master’s Voice” by registering it as a trademark.
Images like this one, born within the publicity departments of corporations that make substantial profits from the reproduction of sound, reveal much about commonly held cultural assumptions regarding voice and its relation to the projection of identity. The faithful reproduction of voice is associated with the assertion of mastery. The “master recording,” presumably, connects us directly with the origin of an individual voice. This concept is revised and repeated in the television advertisements of a cassette tape manufacturer who employed Ella Fitzgerald to break a glass with the magnified projections of her real voice; these, recorded and played back, were used to break another glass, attesting, again, to the faithfulness of the sound recording. Yet, we easily see the contradictions inherent in the attempt to represent the mastery, originality, and integrity of voice. As Edward Said suggests, all forms of originality imply “loss, or else it would be repetition; or we can say that, insofar as it is apprehended as such, originality is the difference between primordial vacancy and temporary, sustained repetition” (133). To hear a recording of the master’s voice–to hear the voice of mastery–is to hear the same track again as a repetition that fragments the singularity of the original; indeed, following Walter Benjamin, in modern technocratic society, the more faithful the recording, the more the original is, paradoxically, re-presented or copied as it is transformed from original into simulation.2 Recorded and transcribed, the strikingly unique voice of Ella Fitzgerald is converted into a commodity that everyone can own and replay at will.
These remarks on the replication of voice (and in a technocratic society “voice” inevitably comes to us in the form of replication) suggest the conflicted position of the so-called “speaking subject” in postmodern culture and in Gaddis’s novel where the “parent” organization of a fading financial empire is the “General Roll” corporation– originally, manufacturers of piano rolls for player pianos. There are several ways in which this contradictory position might be described. Translated from corporeal to legible terms, it is, for example, a commonplace of American creative writing programs to encourage neophytes to discover a unique, personal voice, yet it is easily perceivable that this illusory voice, even if it is found, can only be transmitted through the vehicle of the reproduction of the text–a text which, in “successful” creative writing programs, can be eminently transformed into a commodity. Adorno’s commentary on the speaking subject is pertinent to the contradictions implicit in the notion of “voice in the marketplace”:
In an all-embracing system [such as, for Adorno, that of late capitalist economies], dialogue becomes ventriloquism. Everyone is his own Charlie McCarthy; hence his popularity. Words in their entirety come to resemble the formulae which formerly were reserved for greeting and leave-taking . . . Such determination of speech through adaptation, however, is its end: the relation between matter and expression is severed, and just as the concepts of the positivists are supposed to be mere counters, so those of positivistic humanity have become literally coins. (Pecora 27)
For Adorno, form and content of language in contemporary society have become so thoroughly severed (in that “content” has virtually disappeared), and yet so fused together (in that “medium” and “message” of contemporary speech acts are one) that all forms of expression are telegraphic ciphers, or traces of some “matter” that has been debased into coin, commodity. Hence, the source of this language–the individual speaker–becomes merely a mouthpiece, a “talking head,” a transmitter of messages already overheard and delivered; the repetition of these messages might be thought of as the capitalized surplus of sheer message, or information for its own sake, in contemporary culture. This is the view articulated by Gibbs inJR, who serves as the novel’s heretical voice in continually questioning and parodying the prevailing discursive orders. To his class (Gibbs teaches at an “experimental” elementary school which is attempting to redefine its curriculum for the purposes of conducting all classes over “closed-circuit” television), Gibbs says, “Since you’re not here to learn anything, but to be taught so you can pass these tests, knowledge has to be organized so it can be taught, and it has to be reduced to information so it can be organized do you follow that?” (20). But to this “truth” about information Gibbs adds the kind of heretical remark (he is clearly veering away from the predetermined class syllabus at this point) that will lead to his being fired from the school and his self-willed expulsion from America: “In other words this leads you to assume that organization is an inherent property of the knowledge itself, and that disorder and chaos are simply irrelevant forces that threaten it from outside. In fact it’s exactly the opposite. Order is simply a thin, perilous condition we try to impose on the basic reality of chaos . . . ” (20).
Readers ofJR will recognize in these illustrations the dilemma of the subject in this novel. Any attempt to describe or summarizeJR will necessarily fail, partly because the “plot” of the novel is so minimal as to provide little help with whatJR is “all about,” and partly because the novel’s complexity resides not in theme, or character, or symbol, or event but in the twinned questions of “who is speaking?” and “what is s/he talking about?” at any of a number of points. Identity and reference may thus be seen as poles between which the story of an eleven-year-old child’s rise to financial wealth and power is negotiated. JR Vansant, the titular protagonist, manages to assimilate a financial empire by sorting through junk mail and taking advantage of numerous “offers,” and by employing the offices of his former teacher, Edward Bast, who unwillingly acts as JR’s adult stand-in at various meetings and business functions. Largely through a series of contingencies and accidents that serve to parody any reliance upon Wall Street “securities,” JR succeeds in building a ghost mega-corporation that exists solely on paper, and then just as easily loses his empire in a “crash” that only makes him desire to start a new one. JR’s Horatio Alger story stands in ironic contrast to that of his “dummy,” Bast, a would-be artist unwillingly entangled in the momentum of JR’s rise and fall, and heir to the small remains of the declining General Roll fortune; in the novel, the Basts are embroiled in a Chancery-like dispute over their estate, and Edward Bast’s uncertainty as to the identity of his father and, thus, the origins of his own identity, serves as a foil to JR’s parodic embodiment of “the self-made man.” Bast is also Gaddis’s portrait of the artist whose art is foiled by the consumerism, noise, and entropy of the contemporary environment: his horizons increasingly diminished (in the beginning of the novel, Bast plans to write a full-scale opera; by its end, he is planning a short piece for the unaccompanied cello), Bast is forced to earn his living by listening to pop radio stations in order to detect if songs not registered with ASCAP are being played on the air while, headphones in place, he attempts to write his own music. In such noisy circumstances, and in the comic and disturbing parallels he forges between the machinations of Wall Street and the modern educational methods in the United States, Gaddis insists on portraying the “self” as a cipher or medium in an endless and monotonous conversation the subject of which– despite the number of speakers or characters inJR–always focuses around matters of exchange of money, stocks, notes (musical and otherwise), wills, bodies, or information.3
JR consists of dozens of fragmented conversations, usually joined in progress, between individual speakers upon a variety of ostensible “topics,” yet the speakers, for the most part, are located within institutional and communicative confines–the principal’s office, the boardroom of the corporate headquarters, a telephone booth– which constrain and define them as the instruments of vast and intersecting bureaucracies. Through vocal tics or characteristic expressions, one may come to “know” the conversationalists ofJR, though they are not usually identified by name, separate speakers and speech acts being marked in the novel not even by the usual quotation marks, but by dashes. But, as Marc Chenetier has suggested, so “interrupted” are these conversations by “[verbal] hiccups, hesitations, digressions . . . [textual] tears never mended, open parenthesis . . . syntactical ruptures,” so replete are they with “interjections” from the voices of overheard radio announcements to citations from its barrage of advertisements, that any individual voice gradually disappears into the novel’s overwhelming noise: “Gaddis unhesitatingly plunges us into a ‘universe of discourse’ that does not even bear his name.”4 In this way,JR obscures the source or agency of any given voice in the novel, and makes it seem that all the novel’s speakers participate in a wholly instrumental “discourse” managed by corporations and institutions lacking any single “boss,” but, in the telephonic terms the novel insists upon, comprised of a series of crossed lines and connections going everywhere and coming from nowhere or no one. HenceJR might be viewed as the nightmare version of Bakhtinian heteroglossia.5 While Bakhtin argues that the disparate and conflicting voices to be found historically in the novel signified the overturning of the official discourses of the day and the pluralization of identity–a pluralization that, as we have seen, troubles the modernist desire to master the carnivalization of identity, or in Thomas Mann’s phrase, to act as the “theatre-manager[s] of our own dreams so [that] . . . our fate may be the product of our inmost selves, of our wills”–Gaddis’s multi-voiced epic of the corporate world and American education, in a sundering of “the illusion of unmediated speech,” displays the incorporation of all voice and language into the paranoid meta-discourse of “doing business.”6 This discursive game is one in which even an eleven-year old child–perhaps, especially an eleven-year old child raised in the positivist environment of the American education system–can become a major player. Yet it is a discourse which no one really masters, both because it lacks visible source or origin (just as paternal origins are troubled in the novel for Edward Bast) and because it threatens to consume any individual who comes into contact with it.
Though widely-varied in their particulars, the vocal exchanges ofJR fall roughly into three categories: monologues that serve to parody the “specialized” languages of legalese or businessese, phatic conversations where we hear a speaker on one end of and must imagine what the other speaker is saying, and fragmented conversations between several speakers such as those in which an assortment of teachers, administrators, politicians, and bureaucrats gather periodically in the principal’s office of the Long Island elementary school JR attends to discuss the latest developments in education by television. In the first of these–monologues that unwittingly (as far as the speaker is concerned) parody discursive systems–signs and codes are arranged in a self-referential language where words circulate as money does in the economy, endlessly flowing where they will, merely ciphers of exchange without matter (or gold) to back them. Coen, the Bast family lawyer, provides an example of this semiosis when he discusses the late Thomas Bast’s estate with Anne and Julia near the beginning of the novel:
–Possibly your testimony and that of your brother James regarding the period of his cohabitation with the said Nellie before Edward’s birth, here, yes, that a child born in wedlock is legitimate where husband and wife had separated and the period of gestation required, in order that the husband may be the father, while a possible one, is exceptionally long and contrary to the usual course of nature, you see? Now in bringing a proceeding to establish the right to the property of a deceased, the burden is on the claimant to show his kinship with the decedent, where alleged fact that claimant is decedent’s child, and . . . yes, that while in the first instance, where is it yes, proof of filiation from which a presumption of legitimacy arises will sustain the burden and will establish the status of legitimacy and heirship if no evidence tending to show illegitimacy is introduced, the burden to establish legitimacy does not shift and claimant must establish his legitimacy where direct evidence, as well as evidence of potent . . . is the word potent? potent, yes potent circumstances, tending to disprove his claim of heirship, is introduced. Now, regarding competent evidence to prove filiation . . .
–Mister Cohen, I assure you there is no need to go on like this, if . . .
–Ladies, I have no choice. In settling an estate of these proportions and this complexity it is my duty to make every point which may bear upon your nephew’s legal rights absolutely crystal clear to you and to him. (10)
Coen’s comically inappropriate, yet legally “correct” rhetoric is tonally offensive. Not only is it incomprehensible to the ancient sisters as it is to us in its circularity, it also embodies a contradictory attempt to establish filiation and Edward Bast’s origins through a discourse replete with repetition and tautology: the language clearly lacks the “potent circumstances” it is attempting to generate through the sheer imposition of scattered and reiterated legal jargon.
Coen’s “monologue” is typical of many inJR. It represents a discursive movement where–whether the topic is stocks and bonds, or wills, or pedagogy–the subject or point of reference is brought into being and “legitimated,” but only as a simulation issuing from a nominalist discourse that “names” its content, whose content is what it names. The linguistic nominalism ofJR reaches its absurd limit in the directions Mr. Davidoff, a corporate public relations executive, gives to his secretary regarding the travel plans of one of his representatives aboard military transport: “TC two hundred Indiv placed on TDY as indic RPSCTDY Eigen, Thomas, GS twelve cerned he won’t need all those, give CG AMC, Attn: AMCAD-AO, Washington,” etc. (256). Gaddis is concerned to show in this “acronymic” parody, as he is throughout the novel, the relation between such instrumentation of language and the “miltary-industrial complex.” The identity of “Bast,” in essence, is what can be traced on paper or what can be read out of a will, just as the identity of JR is what it is purported to be in contracts, stock issues, business negotiations. There is no word-magic inJR, no fleshing out of the language, and Bast, in Coen’s verbiage, is but a blank counter to move amongst the various acquired accretions of legal language.7
When we turn to Gaddis’s conversations, we might expect to encounter some form of exchange which transcends or alters these hegemonic circumstances, but indeed we discover that the Gaddisian dialogic is a contradiction in terms. At every turn in the novel, we are confronted with telephone conversations which ostensibly involve two or more speakers, and thus, a dialogue, but we always hear only one end of the conversation (and have to imagine both who is speaking and what they are saying at the other end). We are compelled to hear the voice over the phone as both singular (it is the only voice we hear) and fragmented, dissolute (interrupted by the unheard voice of the other); the voice of the “other” is entirely spectral in these exchanges. Its material importance in the novel causes us to focus on the instrument which carries these phatic conversations–the telephone. As Avital Ronnell has argued, the telephone “destabilizes the identity of self and other, subject and thing. . . . It is unsure of its identity as object, thing, piece of equipment, perlocutionary intensity or artwork (the beginnings of telephony argue for its place as artwork); it offers itself as instrument of destinal alarm” (Ronell 9). InJR, the significance of this “destinal alarm” is highlighted in a number of contexts: “Diamond Cable,” the mega-corporation with which JR competes (and in whose offices he is introduced to the world of the stock market on a school field trip) is a manufacturer of telephone cables; the Bast sisters decide to divest their portfolio of telephone stocks because they are having their home phone removed; JR manages to convince the local phone company to install a pay phone booth at his school so that he can have easy access to his “office.” This latter instance provides a comic example of how the telephone severs “voice” from “signature” or identity. JR remarks to his friend Hyde, who suggests that JR will get caught for forging the papers which authorize the installation of the booth: “What do you mean forgery I just scribbled this here name which it’s nobody’s down at the bottom where it says arthurized by, I mean you think the telephone company’s goes around asking everybody is this here your signature? All they care it says requisition order right here across the top so they come stick in this here telephone booth” (185). For fear that he might be recognized as a child in his business dealings, JR disguises his voice when he talks over the phone by muffling it with the unfailingly filthy handkerchief that is one of his trademarks. His creation of an empire via the proxies of the telephone and Bast is an act of ventriloquy that reveals the wholly instrumental nature of his language and being. As an extension of the telephonic instrument–as a form of human prothesis–JR is merely the garbled voice over the phone making connections between the disparate elements of his empire, thus acting as a kind of talking “switchboard”; this radical destabilizing of human agency via the telephone is perfectly complicit with “doing business” inJR, a form of labor comprised solely of managing contacts and contracts through the manipulation of what might be termed discursive “bites” or received linguistic formulations.
In the following passage, we overhear JR at the height of his empire, conversing with Bast about various business deals on a public telephone:
–Hello Bast? Boy I almost didn’t…no I’m out of breath, I had to stay in at…No but first hey how come you didn’t call Piscator about this here whole Wonder . . . what? No but where are you at then, you . . . What? What do you . . . No but how come you’re at this here hospital . . . Holy . . . no but holy . . . no but you mean right at that there gala banquet you and him were . . . No but how was I supposed to know that? I mean I knew the both of them were old, but holy . . . No but if he had his arm around you singing how come you . . . You mean right in the middle of the movie? Holy . . . No but like if, like I mean he’s not going to die or something is he? Because if he and his brother don’t sign that stuff Piscator was supposed to get read we’re really up the . . . What his brother’s there right now you mean? Can you . . . What, they already did? Why didn’t you tell me, I mean if they both signed it everything’s okay we don’t have anything to . . . No hey I didn’t just mean that Bast, I mean sure I hope he gets better real soon tell him but . . . No but wait tell him he can’t do that hey, it’s . . . No but if he sold the company it isn’t even a trade secret any more it’s our hey, I’ll . . . No I’ll bet you a quarter hey, ask Piscator, he . . . that cobalt in the water puts such a great head on their beer? did he tell . . . No but see even if this here nurse he’s whispering it to doesn’t get it see she might just tell somebody which . . . No but tell him to quit it anyway okay? So where else did . . . No but see a second, who . . .? Did he say that, he’s coming there . . .? No but see he’s been calling me and Piscator because he’s scared this here bunch of Wonder stock this other brother gave him this loan of to use it like for collateral when this company of his was getting in this trouble because they used to both play football at some collage, see so now Mooneyham’s scared that if we gave him a hard time over this here stock this whole X-L Lithography Comp . . . No but how was I supposed to know this here other brother had . . . No but what do you expect me to . . . No okay, okay but. . . . (343)
The signature of JR’s voice in this and other “conversations” are the words “no,” “hey,” and “holy [shit],” which identify and stabilize an otherwise chaotic speech. JR’s speech is literally full of holes, and the identity he projects through these voice signatures is that of denial (“no” to everything Bast says) and ignorance (he knows nothing), yet this is the boss speaking.8 In the clutch of “deals” that this conversation embraces, JR is attempting to culminate the takeover of a brewery owned by the brothers he mentions–one of whom suffers a heart attack at a meeting with JR’s representative, Bast–by diverting the pension funds of another company he has bought, Eagle Mills; part of the takeover involves taking advantage of a selloff of debentures which would give the JR Corporation access to cobalt mineral rights, the lethal ingredient that will give the beer produced by the brewery a “great head.” Other aspects of this venture depend upon equally far-flung negotiations which, together, suggest that the JR Corporation is like a gigantic machine whose myriad gears accidentally mesh at certain points in time as JR stumbles upon connections and potential deals. Though he “makes” the connection between one strand of enterprise and another (i.e., using the pension funds from Eagle Mills to buy out the Wonder Brewery), no one sees or controls the totality of his corporation, which exists, in fragments, only in his head and in his speech. Nor is JR capable of assimilating the “content” of what he negotiates, or its social and political effects: that he gambles with the pensions of hundreds of workers, that some one has suffered a heart attack, that the cobalt which goes in the beer may be poisonous to its drinkers does not enter JR’s consciousness. JR, then, speaks with the master’s voice, but his overheard speech is made up of the collected fragments of an atrocious banality, wholly lacking in integrity and originality. In this, JR, like his older double, Governor Cates, embodies the corporate subject that acts as a conduit for the exchange of information while (as the novel goes on) increasingly losing control over that exchange. While this loss of control may portend some resistance to the novel’s overbearing and interlocking language systems, the infinite replaceability of the novel’s speakers, whatever their location in the discourse, suggests otherwise.
Finally, in regarding the types of speech one encounters inJR, we can consider briefly the so-called conversations that take place between several speakers: in these instances, the parallels one hears between discussions in the corporation board rooms and those between teachers and administrators in the principal’s office suggest the thoroughgoing instrumentality of language that Gaddis fears pervades every level of human existence. What follows is a fragment of a discussion in the office of Whiteback, the president of a local bank and the principal at JR’s Long Island elementary school; part of what one hears in the background is the sound track from a television set tuned to various classes taking place at this school which is gradually “converting” to instruction by television:
–My wife’s taping something this morning, Mister diCephalis got in abruptly. A resource program . . . . [O]n silkworms, she has her own Kashmiri records…–If your Ring isn’t ready, your Wagner, what is there?
–My Mozart. She hung up the telephone and dialed again.
–No answer, I’ll call and see if my visuals are ready . . . .
—-gross profit on a business was sixty
-five hundred dollars a year. He finds his expenses were twenty
-two and one half percent of this profit. First, can you find the net profit?
–What’s that? demanded Hyde, transfixed by unseeing eyes challenging the vacant confine just over his head.
–Sixth grade math. That’s Glancy . . .
–Try switching to thirty
-eight.
—-original cost of the…combustion in these thousands of little cylinders in our muscle engines. Like all engines, these tiny combustion engines need a constant supply of fuel, and we call the fuel that this machine uses, food. We measure its value…
–Even if the Rhinegold is ready it’s Wagner, isn’t it? But if the Mozart is scheduled the classroom teachers, they’re ready with the followup material from their study guides on Mozart. They can’t just switch to Wagner.
—-the value of the fuel for this engine the same way, by measuring how much heat we get when it’s burned . . .
–That’s a cute model, it gets the right idea across. Whose voice?
–Vogel. He made it himself out of old parts.
–Whose?
–Parts?
–Some of them might never even have heard of Wagner yet.
–No, the voice.
–That’s Vogel, the coach.
—-that we call energy. Doing a regular day’s work, this human machine needs enough fuel equal to about two pounds of sugar…
–If they thought it was Mozart’s Rhinegold and get them all mixed up, so you can’t really switch.
–He put it together himself out of used parts. (28-29)
The “model” of discourse we are offered here is one made of fragments and ellipses that–given over to instrumentality–simultaneously defy totalization. Gaddis’s discursive enjambments project an entropic world of “noise” in which its parts or subjects–whether it is Wagner’s opera, mathematics, the workings of the human body, or silkworms–are eminently interchangeable, just as someone suggests that “it doesn’t matter” if it’s Wagner’s Ring or Mozart’s.
As Vogel’s model suggests, the novel insists upon the connection to be made between speech and corporeal identity as being a collection of fragments comprised of replaceable parts: near the end of the novel, Cates, who is in the hospital “just . . . to have a plug changed” (688), is described by a longtime companion as
a lot of old parts stuck together he doesn’t even exist he started losing things eighty years ago he lost a thumbnail on the Albany nightboat and that idiot classmate of his Handler’s been dismantling him ever since, started an appendectomy punctured the spleen took it out then came the gall bladder that made it look like appendicitis in the first place now look at him, he’s listening through somebody else’s inner ears those corneal transplants God knows whose eyes he’s looking through . . . . (708)
Revealingly, Cates suffers this tirade while attempting to have a phone installed in his hospital room so he can conduct business even while undergoing an inner ear transplant, a conduct which involves speaking in a more adult version of JR’s discourse and forging deals to the detriment of everyone from Native Americans to the inhabitants of a third-word nation ruled by the tyrannical Doctor De. And, the political argument of the novel runs, it is precisely because there is such a severing of speech from agency in what Baudrillard would refer to as the contemporary “hyperreal” that business can, in Cates’ and JR’s domain, continue as usual, regardless of its “contents” and affects. As is indicated by the lack of syntactical markers in the description of Cates’ body, the novel’s ongoing, discontinuous language is without origin or end (one feels that Gaddis could have made the novel twice as long or half as short), and flows through the characters and instruments ofJR, allowing them positions of authority along discursive chains. But no one is in charge of this system. Here the link that Gaddis wishes to forge between language and capital is most strong: both flow through the world as inheritances and mediums of exchange in what appear to be systems of mastery, but–in the paradox the novel enforces–systems, like runaway inflation, gone out of control.9
In many of these senses, JR might be seen as Gaddis’s Gatsby, a parody of the self-making impulses played out in the arena of the American marketplace that made Gatsby “great” in Nick Carraway’s mind; one essential difference between the two novels resides in the status of the vocal subject as a kind of cipher or medium inJR, hardly available to the backfill mythologizing employed in the constructions of Gatsby or Daisy (whose voice is “full of money,” but who can also stand as the romanticized object of desire). InJR the illusion of voice as the vehicle or medium of interiority is thoroughly dissolved; rather, voice, like everything in the novel, becomes a commodity. In a conversation between Bast and Gibbs, who, after being fired as a teacher, attempts to take up his long languishing book-in-progress on the social history of the mechanization of the arts, there emerges a figure representing the nature of voice in the novel:
–Problem writing an opera Bast you’re up against the worst God damned instrument ever invented [i.e., the human throat] . . . .
–Asked me to tell you about Johannes Muller didn’t you? Told you you’re not listening I’m talking about Johannes Muller, nineteenth
-century German anatomist Johannes Muller took a human larynx fitted it up with strings and weights to replace the muscles tried to get a melody by blowing through it how’s that. Bast?
–Yes it sounds quite…
–Thought opera companies could buy dead singers’ larynxes fit them up to sing arias save fees that way get the God damned artist out of the arts all at once, long as he’s there destroying everything in their God damned path what the arts are all about, Bast? (288)
Like Vogel’s model of human muscular action, Muller’s experiment attempts to transform the instrument of human voice into a machine that (like the phonograph) will reproduce the same voice through the ages, thereby fulfilling the aesthetic dream of permanence but eliminating the need for the human agent in the process. On the one hand, Muller’s preposterous experiment, if successful, would fulfill the modernist dream of authorial distancing in ways that Joyce had never thought possible, but the paradox of that desire (detachment accompanied by increased, totalizing control over the elements and relations of the created “world”) is sundered inJR by its complicity with the commodification of art. If the source or origin of the singer’s voice could be removed, so Gibbs’ parodic argument runs, and a way could be found to reproduce that voice on command for the listening audience, then money could be made since it is less expensive to own or display a reproduction than an original. In fact, Muller’s zany idea has come to pass in the “age of mechanical reproduction,” where the detachment of the art from the artist and its mass replication–its sheer reproducibility–determines its nature. “Voice” fulfills these conditions inJR.
In one of the novel’s more fantastic sequences, Muller’s Frankensteinian experiment is renewed by Vogel himself in the invention of the “Frigicom” process which is described in one of Davidoff’s press releases (read over the phone to a secretary):
Dateline New York, Frigicom, comma, a process now being developed to solve the noise pollution problem comma may one day take the place of records comma books comma even personal letters in our daily lives comma, according to a report released jointly today by the Department of Defense and Ray hyphen X Corporation comma member of the caps J R Family of Companies period new paragraph. The still secret Frigicom process is attracting the attention of our major cities as the latest scientific breakthrough promising noise elimination by the placement of absorbent screens at what are called quote shard intervals unquote in noise polluted areas period operating at faster hyphen than hyphen sound speeds a complex process employing liquid nitrogen will be used to convert the noise shards comma as they are known comma at temperatures so low they may be handled with comparative ease by trained personnel immediately upon emission before the noise element is released into the atmosphere period the shards will then be collected and disposed of in remote areas or at see comma where the disturbance caused by their thawing will be make that where no one will be disturbed by their impact upon thawing period new paragraph. While development of the Frigicom process is going forward under contract to the cap Defense cap Department comma the colorful new head of research and development at the recently revitalized Ray hyphen X Corp Mister make that Doctor Vogel declined to discuss the project exclusively in terms of its military ramifications comma comparing it instead to a two hyphen edged sword forged by the alliance of free enterprise and modern technology which promises to sever both military and artistic barriers at one fell swoop in the cause of human betterment period. (527)
This literalization of Pater’s “frozen music” (as Davidoff notes)–the spatialization of Venetian beauty–is but the most extreme example of the novel’s pervasive utilitarianism, where everything is made available to commodification in Gaddis’s terms: dislocated, unoriginal (that is, separated from the point or source of origin), infinitely repeatable. The Frigicom process promises a kind of vocal dystopia characteristic of the “hi-tech” excesses of postmodern culture that Gaddis satirizes in this absurd invention. If it could work, the “noise pollution” of busy freeways, office buildings, shopping malls can be frozen and carted off to sea, but like so many contemporary technological “advances,” it creates more problems than it solves: how will the noise affect the ecology in those remote areas where it is dumped? Will the reduction in noise pollution serve to convey the illusion that “progress” is being made with the more serious problem of air pollution? Since the military is, inevitably, involved, how will this “two-edged sword” which promises to homogenize culture to the extent that “military and artistic barriers” can be severed (a process already under way, in Gaddis’s mind, as art becomes increasingly commodified and, thus, increasingly a subset of the “miltary-industrial complex”) be used for destructive purposes? A “non-polluting” noise bomb? Perhaps the idea is not so fictive in a society that can seriously pursue the manufacture of a neutron bomb that will kill people but preserve architecture–“frozen music,” indeed. The figure of voice generated by Davidoff’s summary of the Frigicom process suggests that contemporary technocracies are “closed loops,” circular and tautological in nature. Davidoff reads a press release into the phone while a secretary transcribes his remarks on the other end of the line: writing is thus converted by voice into writing again in a complex and circular series of exchanges wherein “voice” becomes, merely, the ventriloquizing of the already-written, just as Davidoff is merely the mouthpiece for organizational propaganda. If “voice,” this last illusory vestige of singularity or alterity, can be figured so, then what, if anything, does Gaddis leave us with? Is there any “escape” from the novel’s closed systems of commodification and exchange?Interestingly, in aParis Review interview, Gaddis suggests, in response to readers like John Gardner who see the novel as a chronicle of “the dedicated artist crushed by commerce,” thatJR does contain “a note of hope”:
Bast starts with great confidence. He’s going to write a grand opera. And gradually, if you noticed his ambitions shrink. The grand opera becomes a cantata where we have the orchestra and the voices. Then it becomes a piece for orchestra, then a piece for small orchestra, and finally at the end he’s writing a piece for unaccompanied cello, his own that is to say, one small voice trying to rescue it all and say, “Yes, there is hope.” Again, like Wyatt, living it through, and in his adventure with JR having lived through all the nonsense he will rescue this one small hard gem-like flame, if you like. (Di-Nagy 71-72)
Gaddis clearly intends Bast inJR, like Wyatt inThe Recognitions, to be a portrait of the artist as one who achieves a minimalist redemption by withstanding the pressures of utilitarianism and capitalism in order to produce, in a post-romantic, post-modern gesture, not a self-generated cosmos to place over against the material universe, but merely a “small piece.” It is curious that the author casts this redemption in terms of “a small voice,” a “hard gem-like flame” not so different, imagistically at least, from the “noise shards” of the Frigicom process: like the Frigicom process, in the writing ofJR Gaddis takes noise and voice from the welter of everyday life, “freezes” it into inscription, then “dumps” it into the separated confines of the book where it dispersed to the reader. Writing and voice are thus often conflated in Gaddis’s fiction, so that the figures of voice that appear there may be also taken for figurations of writing. For Gaddis to insist that Bast has a voice of his own–however small–is a contradiction in a novel where voice has been so thoroughly transmuted and dispossessed. This irony is compounded by the fact that Bast’s “small voice” is preserved (if it is preserved) within–or transmitted by–such a noisy, massive novel which itself, in its bulk and (to use LeClair’s phrase again) excessiveness, stands as a production of and within late capitalist culture. In essence, Gaddis’s medium confutes the intended message: it articulates the small voice of artistic individualism promised for Bast in a figure at least once remove from the novel itself.
There are, of course, those instances–particularly in the more manic moments of Bast’s or Gibbs’s speech–where it appears that there is a rupture in the overarching, interloc[ked]utory discursive orders of the novel. The novel as a whole may be taken as “commentary” on these orders, as most of the language issuing from them bears clearly parodic intonations; yet it may be argued that the parody of, for example, legalese in Coen’s speeches both undercuts the authenticity of his circular discourse as well as it is born of it. Gaddis’s parody is so systematic in its encyclopedic anatomization of capitalist society inJR that it becomes a discursive, parasitic “order” that replicates, in part, what it parodies: as Michel Serres has argued, “the strategy of criticism is located in the object of criticism,” or, to revise this slightly for Gaddis, the strategies of parody are located in and reproduce the object of parody (Serres 38). The parody of “voice” in Gaddis takes place in a kind of “hermeneutic circle” where parodic intonation occurs not as a deconstruction or transcension of a given discursive arrangement, but as a fractured repetition (an echoing) of that arrangement.
Thus, even in those moments of “madness” entertained variously by Bast and Gibbs–moments in which we might expect some note of alterity to emerge from the welter of words–we hear, in a sense, “the same.” Emerging from his musician’s workroom after making love to his cousin Stella, Edward Bast, angry at the discovery that Stella is trying to use him and that the workroom has been vandalized, launches into a high-pitched diatribe:
–Kids…the policeman nodded past his elbow,–who else would shit in your piano.
–You, you never can tell…he stared for an instant [. . . then] turned with one step, and another as vague, to reach and tap a high C, and then far enough to fit his hand to an octave and falter a dissonant chord, again, and again, before he corrected it and looked up, –right? Believing and shitting are two very different things?
–Edward…
–Never have to clean your toilet bowl again…he recovered the dissonant chord, –right? [. . . Kids that’s all! a generation in heat that’s all…he pounded two chords against each other’s unrest –no subject is taboo, no act is forbidden that’s all…! and he struck into the sailor’s chorus from Dido and Aeneas, –you’ll never, no never, have to clean your [. . .] Rift the hills and roll the waters! flash the lightnings…he pounded chords,–the pulsating moment of climax playing teedle leedle leedle right inside your head…he found a tremolo far up the keyboard. [ . . . ] he hunched over the keys to echo the Ring motif in sinister pianissimo, –he will hold the something better than his dog, a little dearer than [ . . . ] –Rain or hail! or fire…he slammed another chord, stood there, and tapped C. –Master tunesmith wait…he dug in his pocket, –make a clean breast of the whole…. (141-42)
Edward’s is a patchwork of “motifs” and received linguistic fragments, from popular advertising slogans (“You’ll never have to clean your bowl again”) to phrases from the libretto of Wagner’s Ring. The shattering of context and compression that occurs in such a passage takes place as a reorchestration of the already-said. Similarly, when Gibbs, who at one moment suggests to his lover, Amy Joubert, that one needs to “change contexts” in order to break down the homogenous nature of reality, but at the same time tells her that “all I’ve ever done my whole God damned life spent it preparing, time comes all I’ve got is seven kinds of fine God damned handwriting only God damned thing they’re good for is misquoting other people’s . . .” (487), we are led to question the effectiveness of shifting context, fragmentation, and parodic quotation (those postmodern standbys) as “responses” toJR‘s monolithic discursive orders. Rather, these instances suggest that such responses are all too easily reincorporated into the systems of vocal and monetary exchange that make up the “work” of the novel. The problem, for Gaddis, may be that “voice” itself is “phallocentric,” that is partaking of a discursive arrangement that Irigaray defines as the reigning linguistic and philosophical paradigm of Western culture, in which systematicity, logic, linearity, and dichotomizing join with systems of economic exchange (actually serving, as inJR, as the language of those systems) to produce a “male” order that is both epistemological and social in its hierarchies (see Irigaray 68-85). Gaddis comically hints at such a deterministic (and gendered) possibility when he portrays diCephalis’ daughter, who has been secretly reading her mother’s books on sexual practices in India, eating tongue for dinner and commenting that it “looks like lingham” (312), that is, a Hindu phallus worshipped in Shiva cults. If the tongue, the instrument of voice, is thus connected to the phallus, then it would seem that all “voicings” inJR may be seen as falling within the closed circle of phallocentric discourse.
Yet there is, finally, something else–something “other” than the unheard “small voice” of Bast or parodic vocal collage–that exceeds voice inJR, even if it does not exceed the processes of representation that legitimate the novel’s pernicious economies. I refer to those brief respites from all the novel’s talk, those small descriptive passages that serve as segues between one conversation and another. Many of these contain lyrical descriptions of nature in contrast to the entropic remnants of the American junkyard landscape, thus reflecting one of Gaddis’s familiar themes: the destruction of “the primitive” in modern technocratic culture. These passages come as intermissions between conversations, and while they serve to conduct the reader from one noisy venue to another, they also act, in some sense, as “silences” or diegetic gaps in the narrative. Among the most important of these gaps are those containing descriptions of bodies merging and in collision, for in such descriptions we may see in the body–though always through the construction of figure and representation which, as “writing,” is a form of disembodiment–an “alternative” to voice.
Gaddis describes one of Gibbs’s and Amy Joubert’s marathon lovemaking sessions in this way:
From his her own hand came, measuring down firmness of bone brushed past its prey to stroke at distances, to climb back still more slowly, fingertips gone in hollows, fingers paused weighing shapes that slipped from their inquiry before they rose confirming where already they could not envelop but simply cling there fleshing end to end, until their reach was gone with him coming up to a knee, to his knees over her back, hands running to the spill of hair over her face in the pillow and down to declivities and down, cleaving where his breath came suddenly close enough to find its warmth reflected, tongue to pierce puckered heat lingering on to depths coming wide to its promise, rising wide to the streak of its touch, gorging its stabs of entrance aswim to its passage rising still further to threats of its loss suddenly real, left high agape to the mere onslaught of his gaze knees locked to knees thrust deep in that full symmetry surged back against all her eloquent blood spoke in her cheeks till he came down full weight upon her, face gone over her shoulder seeking hers in the pillow’s muffling sounds of wonder until they both went still, until a slow turn to her side she gave him up and ran raised lips on the wet surface of his mouth. (490)
This passage portrays a simultaneous mingling and separation of bodies–both lyrical and violent–that at once infers and sunders what I would term the “originary,” in the sense of the references to the Empedoclean myths of origin that Gaddis scatters throughout the novel. According to Gibbs, in a fragment from the second generation of Empedocles’ cosmogony, “limbs and parts of bodies were wandering around everywhere separately heads without necks, arms without shoulders, unmatched eyes looking for foreheads . . . these parts are joining up by chance, form creatures with countless heads, faces looking in different directions” (45). This second generation of chance assemblage and multiple body parts, I would argue, represents an (as yet) voiceless, embodied response to the commodified generation of which Gaddis writes; it is either regressive or futurist, and Gibbs and Amy’s lovemaking is but a momentary enactment of it. These are bodies not yet formed into identities voicing commodified desires; they are pre-subjectival in the Kristevan sense–neither the mass subject of late capitalist economy, nor the nostalgically romanticized “individual.”10 These bodies are, at once, hetereogeneous and in conflict, and at the same time, in a characteristic pun, they are mutually incorporative, participating in communion: Amy’s (what? the specific body part is indeterminate in the clutter of limbs) is “left high agape to the mere onslaught of his gaze.” The play on the word “agape” reveals the contradictions of these bodily entanglements, for it suggests both “a gap” or a vacancy, a form of separation (just as it suggests that Amy is detached and objectified through Gibbs’s male gaze), and “agape,” or communion, a rite of bodily incorporation; perhaps it is revealing of the paradox of this bodily state inJR that Gibbs’s treatise on the social history of the mechanization of the arts bears the word “agape” in its title. These may be united bodies that represent a “corporate” condition beyond or before “voice,” or they may be bodies in pieces in a double-edged sense, both “before” capitalized subjectivity and “after” it, that is, after the nostalgic, humanistic subject has disappeared into the mass, technologized subject of postmodern culture–save that Gaddis makes it clear that these are bodies, flesh and blood, in conflict or communion.
Collectively, the bodies ofJR may be perceived as the “body without organs” described by Deleuze and Guattari as that which exists beyond or before writing, voice, the formation of the body proper and organization of identity, the negotiating of all our economies. InA Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, Deleuze and Guattari write that the body without organs
is made in such a way that it can be occupied, populated only by intensities. Only intensities pass and circulate. Still the BwO [the body without organs] is not a scene, a place, or even a support upon which something comes to pass. It has nothing to do with phantasy, there is nothing to interpret. The BwO causes intensities to pass; it produces and distributes them in a spatium that is itself intensive, lacking extension. It is not space, nor is it in space; it is matter that occupies space to a given degree–to the degree corresponding to the intensities produced. It is nonstratified, unformed, intense matter, the matrix of intensity, intensity = 0; but there is nothing negative about that zero, there are no negative or opposite intensities. Matter equals energy. Production of the real as an intensive magnitude starting at zero. That is why we treat the BwO as the full egg before the extension of the organism and the organization of the organs, before the formation of the strata; as the intense egg defined by axes and vectors, gradients and thresholds, by dynamic tendencies involving energy transformation and kinematic movements involving group displacement, by migrations: all independent of accessory forms because the organs appear and function here only as pure intensities.11
For Guattari and Deleuze, the “body without organs” is a condition of being that follows after the dissolution of identity that the progression from modernism to postmodernism portends, where the foundations of “selfhood” in a singular or integral consiousness somehow separated from the “lines of force” which signify the conflation of historical and corporeal energies are questioned and sundered. The body without organs is “deterritorialized,” in that it represents a (non)-identity where the “self” is an intersection of energies and intensities not distinguishable from each other in terms of coming from within or coming from without, as belonging either to the body or to the world.
The “body without organs” is, of course, yet another figure, a prosopopoeia that provides us with “face” (the body) to peer through to that which has neither shape nor substance–what Deleuze and Guattari term “intensity”–but which provides the energy for life proper: in a novel where all systems are unfailingly entropic, such bodily intensities matter. This “source matter” or intensity is non-hierarchical, ungendered, non-dichotomous, and always in motion, yet, because the body without organs is both unformed and allows this intensity to pass through it, “lead you to your death,” in the sense that this “version” of the body (a version enacted in Amy’s and Gibbs’s intercourse) lacks the systems and structures (the organs) that direct and sustain “intensities.” Hence, this figure of the body is both a figure of life and death, both the unoriginary catalyst of “life” and its entropic de-organization; in JR, it is a paradox set over against “voice,” which issues from the organ of the larynx, and signifies the insertion of the speaking subject into the discursive orders of Gaddis’s technocracy.12 Yet as a “figure of speech,” that is, as a figure that appears in and through writing (both Guattari and Deleuze’s theoretical fiction, and Gaddis’s portrayal of Amy and Gibbs’s bodies), it inevitably partakes of those orders, as much as it speaks outside of them.
InJR, Gaddis delineates the plight of the commodified postmodern identity trapped, as it were, in the American marketplace: his novel is clearly political in its concerns, in that it suggests an inevitable complicity with thanatopic, bureaucratic systems–orders that the novel both mocks and projects. Yet in the novel’s contradictory figures of voice and the body, its labyrinthine assemblage of “connections,” and its distended and fractured conversations, there is the presence of “Gaddis,” who has orchestrated the novel’s many voices, languages, and discourses into the monolithic commodity that bears the titleJR. In this, we confront a final paradox that Gaddis neither resolves nor avoids. This paradox can be stated as a skepticism regarding the foundational nature of identity matched by corresponding desire to locate the “origins” of identity, if not in voice, then in the body. Here, the crucial task of figuring or disfiguring voice–of representing the vocal projection of identity (or its discontents) as a figure of speech–is carried out. It is a task, or project, paradoxical in its own nature, for this figuring and projection of voice generates a recognition of its own figurality, its masking of the non-existent or pre-subjectival, even as it involves the formation of an authorial “purpose” (the construction of this figure), and, thus, an authorial identity. InJR identity is founded upon its own deformation, and nowhere is this contradiction more apparent than in the up-surgings of the “semiotic,” in those pressure points where the language breaks down, where voice breaks up, and where coporeality intrudes; it is at those points that the figurations of both are simultaneously made and unmade. InJR, Gaddis makes it clear, what follows after words or voice can only be expressed as a sporadic and temporary intensification of life in the face of language.
Notes
1. Jean Baudrillard, 25, says that this “compulsion toward liquidity” marks the capitalization of the human body, thus setting him at odds with Irigaray, for whom “fluidity” is a mark of the radical otherness of the feminine. This is a “debate” carried on, to some extent, within the terms of Gaddis’s novel.
2. See Walter Benjamin, 217-52. Benjamin alternates between nostalgia for the lost authenticity of the truly original work before the onset of technocratic era, and recognition of the power of mechanical processes of reproduction to break through certain barriers separating art from history and the public. The contradictions of Benjamin’s position are replicated, I would argue, in Gaddis’s fiction, particularly in The Recognitions and JR, where “originality” is both parodied and made the subject of nostalgic longing.
3. Tom LeClair notes the crucial connections between education and the business world in JR: “They [JR and Governor Cates, the latter the head of a huge conglomerate which subsumes the JR Corporation at the end of the novel] are the Horatio Alger story at its two extremes–ragged youth and old age–and the book moves to this rhythm. JR shifts from the school, where J.R. is trained to profit, to the adult corporate world, and concludes in a hospital [where Cates is a patient] where the aged and the prematurely wasted have their end” (97).
4. Marc Chenetier, 357; my translation. Chenetier’s wide-ranging discussion of “voice” in contemporary American fiction contained in his chapter, “La bouche et l’oreille” (321-64) is an invaluable resource, and has been essential to my understanding of voice in Gaddis and in postmodern literature.
5. Alan Singer has suggested how Gaddis’s Carpenter’s Gothic can serve as a critique of Bakhtin’s notions of subject and agency, as well as participating in Bakhtinian “heteroglossia.” See Singer’s “The Ventriloquism of History: Voice, Parody, Dialogue.”
6. Mann’s phrase occurs in “Psychoanalysis, the Lived Myth, and Fiction,” in The Modern Tradition: Backgrounds of Modern Literature, 672; LeClair’s comments on Gaddis’s deconstructions of vocal immediacy appear in The Art of Excess, 90.
7. For important discussions of the “paper empires” of JR and their homologous relation to acts of writing and the exchanging of signs see Steven Weisenburger and Joel Dana Black in In Recognition of William Gaddis, 147-61 and 162-73 respectively.
8. For a discussion of the connections between language and excrement in JR, see Stephen Moore, 76-80.
9. LeClair, in The Art of Excess, provides important commentary on mastery in JR; cf. 87-105. LeClair’s sense of “mastery” in the novel is somewhat different from that in which I am using the term here: for LeClair, “mastery” resides in Gaddis’s ability to provide an encyclopedic encompassing of the excessive, noisy, interlocking discourses of contemporary reality. My approach focuses on the lack of mastery at the “micropolitical” or “microlinguistic” level, where individual speakers in the novel give voice to a connective semiosis whose totality (if it exists) is only partially available to them; more precisely, I would argue, they speak as if a non-existent totality were theirs to impose or deploy; therein lies the delusion of mastery in the novel.
10. Stephen Matanle discusses the fragmentation of bodies in JR in light of the Empedoclean themes of “love” and “strife,” the novel representing the contentions extreme of competition, dissociation, discord. Our readings vary significantly in my viewing Matanle’s (or Empedocles’) “strife” as the upsurging of the “semiotic.”
11. Giles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, 153. I am indebted here to John Johnston’s Carnival of Repetition: Gaddis’s The Recognitions and Postmodern Theory for his compelling discussions of Deleuze and Guattari in relation to Gaddis’s first novel.
12. In Versions of Pygmalion (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1990), J. Hillis Miller writes evocatively of the “work” of prosopopoeia and its paradoxical masking and projection of death. See especially his chapter, “Death Mask: Blanchot’s L’arret de mort,” 179-210.
Works Cited
- Baudrillard, Jean. Forget Foucault. Trans. Nicole Dufresne. New York: Semiotext(e), 1987.
- Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” Illuminations. Ed. Hannah Arendt. New York: Shocken, 1969. 217-52.
- Black, Joel Dana. “The Paper Empires and Empirical Fictions of William Gaddis.” In Recognition of William Gaddis. Ed. John Kuehl and Steven Moore. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse UP, 1984. 162-73.
- Chenetier, Marc. Au-dela du soupcon: La nouvelle fiction americaine de 1960 a nos jours. Paris: Seuil, 1989.
- Deleuze, Giles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1987.
- Di-Nagy, Zolt n Ab. “The Art of Fiction CI: William Gaddis.” Paris Review (1988): 71-2.
- Gaddis, William. JR. 1975. New York: Penguin, 1985.
- Irigaray, Luce. “The Power of Discourse and the Subordination of the Feminine.” This Sex Which is Not One. Trans. Catherine Porter. Ithaca: Cornell UP,1985. 68-85.
- Johnston, John. Carnival of Repetition: Gaddis’s The Recognitions and Postmodern Theory. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1990.
- LeClair, Tom. The Art of Excess: Mastery in Contemporary American Fiction. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1989.
- Matanle, Stephen. “Love and Strife in William Gaddis’s JR.” In Recognition of William Gaddis. 106-18.
- Moore, Stephen. William Gaddis. Boston: Twayne, 1989.
- Pecora, Vincent. Self and Form in Modern Narrative. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1989.
- Ronell, Avital. The Telephone Book: Technology, Schizophrenia, Electric Speech. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1989.
- Said, Edward W. “On Originality.” The World, The Text, and the Critic. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1983. 133.
- Serres, Michel. “Michelet: The Soup.” Hermes: Literature, Science, Philosophy. Ed. Josue V. Harari and David F. Bell. Johns Hopkins UP, 1982. 38.
- Singer, Alan. “The Ventriloquism of History: Voice, Parody, Dialogue.” Intertextuality and Contemporary American Fiction. Ed. Richard Ellmann and Charles Feidelson, Jr. New York: Oxford UP, 1965.
- Weisenburger, Steven. “Paper Currencies: Reading William Gaddis.” In Recognition of William Gaddis. 147-61.
-
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A Developmental Study with Beginning Writers 171 GISSI SARIG and SHOSHANA FOLMAN Metacognitive Awareness and Theoretical Knowledge in Coherence Production 195 LILIANA TOLCHINSKY LANDSMANN Early Literacy Development: Evidence from Different Orthographic Systems 223 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * LITERACY ACQUISITION PRICE Belgium 2300 BEF, including forwarding charges Other countries 2500 BEF, including forwarding charges AILA and C&C members only pay in Belgium: 2070 BEF in other countries: 2250 BEF This sum has to be paid in advance to the following account: 550-3130600-15 Publishing House J. Van In Grote Markt 39 B - 2500 Lier Belgium All bank-costs, at home and abroad, are chargeable to the customer. 10)-------------------------------------------------------------- ANNOUNCEMENT OF HUNGARIAN DISCUSSION GROUP A new electronic discussion group on Hungarian issues is now open to scholars and students from all disciplines. 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Gattiker Editor Technological Innovation and Human Resources Faculty of Management The University of Lethbridge Lethbridge, Alberta CANADA T1K 3M4 E-Mail: GATTIKER2@HG.ULETH.CA FAX: (403) 329-2038 Volume 1: Strategic and Human Resource Issues Volume 2: End-User Training Volume 3: Technology-Mediated Communication The upcoming Volume 4, WOMEN AND TECHNOLOGY will particularly include papers that are: international, interdisciplinary, theoretical, empirical, macro, and micro. DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSION IS OCTOBER 1, 1991. If you would like to discuss your topic, please call Urs E. Gattiker at (403) 320-6966 (mountain standard time), or send a message via the E-mail address above. 13)-------------------------------------------------------------- CALL FOR PAPERS: CHARYN COLLECTION Patrick O'Donnell is in the process of collecting essays on and assessments of the work of Jerome Charyn for a special joint issue of the _Review of Contemporary Fiction_, to be published in 1992. 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Hypertext systems are being designed for information collections of diverse material in heterogeneous media, hence the alternate name, hypermedia. Hypertext is by nature multi-disciplinary, involving researchers in many fields, including computer science, cognitive science, rhetoric, and education, as well as many application domains. This conference will interest a broad spectrum of professionals in these fields ranging from theoreticians through behavioral researchers to systems researchers and applications developers. The conference will offer technical events in a variety of formats as well as guest speakers and opportunities for informal special interest groups. For More Information: Hypertext '91 Conference email: ht91@bush.tamu.edu John J. Leggett, General Chair Hypertext '91 Conference Hypertext Research Lab Department of Computer Science Texas A&M University College Station, TX 77843 USA Voice: 409 845-0298 Fax: 409 847-8578 email: leggett@bush.tamu.edu Janet H. 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Specific themes (tracks) include - Computer Privacy & Confidentiality - Computer Security & Crime - Ownership of Software & Intellectual Property - Equity & Access to Computing Resources - Teaching Computing & Values - Policy Issues in the Campus Computing Environment The workshop structure of the conference limits participation to approximately 400 registrants, but space *IS* still available at this time (mid-May). Confirmed speakers include Ronald E. Anderson, Daniel Appleman, John Perry Barlow, Tora Bikson, Della Bonnette, Leslie Burkholder, Terrell Ward Bynum, David Carey, Jacques N. Catudal, Gary Chapman, Marvin Croy, Charles E. M. Dunlop, Batya Friedman, Donald Gotterbarn, Barbara Heinisch, Deborah Johnson, Mitch Kapor, John Ladd, Marianne LaFrance, Ann-Marie Lancaster, Doris Lidtke, Walter Maner, Diane Martin, Keith Miller, James H. Moor, William Hugh Murray, Peter Neumann, George Nicholson, Helen Nissenbaum, Judith Perolle, Amy Rubin, Sanford Sherizen, John Snapper, Richard Stallman, T. C. Ting, Willis Ware, Terry Winograd, and Richard A. Wright. The registration fee is low ($175) and deeply discounted air fares are available into New Haven. To request a registration packet, please send your name, your email AND paper mail addresses to ... BITNet MANER@BGSUOPIE.BITNET InterNet maner@andy.bgsu.edu (129.1.1.2) or, by fax ... (419) 372-8061 or, by phone ... (419) 372-8719 (answering machine) (419) 372-2337 (secretary) or, by regular mail ... Professor Walter Maner Dept. of Computer Science Bowling Green State University Bowling Green, OH 43403 USA With best wishes, Terrell Ward Bynum and Walter Maner, Conference Co-chairs 17)-------------------------------------------------------------- WMST-L Electronic Forum for Women's Studies WMST-L, an electronic forum or Listserv discussion group for Women's Studies, has just been established. Its purpose is to facilitate discussion of Women's Studies issues, especially those concerned with research, teaching, and program administration, and to publicize relevant conferences, job announcements, calls for papers, publications, and the like. It is hoped that WMST-L will also serve as a central repository for course materials, curriculum proposals and projects, bibliographies, and other files related to Women's Studies. To subscribe to WMST-L, send the following command via e-mail or interactive message to LISTSERV@UMDD (Bitnet) or LISTSERV@UMDD.UMD.EDU (Internet): Subscribe WMST-L Your full name. For example: Subscribe WMST-L Jane Doe Subscribers will receive via e-mail all messages that are sent to WMST-L. Messages for distribution to subscribers (questions, replies, announcements, etc.) should be sent to WMST-L@UMDD (Bitnet) or WMST-L@UMDD.UMD.EDU (Internet). Please note: only messages for distribution should be sent to WMST-L; all commands (subscribe, signoff, review, etc.) should go to LISTSERV. If you have questions or would like more information about WMST-L, or if you have materials that you would be willing to put on file, please contact Joan Korenman, Women's Studies Program, U. of Maryland Baltimore County, Baltimore, MD 21228-5398 USA. Phone: (301)-455-2040. E-mail: KORENMAN@UMBC (Bitnet) or KORENMAN@UMBC2.UMBC.EDU (Internet). 18)-------------------------------------------------------------- C R A S H A mailing list is available for people to discuss art and technology in a postmodern context. It's named CRASH, after the JG Ballard novel. So far over 40 people have signed up. Topics have included: Survival Research Laboratories, WS Burroughs, semiotics, Tinguely, the Artificial Life workshop, Re/Search magazine, simulacra, "technology-not-for-its-own-sake," virtual realities, Duchamp, Chris Burden, Beth B's films, Baudelaire, etc. People are encouraged to sign up and discuss any aspect of postmodern culture they feel necessary. Subscription requests to: sg1q+crash-request@andrew.cmu.edu Submissions to: crash+@andrew.cmu.edu Mail is automatically forwarded to the rest of the list. CRASH moderator: Simon Gatrall sg1q+@andrew.cmu.edu -
Postface: Positions on Postmodernism
The Editors
Eyal: Last year we expected that the essays we would publish --a good number of them anyway--would be affected by the electronic medium, but that has not happened much. Several of the essays do gain something from being in this medium--Ulmer's or Moulthrop's. In print they would lose at the very least the chance to exemplify some of their argument. But we have not seen too many essays that think the way they do or mean what they mean because they are in electronic form. John: In an odd way, though, that observation is very much like one of the early and persistent misconceptions we ran into when we explained the journal to people: they always seemed to expect that, because it was a journal published, distributed and read on computers, it must be a journal _about_ computers--about its medium. We had a number of submissions, at the beginning, that had something to do with computers but nothing to do with postmodern culture. That was what forced us to stipulate that we wouldn't consider essays on computer hardware/software unless they raised "significant aesthetic or theoretical issues." Eyal: True, though I was thinking about the effects of the medium and not about subject matter. We've also not received that many essays that took risks--I wonder how much of our success we must attribute to what might finally be the conventionality of our first three issues. A conventional journal that looks radical: like a modernist from Yale. I think that we would have published more radical work (not necessarily more radical politically) if we had more of it to review. We did get some unconventional work, but from what we've seen I'd have to guess that most people out there are writing recognizable, assimilable essays. John: Well, I wouldn't say that our first three issues have been _thoroughly_ conventional, but I know what you mean. Still, the authors of some of the submissions we rejected might argue that, to the extent that our first three issues _are_ conventional in their content, it's because we rejected risk-taking essays. But what kinds of risks are you talking about? Eyal: The unforseen: a new way of making things work. It seems that the essays we have published share certain structures of thinking, ways of being essays, however innovative and interesting their subject matter. Of course if they were saying something in an entirely new way they would be hard to follow, maybe in the way that Howe's essay is hard to follow at times. But because so many of these works argue for new ways of doing things, for a radical redefinition of personal context (Fraiberg) or a new kind of writing (Acker, Ulmer), it is especially noticeable that they think in such familiar ways. You were saying before we started writing that, in a way, much of this thinking does not seem to have absorbed poststructuralism. In fact we've noted in both previous Postfaces that many works we've published tend to organize around familiar oppositions, specifically those of classical and popular culture, utopian and dystopian postmodernism, etc.. John: Well, wherever you go, there you are. We've been standing pretty far back from the first three issues; what we've said about them could be said about all theory and criticism, including the most innovative. If twenty years of poststructuralism haven't changed our basic patterns of thinking, one year of electronic publishing certainly isn't going to. But if we ask whether we've been unhappy with what we've published so far, the answer is clearly "no": we've both been very pleased with the way these issues have come together. The essays themselves have covered a wide range of subjects in a variety of styles, and working with the authors and reviewers has been a lot of fun. Eyal: For a long time--editing the second issue--I used to go to bed late. I remember in particular editing Howe's essay. Three of the four reviewers had made pretty much the same suggestions, but with variations. The work makes so much of its argument subtly, in its form and organization, in its juxtapositions and development, that it was hard to see just what taking some parts out of it would do to other parts, and to the whole; if I were to ask Howe to take out part A here, then part B there would make less sense; if I asked her to leave part A in but take C that came before it out, then A would mean something else and then B would change too. Then again, that might have been what the readers had wanted when they suggested the changes. If Howe were to cut off B altogether, then that would not be what the readers had asked for, but now A and C would not evolve into B and so might not be objectionable after all. My mind kept weaving and unravelling the essay as I read and reread it, late into the night. I got more and more excited as I was reading the essay; I felt cold but decided that this was because I'd had dinner so long before--this made sense at the time. I got a blanket and kept reading. When I slept my mind kept going round and round, repeating bits and pieces of the essay feverishly. I woke up shivering, with a high temperature: the doctor thought it was influenza, but it felt like the influence of the text. John: A sort of out-of-body editorial experience. I take back what I said before--one year of electronic publishing has at least disordered _our_ minds from time to time. It's also radically altered my perception of the passage of time: when I try to place something that happened last June--like the time I accidentally distributed the entire list of subscribers _to_ the entire list of subscribers...twice--it seems that about three years have passed since then. Some good things have happened in that time, whatever time it was: being called "honey" by Kathy Acker ("Honey, the movers are here, so make it short"), pushing the button to mail out full text of the first issue at 5 a.m. on the last day of the month (and immediately crashing mailboxes around the world), the experience we've had with self-nominated reviewers in the editorial process, the early support from the library here at NCSU, and especially the response of subscribers and contributors to the journal. The one thing I would like to see develop further is PMC-Talk, which could become more closely related to the journal and more constructive in its own right. There's been some good stuff posted there, but there's also a lot of polemic, which is bad conversation. I think the Fraiberg-Porush exchange in this issue is an example of a good conversation--one that doesn't necessarily discard or disguise strong opinions, but still manages to get somewhere. Eyal: An exciting aspect of the journal so far has been that many of the works we have published do hold good conversations, explicitly or implicitly. That's the flip side of assimilability--that essays which share certain suppositions or ways of thinking can engage each other. John: Right: for instance, both Katz and Moulthrop start by trying out the supposition that the world really might behave according to our computer dreams--nightmares in Katz's "To a Computer File Named Alison," daydreams for Moulthrop, who doubts whether the media is really going to revolutionize what we exchange in it. Then for Fraiberg, this isn't a dream of the future at all: it's our present. Cyborgs are what we already are. Eyal: Katz and Moulthrop are both interested in the way that information systems (Moulthrop) and rhetorical constructions (Katz) affect the social text and our psychological economy, respectively. Likewise several writers identify antagonistic kinds of postmodernism (a classical and a popular for Wheeler, a reflective and an unreflective for Mikics). Terms mingle without reducing the conversation to cocktail party banter-- like Matibag's interest in cannibalism and Fraiberg's in exchange and the dissolution of borders. John: When Matibag talks about cannibalism in Caribbean literature, he's actually talking about the cannibalizing of cannibalism, or of the imagery of cannibalism--a situation in which the text consumes its context, not unlike what Maier describes in Bowles's "hybrid" (appropriated) texts. As in the last two issues, there are numerous unplanned connections among the essays in this one. These connections suggest either that we all say much the same thing--a fairly reductive conclusion, and one which overlooks the importance of the local context for all of these essays--or they suggest that, although our individual contexts may be very different, there are trade routes among them. -
BOOK REVIEW OF: Forked Tongues
M.E. Sokolik
Texas A&M University
<e305ms@tamvm1>Forked Tongues: Speech, Writing & Representation in North American Indian Texts, by David Murray. Indiana UP, 1991.
The Dictionary of Americanisms states that the phrase “forked tongue” is “used in imitation of Indian speech, to mean a lying tongue, a false tongue.” Thus, the choice of Forked Tongues as a title for this volume is particularly apt, as the author examines the Native American “voice” as it is represented and misrepresented in various texts.
Each chapter reads as a fairly autonomous essay, and treats a specific question. Chapter 1, “Translation,” briefly addresses some of the perceptions and problems with the task of translation. Also illustrated are the ideologies inherent in the various attitudes towards translation, within their historical settings. The author argues that the power relationships that existed at different points in time between white and Native are borne out in these changing attitudes toward translation. Picking up this thread of reasoning, Chapter 2, “Language,” examines several discussions of Native American language, in particular the nineteenth century beliefs about “primitive” languages.
The third chapter, “Indian Speech and Speeches,” shows how the beliefs of various times influenced the representation of Native American speeches. Foremost is the concept of the “Noble Savage,” and the popularity of “surrender and protest speeches” by Native Americans. For example, Murray points out that in Robert Rogers’ Ponteach: or The Savages of America (1766), when Pontiac is “confronted by swindling whites, he asserts his independence and nobility in iambic pentameters” (37).
The next chapter, “Christian Indians: Samson Occom and William Apes,” discusses primarily the letters of these two men, and their relationships with their white benefactors, as well as their Native and white audiences. Murray here resumes a piece of his earlier argument regarding power relationships between Natives and whites. Rather than seeing these Native-authored letters as more “authentic” expressions of the individual voice, he points out that anything published at the time (or even now?) was “likely to reflect the tastes of a white audience, and conform to a large extent to what at least some of them thought . . . was appropriate for an Indian to write” (57).
The fifth chapter, “Autobiography and Authorship: Identity and Unity,” points out that most early autobiographies written by natives were typically collaborations, rather than a solo work of self-expression. This collaboration involved the subject, the editor or anthropologist, and often another Native American acting as translator. The result then, he argues, is a multi-voiced product. Although the anthropologist typically has tried to play down his or her own role in the transmission of the text, it is here that we are faced with the eternal paradox of objectivity in reporting. He also examines several more modern autobiographies, and how they fit into various social and political “movements,” for example, the reprinting of Black Elk Speaks in the 1960s, in response to “the growing counter-cultural predilection for the irrational, supernatural and primitive [which] led to an increasing interest in, and idealisation of, Indian culture. Black Elk Speaks seemed to offer ecological awareness, mind- expanding visions and an indictment of white American civilisation. . . .” (72).
The next chapter, “Grizzly Woman and her Interpreters,” looks at the representation of myth within ethnography by focusing on the myth of Grizzly Woman. Murray here examines the various analyses done by Boas, Levi-Strauss, Hymes, and so forth, and how they fit into a “model of cultural and interpretive totality, and of rhetorical strategies in the making of ethnographic texts” (4). In this chapter as well, the author looks at, from various points of view, the methodologies of collecting and reporting field data and how they were shaped by ideology. On the one hand is Melville Jacobs’ criticism of his mentor, Boas. Jacobs felt that because Boas did not pursue theory, he had failed to collect “many necessary things” from the field, due to a “lack of concern with devising fresh scientific procedures. . . .” (110). On the other hand, we have James Clifford presenting Levi-Strauss’ impulse with collecting and translating as “a way of rediscovering a lost totality” (123).
Finally, in “Dialogues and Dialogics,” the author examines the potential utility of dialogical anthropology to unify the various threads of the book, in particular the interplay between language and power. An interesting aspect of this final chapter is Murray’s discussion of the writings of Castaneda. He questions the fact that Castaneda is rarely cited in academic discussions of dialogic texts, and answers his own question by saying
One obvious answer is that, for all the talk of fiction, there is throughout postmodern anthropology an implicit assumption that fiction only operates WITHIN a text already authorised as ethnography and therefore as non-fiction, and that there are professional and unstated parameters of behaviour, which Castaneda has violated. (155)
Overall, this book presents a challenge to the reader. It is extremely interdisciplinary, and only those with a sophisticated knowledge of anthropology from Boas to Bakhtin, linguistics, and post-modern literary theory will be able to fully appreciate the various arguments presented herein. Nonetheless, for the reader interested in Native American texts, and how these texts fit into a complex patchwork of changing historical ideologies, it is an important contribution.
Reading this book brought to mind the character of Dr. Munday, the anthropologist in Paul Theroux’s Black House. Unknowingly reflecting many of the themes of Forked Tongues, Theroux says of Munday, “. . . He had his biases. He would risk what errors of judgment were unavoidable in such circumstances and write as a man who had lived closely with an alien people; his responses would be as important as the behavior that caused those responses. He had entered the culture and assisted in practices whose value he saw only as an active participant; witchcraft and sorcery had almost brought him to belief in those early years because he had been more than a witness. . . .” Then, Munday, considering his role as the ethnographer emeritus, muses,
Anthropology the most literate of the sciences, whose nearest affinity was the greatest fiction, had degenerated to impersonal litanies of clumsy coinages and phrases of superficial complexity, people of flesh and bone to cases or subjects with personalities remaining as obscure as their difficult names, like the long Latin one given the pretty butterfly. He did not use those words.
As a postscript, I must wonder why the author (and indeed, the editor and press) chose to use the word “Indian” as the terminology of choice for the Native American. This choice is particularly curious given the quotation from William Apes, found on page 58 of Murray’s book, who wonders the same thing about the use of this term in 1831:
I have often been led to inquire where the whites received this word, which they so often threw as an opprobrious epithet at the sons of the forest. I could not find it in the bible, and therefore concluded, that it was a word imported for the special purpose of degrading us. At other times I thought it was derived from the term in-gen-uity. But the proper term which ought to be applied to our nation to distinguish it from the rest of the human family is that of 'Natives'--and I humbly conceive that the natives of this country are the only people under heaven who have a just title to the name, inasmuch as we are the only people who retain the original complexion of our father Adam.
Nowhere in the text is the choice of “Indian” explained or defended. In a volume that so carefully examines the issue of Native American “voice” it is a bit of a shame that the author didn’t listen more carefully to this still timely plea from Apes.
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A Critique of the Post-Althusserian Conception of Ideology in Latin American Cultural Studies
Greg Dawes
North Carolina State University
<gadfll@ncsuvm.bitnet>Literature and Politics in the Central American Revolutions, by John Beverley and Marc Zimmerman (Austin: U of Texas P, 1990).
One of the major contributions to literary studies in recent years has been the recognition that political consciousness is invariably fused with aesthetic practice. In light of literary approaches prior to Fredric Jameson’s The Political Unconscious (1981), which tended to isolate and fetishize the text, such a development in cultural studies can only be seen as salutary. Nonetheless, this re-evaluation of the relation between the political and aesthetic spheres has tended to gravitate towards an interpretation of this dialectic as unconscious. This comes in response, perhaps, to mechanistic formulations of the conjunction of politics and art, but primarily to Georg Lukacs’ reflection theory. Althusserianism and post-Althusserianism (or post-marxism) are certainly among the most significant proponents of unearthing unconscious impulses in cultural investigations. While Althusser’s work has largely remained intact–and in fact could be seen exercizing a hegemonic role within Marxism–in spite of the criticism directed at it, in many ways it has been unable to overcome such structuralist contradictions as the division created between science and ideology.1 Latin American cultural studies has felt the impact of Althusserianism at least since Marta Harnecker published her monumental study Los conceptos elementales del materialismo historico [The Elementary Concepts of Historical Materialism] in 1969; and Marc Zimmerman and John Beverley’s latest book, Literature and Politics in the Central American Revolutions, comes out of this Althusserian tradition as well as the post-Althusserian and post-Marxist thinking of Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe. As I will argue below, many of the old problems that plagued Althusser’s concept of ideology continue to afflict a work like Zimmerman and Beverley’s, not only on a theoretical plane, but also in the practical analyses of historico-political events. While we gain many insights into cultural phenomena through such an approach, ultimately a gap is created between the theory, on the one hand, and actual historical events, on the other.
In their study, Zimmerman and Beverley make an upfront, forceful, and compelling argument in favor of an Althusserian ideological analysis which propels their study forward and is aided by the adoption of Gramsci’s concept of the ‘National Popular.’ This theory provides the authors with a foundation for elucidating a discussion on aesthetic commitment in the Central American context and for furnishing a reply as to why literature carries so much weight in Latin America. Briefly stated, poetry, for both Zimmerman and Beverley, accrues a significant and unique value in the Central American region because it can function as a symbolic arena which gathers together–from the optic of Althusserianism–an assortment of feelings, images, and myths.2 Poetry thus serves as a catalyst in forming national identity in revolutionary circumstances in Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua–all of which combine nationalism and socialism in their ideology.
Leaving aside the theoretical aspects for the time being, as a historical tract on literary and revolutionary vanguards in Central America, Literature and Politics succeeds in providing the reader with detailed accounts of the intersection of Roque Dalton’s revolutionary commitment and his poetry, the fusion of liberation theology with the Nicarguan revolution, and the role of the testimonio as a transitional, narrational mode. Beverley, of course, has been one of the most astute analysts of the testimonio; and this latest version (Chapter 7) is an expansion of the work he has done in the past.3
It is to both Zimmerman and Beverley’s credit that in this most recent analysis, the testimonio (documentary or testimonial literature) is defined as a “transitional literary form” which, as the authors put it, “does not seem particularly well adapted to be the primary narrative form of an elaborated postrevolutionary society, perhaps because its dynamics depend precisely on the conditions of social and cultural inequality and direct oppression that fuel the revolutionary impulse in the first place” (207). While Central American testimonial literature emerges from conscious revolutionary activity, it is completely enmeshed in this praxis. Hence, as Lukacs’ argues in his analysis of Willi Bredel’s novels, while this working class narrative production should be lauded as a great step forward, it strikes me that the testimonio can potentially–as in the case of Bredel’s work–lead to a less complex development of the revolutionary situation.4) This is what makes testimonial literature a transitional narrative form. It would be worth exploring the depth of Domitila’s “autobiography” with the less complete–yet still highly important–Fire from the Mountain by Omar Cabezas. In contrast to George Yudice’s view of the testimonial as a struggle for survival,5 there is, then, as Beverley and Zimmerman seem to suggest, a problem with testimonials which respond to urgent or spontaneous political matters without having analyzed socio-political matters thoroughly, because they sacrifice to much in their representation of reality.
Another chapter which is unique to Literature and Politics–in the material it deals with–is Zimmmerman and Beverley’s interpretation of cultural practices during the Nicaraguan revolution. To a great extent, our versions of the aesthetic and political events that took place, from as early as 1985 to the election, corroborate each other. However, since the book was published shortly after the February debacle, it appears that the authors did not have time to evaluate the political and aesthetic effects that the collapse of the Ministry of Culture and the rise of Rosario Murillo and the professionalists could have on cultural production. In their study there is–understandably–a hesitancy to critique the model which they have seen as exemplary of a type of resistance to postmodernism in this hemisphere. I would contend that this apparent weakness is due to the theoretical framework itself, to which I would like to turn now.
One of the main weaknesses in Althusserian theory is the concept of ideology itself. As long as ideology in general is specified in terms which have no reference to or place for the struggle between labor and capital, then it will only be, what Adolfo Sanchez Vazquez has called “theoretical ideology” and will cease to operate dialectically with material reality. Ideology will always appear as secondary; superimposed in fundamental, timeless struggles between sexes and generations, or strictly divorced from actual, material struggles. Althusser, as Terry Lovell has perceptively noted:
produces . . . a theory of knowledge which eliminates experience altogether from the practice of knowledge construction, relegating it to the inferior realm of ideology. Experience becomes the product of ideological practice, rather than of social reality. It cannot therefore provide any guide to social reality.6
What we observe in Althusser, then, is a break with the Lukacsian notion of “reflection” in favor of the production of “ideological effects” within a given text. In the process, the French thinker could be seen as resorting to formalist methods because the very material forces that generate such “ideological effects” are put aside. Following Althusser’s mapping of ideology, history itself interacts mechanically and not dialectically with it (ideology) because the latter is ostensibly “pre-scientific”. When this gap between ideology and history takes place, then the Althusserian model relinquishes its materialist grounding in exchange for an “autonomous,” free-floating ideological apparatus that is, according to Althusser, “ahistorical” and related directly to Freud’s notion that the “unconscious is eternal.”7
The danger inherent in this departure from dialectical materialism is borne out in subsequent analyses of a historical, political, economic and aesthetic nature. Following Althusser, Beverley and Zimmerman in their work allege that ideologies have
multiple power functions (of distinction, domination, subordination) that are not reducible to or intelligible in terms of class or group interests alone, although they are the sites in which class or group struggle occurs. Similarly, they are not always circumscribed by modes of production or concrete social formations; they can cut across modes of production and social formations, as in the case of religious ideologies. In particular, ideologies are not reducible to politics or political programs or isms, because their nature is unconscious rather than explicit; their effect is to produce in the subject a sense of things as natural, self-evident, a matter of common sense. (2)
In keeping with Althusserianism, this notion of ideology is rooted in the unconscious, that is, specifically in the “mirror stage” of development as elaborated by Jacques Lacan.8 Althusser draws upon this Lacanian study in order to formulate his theory of ideology, which returns to this stage when the individual cannot distinguish him or herself from the social. This domain, then, is located outside of rational apprehension. Lacan writes that it:
situates the agency of the ego, before its social determination, in a fictional direction, which will always remain irreducible for the individual alone, or rather, which will only rejoin the coming-into-being (le devenir) of the subject asymptomatically. (2)
It is this “method of symbolic reduction” that will serve as the basis for Althusser’s theory of ideologies. The problem with such a philosophical position is that it is not anchored in actual, real-life processes, but rather, is a theoretical model constructed–so to speak–“above” this material life. Consequently, in this method of analyzing ideological forces one loses all grasp of the conflictive nature of ideology (and, hence, of material life) because, following Althusser, ideology is somehow beyond such a realm since it is actually in the isolated “mirror stage.”
One of the main difficulties with the internal logic of Zimmerman and Beverley’s post-Althusserianism is that the symbolic and the political are almost seen as two separate entities. By alleging that literature in the Latin American context–it is different, they maintain, in so-called First World countries–is the symbolic site where ideological production and revolutionary consciousness take place, Beverley and Zimmerman endeavor to make the link between the ideological and the political more visible. Real historical events must somehow find a place in Althusserian ideological criticism or–as both Beverley and Zimmerman surely would admit–the approach will lose its sense of grounding. While this connection is made at certain moments in Literature and Politics, seen as a whole, their work fails to convincingly break with this dualism. An immediate case in point is apparent in the beginning of the first chapter when they declare that:
The "work" of ideology consists in constituting (Althusser: interpellating) human subjects as such, with coherent gender, ethnic, class, or national identities appropriate to their place in a given social order or, in the case of counterhegemonic ideologies, their place in a possible social order. Ideologies provide human beings with a structure of experience that enables them to recognize themselves in the world, to see the world as in some way created *for* them, to feel they have a place and identity in it. (2)
In this post-Marxist definition of ideology–in contrast to Marx’s rendering of it as inversion–it acts as a social catalyst which allows one to grasp one’s life in the social order in a more reasonable way. But at the same time, ideology seems to operate independently of human beings: Beverley and Zimmerman state that ideology enables human beings “to see the world as in some way created for them.” This gulf between human beings and the production of ideology is also clear when the authors argue against the Marxist notion of “false consciousness”:
The traditional problematic of ideology in the social sciences, founded in both its positivist and Marxist variants on the epistemological question of distinguishing "true" from "false" forms of consciousness, had been displaced in contemporary cultural studies by the recognition suggested in psychoanalytic theory that truth for the subject is something distinct from the truth of the subject, given that it entails an act of identification between the self and something external to it. (4)
But why focus only on the distinction between the self and what is external to it? Why not concentrate on the dialectic between subject and history? Furthermore, why should we believe that what rules in aesthetic experience is this marginalized, individual jouissance in contrast to “external reality”? Doesn’t this theory capitulate to the same limitations as Freudian psychoanalysis in its privileging of subjective sensations over reality?9 For these authors, it would seem, ideology is asked to bridge the gap between the individual and the society because the integration of the two does not come about in their analysis.
In order to overcome the division that they have created between ideology and politics, Beverley and Zimmerman then turn to an Althusserian solution to this dilemma, “We rejoin here the point that revolutionary political consciousness does not derive directly or spontaneously from exploitative economic relations, that it must be in some sense produced” (8). Thus, as I suggested above, literature serves as that desperately needed link between ideology and politics that aids in the “development of subject identity.” In essence, then, literature (and specifically poetry in this study) is a semi-autonomous territory for the production of political consciousness in Central America, but it is somehow divorced from the actual social relations of production themselves. According to this logic, it is the production of a certain type of literature–“political” poetry, for instance–which enables subjects to reflect upon “private experiences of authenticity and alienation to the awareness of collective situations of social exploitation, injustice, and national underdevelopment” (9). But the weakness in a such an argument–in addition to the separation set up between individual and social experience–resides more fundamentally on the privileging of the unconscious in aesthetics. For if we agree that the motor force of ideology is the unconscious, then what power do revolutionaries have to change it, much less interpret it? If there are no conscious, scientific methods to follow, then how do we prove that this or that thesis is actually valid?
All this theoretical footwork pushes Beverley and Zimmerman’s study into a corner on more than one occasion. One such moment is in their analysis of literary production in revolutionary Nicaragua. Before turning to this section, I would note that another problem with this discussion of Central American literature and revolutions is that Beverley and Zimmerman fervently adhere to postmodernist interpretations of the “unfixity” of social class (i.e.–pluralism) and of Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe’s notion of “radical democracy.” The idealism exhibited in the writings of both Althusser and Laclau and Mouffe will come back to haunt Literature and Politics when the analysis extends beyond the theoretical to the practical realm. For example, in their study of Nicaraguan poetry during the revolutionary period, Beverley and Zimmerman give a very accurate account of the aesthetic and political debate that ensued after 1985, yet the authors overlook the fact that the deficiency in the Nicaraguan political, economic and cultural system was the vulnerability of pluralism. Thus, they assess the situation as follows:
Though the debate had repercussions inside the Frente, the Sandinista leadership was reluctant to take a firm stand one way or another on cultural policy, for fear of making the mistake of the Cubans in the late 1960s of favoring one cultural "line" over others. But this commendable commitment to pluralism also meant that cultural policy was made ad hoc, without any real budgetary priorities or control. (103)
Since their post-Althusserian approach automatically excludes a more organic and materialist understanding of the consequences of the economic and political situation–because ideology is supposed to be relatively independent from these spheres–Beverley and Zimmerman do not interpret this aesthetic crisis on a more global scale as the crisis of this type of “third path” to socialism. Since representation, for Althusser, does not transcend the aesthetic realm, they fail to acknowledge that the crisis in aesthetic agency is also a crisis in economic and political agency, i.e.–they fail to note that pluralist economic, political and aesthetic institutions are affected by their internal limitations and by the overwhelming force of capital.
This weakness in their analysis is due, in large part, to the fact that they do not truly take a critical distance with respect to this “third path.” Their own study advocates an aesthetic and political pluralism which doesn’t effectively distinguish itself from liberal pluralism. Even late in Chapter 4, Beverley and Zimmerman continue to hold this position vis-a-vis political and artistic representation, “We are far from thinking that cultural forms have an essential class location or connotation, as our discussion in the previous chapter of the ideological mutations of vanguardism suggests” (110). Here the fateful error of post-Althusserianism or post-Marxism is fleshed out. When aesthetic agencies are separated from the social relations of production, then history itself will have a way of turning any such idealist study on its head. In the postscript to this chapter, Beverley and Zimmerman run into precisely this dilemma:
[T]he perspective we adopted in our presentation of this chapter--that the revolutionary process was irreversible, despite problems and setbacks--clearly has been problematized. It may be that the revolution will go forward; on the other hand, we may well be witnessing the first stage of a more long-lasting restoration. We had hypothesized in chapters 1 and 2 that one of the key roles of literature in the revolutionary process in Central America generally was to constitute a discursive space in which the possibilities of alliance between popular sectors and a basically middle- and upper-class revolutionary vanguard could be pragmatically negotiated around a shared sense of the national-popular. (111)
Here their populist or postmodernist theory meets the limits of its interpretative abilities because history itself has proven that this multi-class alliance, the concept of the nationalism, and the experimental nature of a mixed economic system were not able to sustain themselves. As Carlos Vilas has demonstrated, it was the Sandinista’s transformation from a vanguard predominantly supported by the working class and the campesinos to a party which catered to the interests of entrepreneurs in the last years of the revolution, which lost the elections of 1990.10 Similarly, in the cultural realm, the Frente abandoned its cultural democratization project not only because of financial problems, but also because there was a shift in ideological positions within party cadres themselves who now suggested that culture follow more professional guidelines. As a result, the professionalists–or, those who favored professionally-developed artists–clashed with those who defended the democratization program. Thus, the content of this debate boiled down to differences in political, economic, and aesthetic form–a regular “revolution with the revolution” to paraphrase Regis Debray–among the revolutionary forces.
Given this historical context in Nicaragua, the question we must then ask, to my mind, is: If it is appropriate to cite the Nicaraguan revolutionary experience as postmodernism lived out in the flesh, so to speak, and if it did not survive a historical testing, then what other socialist alternatives do we have in Latin America? What type of revolutionary politics and theory would steer us away from the errors of “real socialism” (i.e.–the Eastern Bloc countries and the Soviet Union) and the faults of the so-called “third path”? In searching for answers, it is interesting to turn to a classical revolutionary pamphlet that was written eighty-nine years ago, but which sounds so very contemporary when read in these years of postmodernism: I am referring to Lenin’s What is to be Done?. In what follows I would like to limit my remarks to the general milieu in 1902 and to Lenin’s elaboration of the role of the vanguard.
From the very beginning when Lenin addresses the incipient “dogmatism and ‘freedom of criticism’” of the Economists to his manual for the organization of revolutionaries, the political climate sketched out in What is to be Done? cannot help but sound very familiar to our contemporary period. Lenin’s attack on Bernsteinism begins with a series of cardinal points that seem to represent the revisionism of the day:
Denied is the possibility of putting socialism on a scientific basis and of demonstrating its necessity and inevitability from the point of view of the materialist conception of history. Denied is the fact of growing impoverishment, of proletarianization and of the sharpening of capitalist contradictions. The very concept of 'the ultimate aim' has been declared unsound, and the idea of the dictatorship of the proletariat unconditionally rejected. Denied is the antithesis in principle between liberalism and socialism. Denied is the theory of the class struggle, on the grounds of its alleged inapplicability to a strictly democratic society governed according to the will of the majority, etc..11
I cite this passage because it encapsulates the main strains of political thought at the beginning of the twentieth century and is representative of the types of leftism that Lenin attempted to refute in What is to be Done?. This fragment also is important because it is indicative of the type of postmodernist “radical democracy” that we find in the works of Laclau and Mouffe. This is not the place to do a more exhaustive analysis of their work, let it suffice for now to quote a segment from Hegemony and Socialist Strategyin order to establish the correlation between the economism of Lenin’s day and the economism of our times:
It is no longer possible to maintain the conception of subjectivity and classes elaborated by Marxism, nor its vision of the historical course of capitalist development, nor, of course, the conception of communism as a transparent society from which antagonisms have disappeared.12
In place of this Marxist analysis and prognosis we are expected to struggle for “radical, libertarian and plural democracy” which, Mouffe and Laclau inform us, will consist of the dispersed identity of social agents and the ensemble of social movements. However, we might reflect on whether it is even possible to carry out this project at this historical moment. In examining the Nicaraguan revolutionary experience elsewhere and briefly in this paper, I have noted how this pluralist political and economic agenda doesn’t present a viable, historically- tested alternative.13 Similarly, Richard Stahler-Sholk has persuasively argued that the Nicaraguan case “reveals that the Sandinista model of a mixed economy (presupposing at least simple reproduction of the capitalist, small producer, and state sectors) with multiclass ‘national unity’ created a series of demands that were increasingly difficult to reconcile with defense priorities and longer-term goals for socioeconomic transformation.”14
If this form of political (and aesthetic) representation has failed, what other means are open to us? In short, a consciously organized self-representation. At certain moments in the Nicaraguan revolution workers’ and peasants’ control over the actual means of production and the aesthetic “means of production” became a viable option. However, as I commented above, for both external and internal reasons, the FSLN did not follow through with these political and economic steps. As a thorough reading of What is to be Done? adduces to it is not the spontaneous terrain of libertarianism, found in the works of Mouffe and Laclau, that is able to survive historically, but rather some new formulation of the notion of a politically- conscious vanguard which is both of and for the working class. This path is new at least in practice. Until the “Cultural Revolution,” perhaps the Chinese revolution carried out this political, economic and aesthetic alternative most effectively and Cuba, in varying degrees, has also been successful in instituting political and economic democracy.
What is certain is that this revolutionary direction can overcome the dualism exhibited in the writings of post-Althusserianism between ideology and political practice. Rather than driving a wedge between ideology and politics and anchoring both in the realm of the spontaneous (the unconscious), a Marxist reading of ideology suggests that there is always a dialectical relation between material life and ideology. To become conscious of this dialectic, according to Marx and Engles, is to supersede the distortions that accompany ideology.15 In Bolivia, Domitila is and has been keenly aware of the need for a conscious revolutionary proletariat and harbors no illusions about “radical democracy” or the “pluralism” of class and economic interests:
Soluciones momentaneas ya no nos interesan. Nosotros ya hemos tenido gobiernos de todo corte, "nacionalista", "revolucionario","cristiano", asi de toda etiqueta. Desde el 52, cuando el gobierno del MNR empezo a traicionar la revolucion por el pueblo . . . tantos gobiernos han pasado y ninguno ha llegado a colmar las aspiraciones del pueblo. Ninguno ha hecho lo que realmente quiere el pueblo. El gobierno actual, por ejemplo, no esta haciendo obras para nosotros, sino que los beneficiados son, en primer lugar, los extranjeros que continuan llevandose nuestras riquezas y despues los empresarios privados, las empresas estatales, los militares y no asi la clase obrera ni el campesino que seguimos cada dia mas pobres. Y eso va a continuar igual mientras estemos en el sistema capitalista. Yo veo, por todo lo que he vivido y leido, que nosotros nos identificamos con el socialismo. Porque solamente en un sistema socialista ha de haber mas justicia y todos aprovecharan de los beneficios que hoy dia estan en manos de unos pocos.16 [Momentary solutions no longer interest us. We have already had governments of every stripe, "nationalists", "revolutionaries", "Christian", every label imaginable. Since 1952, when the MNR [the National Revolutionary Movement] government began to betray the people's revolution . . . so many governments have gone and none has been able to fulfill the people's aspirations. None has done what the people really want done. The current government, for example, is not working for us, but rather the beneficiaries are, in the first place, the foreigners, who continue to take away our wealth; and in the second place, the private entrepreneurs, the state businesses, the military and not the worker nor the peasant: each day we get poorer. And this will continue as it is as long as we are in the capitalist system. I see, from all that I have experienced and read, that we identify with socialism. Because only in a socialist system is it possible for there to be justice and for the benefits to be enjoyed by all and not be in the hands of a few [individuals]."]
Notes
1. See Adolfo Sanchez Vazquez’s Ciencia y revolucion: El marxismo de Althusser (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1978).
2. Beverley articulated this theoretical stance in his seminal article, “Ideologia/deseo/literatura,” Revista de critica literaria latinoamericana (1er semestre 1988), 7-24.
3. See especially, “Anatomia del testimonio” Revista de critica literaria latinoamericana (1er semestre 1987), 7-16.
4. Georg Lukacs, Essays in Realism, Rodney Livingstone, ed. (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981), 23-32.
5. George Yudice, “Marginality and the Ethics of Survival,” in Andrew Ross ed., Universal Abandon? The Politics of Postmodernism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988).
6. Terry Lovell, “The Social Relations of Cultural Production: Absent Centre of a New Discourse,” in Simon Clarke, et. al., One-Dimensional Marxism: Althusser and the Politics of Culture (London and New York: Allison and Busby, 1980), 245. Hereafter cited in text. To verify Althusser’s position on this matter consult Lenin and Philosophy and other Essays (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1971), 170-71.
7. Louis Althusser, Lenin and Philosophy and other Essays (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1971), 160-61.
8. See Jacques Lacan, Ecrits: A Selection (New York: W.W. Norton, 1977), 1-7.
9. The question here is: How far does Beverley and Zimmerman’s Althusserian theory take us from the type of dualism that Volosinov describes so precisely in his critique of Freudianism?: Inner experience [for Freud], extracted by means of introspection, cannot in fact be directly linked with the data of objective, external apprehension. To maintain a thorough consistency only the one or the other point of view can be pursued. Freud has ultimately favored the consistent pursuit of the inner, subjective point of view; all external reality is for him, in the final analysis, merely the “reality principle,” a principle that he places on the same level with the “pleasure principle” [emphasis in the original]. V.N. Volosinov, Freudianism: A Marxist Critique (New York: Academic Press, 1976), 72.
10. Carlos Vilas, “What Went Wrong” NACLA (June 1990), 10-18.
11. V.I. Lenin, What is to be Done? (New York: Penguin Books, 1988), 75.
12. Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics (London: Verso, 1985), 4.
13. A succinct version of my argument was presented at the 1990 Modern Language Association meeting and was entitled, “Contemporary Nicaraguan Politics and Aesthetics: The Fate of Postmodernist Idealism.” I have just finished a more comprehensive development of this thesis in a manuscript I have prepared for publication, Aesthetics and Revolution: A Historical Materialist Analysis of Nicaraguan Poetry 1979-1990.
14. Richard Stahler-Sholk, “Stabilization, Destabilization, and the Popular Classes in Nicaragua, 1979-1988,” Latin American Research Review vol. xxv, number 3 (1990), 55-88.
15. Here the key text is, of course, The German Ideology. (New York: International Publishers, 1977).
16. Moema Viezzer, ‘Si me permiten hablar…’Testimonio de Domitila: Una mujer de las minas de Bolivia (Mexico: Siglo XXI, 1985).
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Jameson’s Postmodernism
Jim English
University of Pennsylvania
<jenglish@pennsas>Fredric Jameson, the key Marxist player in the “postmodernism debates” of the early and mid eighties, has now published an entire book on postmodern culture, titled after his classic 1984 article in New Left Review, “Postmodernism, Or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism.” The recycled title may keep some people away from this hefty and expensive volume, since it suggests one of those dressed-up collections of already widely collected essays– in this case rather suspiciously assembled for a Duke University Press series of which the author himself is co- editor.
But while it is true that six of the ten chapters here have been reprinted from elsewhere, only the first two (the NLR article and a contemporaneous “Politics of Theory” piece from New German Critique) will be familiar to most readers. Moreover, the arguments of both these earlier pieces have been massively supplemented. Jameson’s political analysis of contemporary theoretical discourse is here extended to address the paralyzing “nominalism” of both Theory (deconstruction) and anti-Theory (new historicism) in a substantial chapter that also includes, to my knowledge, his first extended statement on the de Man affair. And the shamelessly “totalizing” Marxist approach to contemporary culture that he deployed in his original “Postmodernism” essay is spiritedly defended over and against the dominant academic discourses of “groups and difference” in a sprawling but indispensable “Conclusion.” Given that these two chapters alone represent some two hundred pages of fresh material, it would clearly be a mistake to dismiss Postmodernism as just another collection of warmed-over articles by a Lit-biz superstar. Jameson’s purpose in this book is not so much to collect his past work on postmodernism as to frame the frequently “scandalized” and hostile reception of that work–particularly by postmarxists, postcolonialists, Foucauldians, and feminists–as itself a symptom of the “decadence” or degradation of critical discourse in the postmodern age.
Indeed, Jameson, whose distinctive role in the Debate is to take postmodernism as naming not merely an historical period but a “mode of production” (essentially unresisted capitalism–omnipresent, invisible, taken-for-granted capitalism), reads culture in general (including, especially, all manner of “theory”) as a terrain on which one may trace out the “symptomatology” of this supremely hegemonic stage of capitalism. For Jameson, any workable culture critique must retain something of the reflectionist logic of base and superstructure. Though his mode-of- production model is organized across multiple and heterogeneous levels or orders of abstraction, it ultimately aims at “explaining” postmodern cultural phenomena–the “new sentence,” the “new space,” the ascendancy of “pastiche,” and the other styles and themes he identifies–by reference to a grand diachronic narrative whose “agent” is “multinational capital itself.” Thus he can insist that his critics’ “resistance to globalizing or totalizing concepts like that of the mode of production” is itself “a function of . . . [the] universalization of capitalism.”
The interesting question to raise here, it seems to me, is not whether Jameson’s frankly totalizing methodology is inherently insensitive to cultural difference, or even whether such periodizing or totalizing abstractions have been somehow ruled out in advance by the fragmented and ahistorical character of the culture they mean to grasp. Rather, the question is to what extent Jameson’s brand of late-capitalist Marxism is itself a symptom of the mode of production whose symptomatology concerns him. Where is the diagnostician located in relation to the disease? Is this Postmodernism postmodern? If the imperative is to historicize, how can we historicize Jameson himself?
There are many ways to approach such a question. But since Jameson has “insisted on a characterization of postmodern thought . . . in terms of the expressive peculiarities of its language rather than as mutations in thinking or consciousness as such,” we might do well to consider Jameson’s style, the “aesthetics of [his own] theoretical discourse.” Certainly his sentences, always remarkable, have never called more attention to themselves than in the most newly minted contributions to this volume. Of the schizophrenic character of our discursive situation, Jameson writes:
A roomful of people, indeed, solicit us in incompatible directions that we entertain all at once: one subject position assuring us of the remarkable new global elegance of its daily life and forms; another one marveling at the spread of democracy, with all those new 'voices' sounding out of hitherto silent parts of the globe or inaudible class strata (just wait a while, they will be here, to join their voices to the rest); other more querulous and 'realistic' tongues reminding us of the incompetences of late capitalism, with its delirious paper-money constructions rising out of sight, its Debt, the rapidity of the flight of factories matched only by the opening of new junk-food chains, the sheer immiseration of structural homelessness, let alone unemployment, and that well- known thing called urban 'blight' or 'decay' which the media wraps brightly up in drug melodramas and violence porn when it judges the theme perilously close to being threadbare.
The trouble with the crowded room, says Jameson, is that “none of these voices can be said to contradict the others; not ‘discourses’ but only propositions do that.” Presumably his own voice wants to be the exception; one appeal of Jameson’s work is its willingness to make the strong argument, the contradictable proposition, which can then be seized upon for polemical purposes.
This determination to be more than mere “discourse” (or “commentary” as he will ultimately call it) is clearly enough signaled in the polemical framework–the initiation and the transitional logic–of the typical Jameson essay. But is the Jamesonian sentence really so different from the ostensibly symptomatic “new sentence” of, say, Bob Perelman? Jameson identifies this latter sentence with an aesthetic of “schizophrenic disjunction” made newly–and in some sense irresponsibly–available “for more joyous intensities” than seem proper to its morbid content, made available even “for . . . euphoria.”
There seems to be something like a connection between this characterization of LANGUAGE writing and the curious affect, which combines exhilaration and exhaustion, of Jameson’s own sentences. They are often brilliant sentences, but also “impossible” in the sense that the two-hundred-word aphorism is impossible. A kind of pragmatism of language, and a refusal of any posture of poeticism or transcendence, coexist improbably with the bravura and self-involvement of Jameson’s idiolect. Polemic is put into virtual abeyance by the tendency to stray across various and incompatible discursive fields, “picking up” bits of language here and there, celebrating the syntactic detour. And yet polemic, or perhaps (as one begins to suspect) some convincing simulation of polemic, always reappears at the next rest stop, only to be lost once again in the joyous (or is it tiresome?) intensity, the weirdly inappropriate euphoria, of another Jamesonian sentence.
Jameson’s style suggests two possible conclusions about “his” postmodernism. On the one hand, the tendency of his own sentences to dissolve the distinction between a language capable of genuinely critical propositions and the mere “commentary” generated by a schizophrenic culture (a distinction which looks not only like that between purposive “parody” and ungrounded “pastiche,” but, even more dubiously, like that maintained by the speech act theorists between “authentic” and “parasitical” utterances) may signal an irremediable problem in Jameson’s framing of the whole polemic–which would turn out, in that case, to be merely a mock-polemic anyway. On the other hand, the fact that the diagnostician too is infected, that the doctor cannot heal himself, suggests that for all the traditionalism and even perhaps nostalgia of the author’s global perspective, this book marks something more interesting than the persistence of a certain modernity, something less familiar than a belated pre-postmarxist Marxism. To read Postmodernism as a symptom of its own ostensive object of study is to confront in a new, complex, and sometimes exhilarating form the problematic of “symptomatology” itself, which, like so many seeming vestiges of the modern, was consigned to the dustbin of the “no longer available” but has stubbornly refused its oblivion.
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BOOK REVIEW OF: The Many Lives Of The Batman
John Anderson
Northwestern University
<jca@casbah.acns.nwu.edu>The Many Lives of the Batman: Critical Approaches to a Superhero and his Media. Edited by Roberta E. Pearson and William Uricchio. New York: Routledge, 1991. 213 pp.
The essays in this collection offer different kinds of assistance to a reader trying to interpret the multiple versions of Batman and the recent (now receding) flurry of Bat-hype. The essays chart the movement of competing “Batmen,” and attempt to give an account of the intertextual and extratextual dimensions of this network of alternatives. Some of the essays have an anthropological focus, as they investigate the behavior of the communities that produce and consume images of Batman. Others focus on the meanings of these images, although the interpretations of specific artifacts never lose sight of the multiple and interconnected nature of the various Bat-phenomena. It is in their accounts of this multiplicity and interconnection that the essays make their most suggestive contributions to the practice of cultural studies.
The best of these essays are extremely sophisticated in their adaptation of critical methodologies to the new multiple and changeable forms of the Batman narrative. The essays by Jim Collins and Eileen Meehan are most striking in this regard, combining detailed information about the phenomena with penetrating analyses of the narrative (Collins) or economic (Meehan) processes at work in contemporary representations of Batmen. The article by Uricchio and Pearson, on the other hand, serves as a kind of introduction to critical issues for contemporary Bat-scholarship by examining the serial nature of the Batman character, and calling attention to the tension between multiplicity and coherence in the production of popular culture. The three articles that deal directly with audience responses–Parsons, Bacon-Smith and Yarborough, Spigel and Jenkins–demonstrate specific models for cultural studies that are interactive, and do not write over the meanings produced by the audiences. However, of the contributions to this collection, Andy Medhurst’s essay is perhaps the most controversial and critical, as it addresses and explores issues of camp and sexuality in ways that challenge “official” interpretations of Batman. Medhurst’s framing of the competing bat-discourses as the struggle to establish “legitimacy” or “deviancy” sharpens and specifies the issues at stake in preferring one version of Batman over another, and suggests that homophobic resistance may account for the insistence, made by both artists and fans, on particular definitions of the Batman character’s masculinity.
The essays that are less self-reflective about their own practices are nonetheless useful in helping familiarize a critical reader with the kinds of information necessary for a study of Batman. For example, Bill Boichel’s brief history of the Batman’s manifestations in comics, film and television provides the pertinent names, dates, and titles to readers unfamiliar with the comics industry. But despite the promise of its title (“Batman: Commodity as Myth”), Boichel’s article fails to do more than describe the changes in the character of Batman since its first appearance. The collection also contains two interviews, one with DC editor Denny O’Neil, and one with writer/artist Frank Miller. These are informative, and give one the sense of being privy to inside information, but they do not exhaustively probe the issues they raise. However, for readers not familiar with the formation of the Batman canon, the articles set up the collection’s more detailed analyses by introducing the history of conflicting interpretations through the personalized “voices” of comics expert (Boichel), professional arbiter and editor (O’Neil), and artist (Miller). Thus, these three essays serve in part to highlight the movement in the other essays away from explanations based on authorial intention, and towards models that examine the effects of larger communities–audiences, populations of fans, and corporations–in the construction of meaning.
One consistent trend in the collection is the rejection of a passive model of cultural consumption. In the words of Patrick Parsons (“Batman and his Audience: The Dialectic of Culture”), study of the audiences for superhero comics reveals that “Contrary to the assumptions of some in both the popular and scholarly community, the impact of readers on content may be greater than the impact of content on readers” (67). Readers and viewers build their own “Batman” out of their personal experience with the character, resulting in differing but equally active interpreters who use Batman in different ways. For example, Parsons charts the multiple American audiences for superheroes, and examines historical development of a specialized and sophisticated readership for the growing field of underground comix, independent comics, and graphic novels. Different audiences practice different interpretations and manipulations of the signs bearing the label “Batman.” Parsons goes on to examine the direct influence of fans on the production of comics. Spigel and Jenkins, on the other hand, examine the significance of the Batman character to less-specialized audiences (“Same Bat Channel, Different Bat Times: Mass Culture and Popular Memory”). Based on interviews with a number of people about their memories of the Batman television show (1966), the article demonstrates the ways in which people “use and reuse media in their daily lives” (144). The personal and transformative nature of popular memory thus suggests to Spigel and Jenkins that a more dialogic relationship between the oral historian and his or her subjects will reflect a better understanding of the processes of memory and narration that people use to make sense of cultural artifacts.
Camille Bacon-Smith and Tyrone Yarborough (“Batman: the Ethnography”) also acknowledge the active role of audiences in constructing meanings. By questioning different audiences for Tim Burton’s film Batman (1989) in their “native habitats”–movie theaters, comic book shops, a fan club, and a comics convention–the writers set out to learn from Batman audiences rather than simply analyze or characterize them. The encounter between researcher and researched is posed as an encounter between different but equally valid discourses of interpretation. Thus, while able to account for the significant influence of newspaper reviews, advertising, and marketing strategies in shaping audience approval or disapproval, the writers avoid a model of popular culture that imagines consumers to be a homogeneous or unreflective mass. On the contrary, the article demonstrates that a large scale cultural phenomenon like the release of Batman becomes the occasion for active, dialogic exchange among audience members. Meaning-making is shown as a variable process that takes place at a proliferation of specific sites, not a homogeneous activity performed by a uniform audience.
Eileen Meehan (“‘Holy Commodity Fetish, Batman!’: The Political Economy of a Commercial Intertext”) provides the most thorough and suggestive account of the way this multiplicity has been managed for profit, examining the function of “Batman” as not only name, but brand name as well. Through a detailed examination of WCI’s activities, Meehan shows how the different versions of the Batman produced by DC Comics and Warner Brothers, culminating in the release of the motion picture and the licensing of the bat logo, are all components of a marketing campaign designed to penetrate a range of different markets. The result is to ground the multiple versions of Batman, and their enjoyment by a large and diverse population of consumers, in the fact that “text, intertext, and audiences are simultaneously commodity, product line, and consumer.” The “contradictions” among the various reproductions of Batman are completely in synch with the promotion of the movie and its attendant products: The commercial intertext that results from this combination of advertising and licensing intermixes old themes with new, camp motifs with grim visages, cartooning with live action, thus generating a rich and often contradictory set of understandings and visions, about justice and corruption in America. And it does this because of manufacturers’ perceptions about acceptable risk, potential profit, and targeted consumers. (58-59) For Meehan as for the other writers, audiences are by no means a passive, homogeneous mass. The point of her economic analysis is not, as she puts it, that “evil moguls force us to buy Bat-chains” (48). Nonetheless, her article concentrates on revealing the constraints imposed on popular culture by corporate decisions because, in the everyday experience of popular media, “this complex structure is generally invisible to us” (61). Within the context of this collection, Meehan’s essay performs the valuable function of reintroducing more directly economic concerns into the discussion, illustrating how the current multiplicity of Bat-representations can coexist quite comfortably with immense and diversified corporations capable of orchestrating the release and promotion of objects in a number of different media, for a number of different markets.
Jim Collins (“Batman: The Movie, Narrative: The Hyperconscious”) also highlights the referentiality and intertextuality of the contemporary additions to the Bat- canon, but focuses on the interplay of specific artistic techniques rather than corporate economic strategy. If Meehan emphasizes the corporate imperatives motivating WCI’s diverse marketing strategy, Collins identifies an aesthetic imperative in the diversity found in the imagery and language of individual texts: Texts like Batman: The Movie, The Dark Knight Returns, and Watchmen which feature narration by amalgamation suggest the emergence of a new type of narrative which is neither a master narrative that might function as a national myth for entire cultures, nor a micro-narrative that targets a specific subculture or sharply defined community. The popularity of these texts depends on their appeal not to a broad general audience, but a series of audiences varying in degrees of sophistication and stored cultural knowledge (i.e. exposure and competence). As aggregate narratives, they appeal to disparate but often overlapping audiences, by presenting different incarnations of the superhero simultaneously, so that the text always comes trailing its intertexts and rearticulations. (179-180)
In his exploration of “aggregate narratives,” Collins’ work on Frank Miller’s Dark Knight is the most thorough and persuasive of any in the collection. Especially good is his analysis of Miller’s use of panels, and of the apparent resemblance between the techniques of the graphic novel and those of cinema: the juxtaposition of different sized frames on the same page, deployed in constantly changing configurations, intensifies their co-presence, so that the entire page becomes the narrative unit, and the conflictive relationships among the individual images becomes a primary feature of the “narration” of the text, a narration that details the progression of the plot, but also the transgression of one image by another . . . the tableaux moves the plot foreword but encourages the eye to move in continually shifting trajectories as it tries to make sense of the overall pattern of fragmentary images. (173) As Collins’ explications of particular pages demonstrate, it is inadequate to call Miller’s work cinematic because the frames of the graphic novel are able to mimic the visual styles of more than one medium. It would be more accurate to say that Miller builds his narrative from a montage of references to the conventions of different media: television, various kinds of cinema, “conventional” comic books, Japanese comics (Manga), and others.
New versions of Batman like Miller’s thus require interpretations that are adequate to the intertextuality and self-referentiality of the new narratives. The effect on criticism is to expand the definition of a text’s “action” to what was previously considered extra-diegetic. One of the reasons why the Batman phenomenon has attracted the attention of the writers assembled in this collection is the sense that at least some of the representations of Batman–and the contexts of cultural production and fandom–share common perspectives and concerns with recent writing on theory and cultural studies. For Collins, the effect is to generate dialogue between the discourses of scholarship and popular culture. For example: The producers of Dark Knight and Watchmen orchestrate textual space and time, but in doing so they also emphasize (through different but related means) that to envision textual space is to envision at the same time the cultural space surrounding it, specifically the conflicting visual traditions that constitute those semiotic environments. (172) Collins’ essay thus provides an insightful model for writing on popular culture because it works through the linkages between theory and popular cultural, specifies the ways in which texts embody alternative modes of narration, and acknowledges the ways in which the texts simultaneously represent and interpret the traditions to which they belong.
All of the writers in this collection draw attention to the contradictions that have been manifested in one or another version of the Batman. A crimefighter whose activities are often illegal, a defender of justice who is also (as millionaire Bruce Wayne) the symbol and defender of wealth, Batman’s relationship to authority and the status quo have been portrayed and understood as conflicted, uneasy, and anxiety-provoking. Andy Medhurst’s essay (“Batman, Deviance, and Camp”) deserves special attention because of its straightforward discussion of the role sexuality has played in constructing and construing Batman’s relation to authority, power, and masculinity. Medhurst, like others, emphasizes the multiple versions of the character, and argues that the camp sensibility of the television series undermines attempts to take any version of the Batman seriously. But Medhurst is specific in attributing the anxiety demonstrated by audiences over these multiple versions (which is the “real” Batman?) to sexual anxiety: the “Batmen” rejected by the hard-core fans are those that admit even the slightest homoerotic sensibility, or any parody of the character’s definition as an obsessively self-serious crimefighter. In this rejection, Medhurst asserts, bat-fans mirror the assumptions about masculinity and homosexuality held by Frederic Wertham, the psychiatrist who first suggested that Batman might be gay. Medhurst exposes Wertham’s panicky, outdated, homophobic arguments as fallacies (an “elephantine spot-the-homo routine”), but he is no less sparing of the bat-fans’ shrill disgust levelled at Wertham: “The rush to ‘protect’ Batman and Robin from Wertham is simply the other side to the coin of his bigotry. It may reject Wertham, cast him in the role of the dirty-minded old man, but its view of homosexuality is identical” (152). Wertham’s insinuations about Batman and Robin, his claims concerning the harmful effects of comics on young minds, and his instrumental role in bringing about the Comics Code authority, have made him the most important “supervillan” that the fans of Batman and other comics have ever had. Like the Joker, his image reappears again and again, a threat to “authentic” interpretations of the Batman character. But Medhurst boldly claims a piece of Wertham’s argument, in order to legitimize his own advocacy of a “deviant” interpretation of Batman: Wertham quotes [the remarks of a patient who had been aroused by the idea of having sex with Batman in the “secret Batcave”] to shock us, to tear the pages of Detective away before little Tommy grows up and moves to Greenwich Village, but reading it as a gay man today I find it rather moving and also highly recognizable. What this anonymous gay man did was to practice that form of bricolage which Richard Dyer has identified as a characteristic reading strategy of gay audiences. Denied even the remotest possibility of supportive images of homosexuality within the dominant heterosexual culture, gay people have had to fashion what we could out of the imageries of dominance, to snatch illicit meanings from the fabric of normality, to undertake a corrupt decoding for the purposes of satisfying marginalized desires. This may not be as necessary as it once was, given the greater visibility of gay representations. Wertham’s patient evokes in me an admiration, that in a period of American history even more homophobic than most, there he was, raiding the citadels of masculinity, weaving fantasies of oppositional desire. (153) Like other writers in this volume, Medhurst shifts the focus from the cultural icon to its reception and reinterpretation by its audiences. Moreover, he uses his argument for the “legitimacy” of a gay Batman to reveal tendencies that function textually and intertextually in the current Bat-canon. But unlike some of the other commentaries on Batman in this volume, Medhurst’s is the one almost certain to be resisted by the arbiters of official bat-taste. Medhurst targets this resistance as the collective homophobic core of the new bat-discourse: the change from the 60s “camp crusader” to the snarling Dark Knight of the 80s thus represents a “re- heterosexualization” of the character, carried out by artists, marketers, moviegoers, comic fans, and others (159). What Medhurst brings to our attention is that despite the recent proliferation of bat-signifiers in popular culture, some interpretations of the multiple retellings of the Batman narrative remain more equal than others.
As a result, it is Medhurst’s essay and perhaps Meehan’s that are most searchingly critical of the recent resurgence in Batman paraphenalia. Their “unofficial” versions of the new Batman–as masculinist homophobe; as corporate intertext–play a crucial role in retaining the oppositional status of criticism in Batman-studies, as represented by this collection. Any book on Batman is likely to be both energized and limited by the character’s current popularity. The presence of the name of the bat in the title may attract the attention of audiences already sensitized to it. However, as Meehan might point out, even the most diverse objects produced by third parties can be enlisted to advertise the central commodity, if they bear the sign of the bat. No scholarly “licensing” of the name and logo can take place without also enlisting scholarship as an endorsement of bat-products–in this case, an endorsement for the significance and interest of at least one “new” genre, the graphic novel. Given this relationship, it is perhaps fortunate that DC Comics refused to grant the editors the rights to the images for use in illustrations, dust jackets, etc. “[DC] did not feel that this book was consistent with their vision of the Batman” (vi). What better reverse endorsement could DC have given to bat-criticism, and its attempts to emphasize the failure of any single interpretation to account for Batman’s history?
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From Abject to Object: Women’s Bodybuilding
Marcia Ian
Rutgers University
Do muscles have gender, or are they, on the contrary, ungendered human meat? Other than the few muscles associated with their sexual organs, men and women have the same muscles. Does this make muscles neuter, or perhaps neutral? Is there some “difference” between the biceps of a male and those of a female other than, possibly, that of size? If a woman’s biceps, or quadriceps, are bigger than a man’s, are hers more masculine than his? In the eyes of most beholders, the more muscle a woman has, the more “masculine” she is. The same, of course, is true for men: the more muscle a man has, the more masculine he is too. Bodybuilding in a sense is a sport dedicated to wiping out “femininity,” insofar as femininity has for centuries connoted softness, passivity, non-aggressivity, and physical weakness. Eradicating femininity just may be the purpose of both male and female bodybuilders. Even so, for men to wage war on femininity, whether their own or somebody else’s, is nothing new. For women, however, it is. Insofar as women have for centuries obliged cultural expectations by em-bodying femininity as immanent, bodybuilding affords women the opportunity to embody instead a refusal of this embodiment, to cease somewhat to represent man’s complementary (and complimentary) other.
At least this is how it seems to this author, who is: a forty-year old, divorced, atheistic Jewish mother of two teenaged girls; an assistant professor of British and American Literature at a the state univerity of New Jersey; a specialist in modernism, psychoanalysis and gender; and a dedicated “gym rat” who has trained hard and heavy without cease (knock on wood) for about eight years now and during graduate school even entered bodybuilding competitions. As such, I confess, I obviously have various axes to grind (pun intended) which intersect “around” the body as uniquely over-determined site of ambivalent psychosocial signification. From this point of view women’s bodybuilding appears to be roughly equal parts gender vanguardism and exhibitionistic masochism; men’s bodybuilding could in theory be the same, but I have seen no evidence that this is so. Male bodybuilders, on the contrary, seem mainly out to prove that they are conventionally masculine– hyperbolically, FEROCIOUSLY so.
Furthermore, the sport of bodybuilding, as marketed and represented by those enterprises founded by Joe and Ben Weider, including magazines like Flex and Muscle and Fitness (published by “I, Brute Enterprises, Inc.”) and contests like the Mr. and Ms. Olympia, as well as various less powerful rival organizations, reproduces ad nauseam all the cliches of masculinism from the barbarous to the sublime. This remains true despite the fact that in recent years the top female competitors have displayed increasing amounts of hard striated muscle. I had hoped to find in the gym a communal laboratory for experimental gender-bending, perhaps a haven for the gender-bent, or at the least a democratic republic biologically based on the universality of human musculature. This laboratory, this haven, this republic, however, remains a utopic and private space, a delusion in effect, because what goes on in the gym, as in bodybuilding competition, remains the violent re-inscription of gender binarism, of difference even where there is none. As Jane Gallop pointed out, in Western culture gender is no “true” binary or antithesis but rather an algorithm of one and zero. Bodybuilding expands the equivalence “male is to female as one is to zero” to include the specious antithesis of muscle and femininity.
Spurious gender difference is maintained and rewarded in bodybuilding through the discriminatory valorization of certain aesthetic categories. Indeed bodybuilding tries to limit the achievements of female physique athletes by adding “femininity” to the list of aesthetic categories they are expected to fulfill. The film Pumping Iron II: The Women (1985) dramatically documents this sexism by recording a conflict which erupts in a sequestered conference room among those judging the 1983 “Miss Olympia” (now the “Ms. Olympia”), America’s most prestigious bodybuilding competition for women. A man apparently serving his first stint as judge is puzzled and angry to find that he is supposed to judge the women on the basis of their “femininity.” He points out to the other, more experienced judges that, while the men are ranked on the basis of their muscle density, definition, over-all symmetry and proportionality, as well as for the style, skill and fluidity of their posing, the women are in addition judged for a quality called “femininity” which surreptitiously but effectively limits all the others. How, this judge queries, is anyone supposed to determine how muscular a woman’s body can be before it ceases to be feminine? Furthermore, in what other sport could a female competitor be expected to limit her achievement for fear of losing her proper gender?
Would anyone advise a runner–Florence Griffith-Joyner, for example–that to run too fast would be unladylike? Would anyone warn a female long jumper not to jump too far, or a swimmer not to swim too fast? Why, then, presume to tell a bodybuilder that she may be only so muscular, but no more muscular than that, at the risk of losing both her femininity and her contest? This sensible judge argued in vain; the panel of judges elected Rachel McLish, then at her cheesiest, as Miss Olympia, while penalizing Bev Francis, by far the most muscular and impressive of the competitors, for being what they considered “too masculine.” McLish was subsequently disqualified when someone discovered she had padded her bikini top to look more buxom. McLish, however, was merely trying to win the approval of the judges who, she thought, might have been repelled by her if they had viewed her as masculine, although it is hard to imagine how they could have. Subsequently McLish became more interested in the opinion of a higher judge when she became “born again” and began pumping iron for Jesus. Even with McLish disqualified, however, Francis placed pathetically low.
Many viewers have been amused by McLish’s antics but missed the nature and extent of the sexism the movie documents. Leonard Maltin’s TV Movies and Video Guide (1991), for example, which does not usually dwell upon the physical attractiveness of the men and women appearing in the films under review, informs its readers that Pumping Iron II offers a “funny, if suspiciously stagy” look at a “Vegas non-event” in which “pouty-lipped sexpot Rachel McLish, manlike Australian Bev Francis, and two-dozen more female bodybuilders compete.” But while the Guide thus dismisses the women’s competition as a stagy non-encounter between a sexpot and an Australian she-man, it describes the first Pumping Iron (1977) about the men, which, like Pumping Iron II, received three stars from the Guide, as a “fascinating documentary” in which Schwarzenegger “exudes charm and . . . strong screen presence” (Schwarzenegger’s stage name in his early movie “Stay Hungry” was “Arnold Strong”).
The arduousness of physique competition is the same for male and female. Like the male, the female must diet away as much subcutaneous and even intra-musculuar bodyfat as possible when preparing for competition. And, whereas she may typically start out with twice as much bodyfat as the male, she must try to be as “ripped” as he, as close, that is, to that impossible ideal of 0% bodyfat on the day of the contest. In the process, she inevitably, if temporarily, loses most of her breast tissue, as well as that soft adiposity which typifies the conventionally feminine, proto-maternal figure. Many female bodybuilders opt for surgical breast implants to try to salvage the “femininity” they lost in the eyes of their beholders as they gained in muscularity. My own experience in two bodybuilding competitions during the summer of 1986 (the summer after hitting the MLA job market and accepting my present position) typifies the ambivalent attitudes judges have toward muscular female bodies. In July I won the “Miss Neptune” championship at a fairly well-established contest in Virginia Beach because my physique was the biggest, hardest, and veiniest of the group. In August, having remained during the intervening month in as close to “peak” condition as possible, I lost a newly established contest to an anorexic and a cupcake for the same reason. In this case the judges, I was told later, assumed that the relatively beefy hardness of my physique meant I was “juiced,” and they deducted points accordingly from my score. I have never used drugs or even supplements, but since they did no testing or even asking, I had no way to persuade them to the contrary; nor did the audience, which roundly booed the judges’s decision.
That the first contest had been run for years while the second was newly established is significant; the “establishment” in women’s bodybuilding is changing somewhat. Lenda Murray, the winner of the November, 1990 “Ms. Olympia” is phenomenally, finely, and hugely muscular. She redefines women’s bodybuilding, if not women, and must be seen to be believed. Nevertheless, here it is June, 1991 and, as one irate reader points out, Muscle and Fitness still has not seen fit to do a layout on the new Ms. O. The reader asks, “Don’t you think you should have stopped the presses to get Lenda in?” In reply the editor points out that there is “plenty of Lenda in this” issue. By “plenty of Lenda” the editors apparently mean a feature piece entitled “OOOOHHH, Ms. O!” in which Murray tells readers how she trains her legs, and a brief interview of Murray and another impressive champion, Anja Schreiner, entitled, “Let’s Talk About Women’s Bodybuilding.” This interview, not surprisingly, is advertised in letters which say “Women Talk About Building Sexy MUSCLES” down at the bottom of the red-white-and-blue magazine cover of an issue which highlights iron-pumping in Operation Desert Storm, for which the editors did manage to stop the presses. The cover shows a photo of a huge smiling blonde male flexing in his Starred-and-Striped shorts, with two skinny blonde women in red and blue bikinis clinging to his shoulders (one of the women holds a little American flag at her breast). This trio, in turn, is framed by the title of the month’s “Superfeature”: “USA MILITARY MUSCLE: How the Navy Seals, Combat Pilots, Ground Forces Toughen Up Thru Bodybuiding.”
This superfeature publishes a barrage of photos which were sent to the magazine by its many fans in every branch of Operation Desert Storm (all of whom, except one, were men) who managed to lift, press, and squat weights made of concrete, sand, and iron when not otherwise engaged. In the midst of all this macho hype, however, Bill Dobbins, longtime muscle writer, sounds a sane note or two, one of which reminds us that, while men’s bodybuilding continues to reflect those patriarchal values we assume to have prevailed among cavemen, women’s bodybuilding continues quietly to evolve. On the last page of the issue, entitled “The Champ: Bev Francis,” Dobbins reminds us of the controversy “regarding the muscles-versus-femininity question in bodybuilding for women” which greeted the appearance on the bodybuilding stage of this former professional dancer and world-champion powerlifter. Dobbins, writing for the Weider organization, cannot criticize the 1983 decision filmed in Pumping Iron II–after all, “for ultimate power and excellence, she [Francis] uses the Weider Principles”–but he does claim that her finally winning the World Pro title in 1987 was a milestone in the sport. That was the day, Dobbins writes, when “the controversy ended” and the principle “‘may the best bodybuilder win’ became the rule of the day, rather than ‘we can’t let the sport go in this direction’” (toward the “manlike” woman Bev Francis), “when the judges clearly opted for the aesthetics of bodybuilding over other and often irrelevant standards of female beauty.”
Lenda Murray is evidence that, at least at the highest levels, Dobbins may begin to be right. In the prefatory remarks to his account of Murray’s leg-training methods, Dobbins, clearly awestruck, can’t help but point out that– given her tiny waist, her “exaggerated V-shape” and “shockingly wide, well-developed lats,” the dramatic sweep of her thighs as curved “as a pair of parentheses” with hamstrings to match–Murray resembles no less an athlete than Sergio Oliva, Mr. Olympia 1967-69 and Arnold’s “legendary adversary.” This comparison would be high praise for anyone, but is astonishing–a first–for a woman. Okay, so women are twenty years behind the men; but who cares, when they are closing the gap? Surely the men cannot continue to increase in mass from year to year at the accustomed rate now that drug testing is becoming more routine. True, as “everyone knows,” steroids are still used widely by both men and women, and both know how to clean up their bloodstreams shortly before a contest in order to avoid detection. Nevertheless, methods of detection are improving. Two years ago drug-testing of women began at the Miss Olympia competition, and this year the men were tested for the first time. Officials claim that in the near future they will initiate random drug testing throughout the year in order to bar users from competition. But because men have relied on drugs far longer and far more than women, and have used them to widen the gap between the genders rather than narrow it, the differences between serious male and female competitors will likely continue to shrink.
This will be the case, though, only if women manage to free themselves from the judgemental category of “femininity” which, Dobbins’s sanguine prognostications to the contrary, competitors and judges continue to invoke. In his article on Schreiner and Murray, Jerry Brainum mentions that both women continue to notice that others’ reactions to their physiques range from “curiosity to admiration to disgust.” “You can’t expect to extract the idea of femininity from the judging process in a women’s bodybuilding contest,” says Lenda; Anja agrees that “old stereotypes die hard.” What do they think of these stereotypes? They don’t say. Neither wants to appear freaky, but both thrive on the herculean effort and spartan self-discipline the sport requires of both men and women. Perhaps in the future physiological differences between individuals will figure more prominently than aesthetic differences between the genders.
Different blood levels of sex hormones like estrogen and testosterone, for example, do cause individuals’ rates and ratios of muscle growth and fat reduction to vary– hormonal variations which, like the quantity and location of an individual’s “fast-twitch muscle fibres,” figure among the physiological factors vaguely designated by the term “genetics.” In the gym someone will inevitably and reverentially say, for instance, that Arnold Schwarzenegger has “great genetics” or, self-deprecatingly, that one’s own back won’t grow because of inferior “genetics.” “Genetics,” like hormone levels and willpower, vary within the sexes as well as between them, however, so that there is no reason to assume that we have yet seen the “ultimate” physique, whatever that might be. Still, this fantasy of, and reverence for, superior “genetics” is certainly one of bodybuilding’s several Nazi-esque qualities. Others include a kind of superrace (not just superhero) mentality which, especially if the builder in question is stoked on steroids or crazed by radical dieting, can provoke snickering sneering snarling growling or worse directed at anyone whose existence could in any way be construed as coming between him and his rightful greatness, let alone between him and his image in the mirror. (I once heard “Mr. Virginia” bark at a woman who sauntered across his line of vision: “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY MIRROR.”)
Beneath the superrace mentality, with its need to believe in absolute difference between the one and the zero, there lurks, as one might expect, the fetishist’s fearful wish that there may finally be no difference after all between the sexes. Without question, relative to the cultural norms of masculine and feminine bodies, the female builder masculinizes herself. But why does no one ever mention that the muscular male physique athlete feminizes himself to a degree? Consider the curvaceous pectoral mounds of the well-developed male chest; the round “muscle bellies” of powerful male biceps; the firm meaty thighs and spherical buttocks of the man who can squat heavy. And how about the hairless, well-lubricated flesh some of the men sport year-round, but with which all male competitors must emerge on contest day? Above all, what about the devotion with which the male bodybuilder strives to embody a set of ideal categories–symmetry, proportion, muscularity–for the acknowledgement of which he offers himself to a panel who objectify him in just those terms? Does he not feel feminized in the process?
Over the years I’ve asked various male builders these questions, and I’ve never received an answer more direct than a narrowed gaze and a “How the FUCK should I know?” Sam Fussell, who is in a sense my younger, WASP, Ivy League, analog, answers this question in his book Muscle: Confessions of an Unlikely Bodybuilder, when at the end of Chapter 10 he shares with his readers the most humiliating moment in his career in iron. This moment comes when he fails to “Explode!” on cue at the Rose City Bench-Press Extravaganza, and thereby takes last place in his 242-lb. weight class, an over-subscribed class for which the contest promoters quickly run out of trophies. When Fussell walks to the podium to receive his last-place men’s trophy, what he gets is much worse: a sympathetic pat on the rump, and “a plaque on which were inscribed in gold plate the words: “Women 148 lbs: First Place.” “At last,” writes Fussell pathetically, “I had a trophy to tell me just who and what I was.” A woman! For shame! And after all that work too. (Poor baby.)
On the other hand one of Fussell’s best moments occurs at a bodybuilding contest when he walks offstage after performing his posing routine, to be welcomed by his friend Vinnie: “Oh, Sam. . . You looked like a human fucking penis! Veins were poppin’ every which way!” In all fairness, I should add here that I spoke the very same words to my own mirrored reflection in about 1985, which may indicate that this fantasy of sexual indifferentiation is a two-way street. What is not a two-way street is the manner in which bodybuilding conceals the fantasy of sexual indifferentiation behind a whole vocabulary of aesthetic discriminations applied only to men, discriminations which recast difference as a repertory of typecast cliches, while women are still dealing with that single over-determined choice between “femininity” and freakiness. Men, on the other hand, to take examples again from this month’s Muscle and Fitness, train like animals (from a piece on powerbuilding), re-invent nature (from Weider’s editorial), and exceed the classical ideals of the Greeks themselves (from a piece on free weights vs. machines).
Typically, the discourse of male bodybuilding grinds these axes together in the most simpleminded way, in the hope simultaneously of doing, out-doing, and re-doing each, separately, and together: nature, technology, classicism. To take a consummate example, in an article called “The Art of Arm Training,” by Frenchman Francis Benfatto, as told to Julian Schmidt, Benfatto claims that “hardwired into the genes of every Frenchman” is an artistic sense which “influences [their] perceptions of everything from Hellenistic art to bodybuilding.” These artistic genes were set off in him, he claims, when he rode horses in his youth and fell in love with their “sweeping muscularity,” a love Flaubert’s words explain best: “‘In art there is nothing without form.’” Whether he is contemplating his whole physique or only his arms, Benfatto explains, he always applies his Flaubertian love of form to every aspect of bodybuilding because, as Voltaire said, bodybuilding is as much an art as the Mona Lisa or Venus de Milo. (Well, actually, I left out a line or two here in between Voltaire and the Mona Lisa, but I swear I did not add a word.)
The judging of bodybuilding competitions, unlike powerflifting or Olympic lifting, depends on categorical aesthetic evaluations. In a powerlifting or Olympic meet, the winner is determined either by how much weight he or she lifts relative to other competitors in the same weight class, or by means of a fixed formula which shows how much weight he or she moved relative to his or her body weight. In a bodybuilding meet there are still no such objective standards, leaving room for the kinds of psychological and aesthetic bias I’ve been discussing. Bodybuilding promoters are increasingly aware of how arbitrary this makes their sport look, and how this subjective bias undermines their claims that bodybuilding is a sport and not just an art. For all their hifalutin language about the art of bodybuilding, promoters still harbor a wish for bodybuilding to be included among the Olympic sports. This hardly seems possible, however, as long as competitors are judged qualitatively rather than quantitatively and subjectively rather than objectively. Accordingly, the Weider people now offer what they call an “Ideal Proportion Chart” with instructions–based on one’s bodyweight per inch of height, and on the measurement in inches of one’s neck, biceps, forearm, chest, waist, hips, thigh, and calf–on how to set one’s training goals. How did they come up with these measurements? They don’t let on; they don’t say whether these “ideal proportions” are derived from Praxiteles, da Vinci, or Bob Paris, whose photo graces this feature article. It is probably safe to assume, however, that the measurements were not derived from Lenda Murray. A note above the chart comments that “women bodybuilders may have to adjust measurements in the area of the hips, waist and chest, depending on build.” The Ideal Proportions, in other words (surprise, surprise) are merely those of some man or other. I can’t help thinking, however, that, as brutal, cruel, cryptic and comical as this Chart seems, by implementing it, bodybuilding, despite itself, might be doing women a favor.
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Bulldozing the Subject
Elizabeth A. Wheeler
University of California, Berkeley
Cut #1: Mudanzas
When I hear the word “postmodernism” I see white people moving into the neighborhood and brown people having to move out.
My friend Tinkerbell from Tustin and I used to live in an apartment building wedged between a condominium and a tenement. We went to an open house in the condominium; the units sold for $275,000-$300,000 apiece. It looked like the QE II. The architect had added portholes, interior vistas, and pink balustrades. I went out on the balcony of the penthouse. Through the pink railings I saw a moving truck below, a small local one with “Mudanzas” painted on the side, the kind that carries Puerto Rican families further out from the city where they can still afford to live.
When I hear postmodernism I see pink balustrades in the foreground with a gray truck behind them. Not the balustrades alone, but also the changes–the mudanzas.
It is no accident that the Brooklyn Academy of Music, showcase for the latest postmodern compositions, defines one edge of a neighborhood called Park Slope, a neighborhood formerly working-class but now home to young professionals. It is no accident that the Temporary Contemporary museum of art in Los Angeles is housed in a renovated factory a block from Skid Row. It is no accident that postmodern architecture imprints itself most firmly on the urban landscape in the form of upmarket shopping malls. Postmodernism and gentrification are partners in joint venture.
“. . . the scenario of work is there to conceal the fact that the work-real, the production real, has disappeared,” writes Jean Baudrillard (Simulations 47). He is wrong in thinking that production has vanished from the face of the earth; it has instead moved to the Third World. He is right in touching on the unreality of life in postindustrial cities.
It is thus extremely naive to look for ethnology among the Savages or in some Third World--it is here, everywhere, in the metropolis, among the whites, in a world completely catalogued and analysed and then artificially revived as though real . . . (16)
I write this essay towards an ethnology of postmodernism. It starts with an image of a city street: Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles. On Melrose, a district of stylish boutiques, there is a store painted in Day-Glo colors and stenciled with skulls like the Mexican images used in celebrating el Dia de los Muertos, the day of the dead. The store is extremely successful and has counterparts in many American cities. It specializes in `kitsch’ artifacts: sequin picture frames, pink flamingoes, Barbie lunch boxes, but particularly inexpensive Mexican religious articles. As Baudrillard says, consumer culture needs to “stockpile the past in plain view” (19). The store has a day-of-the-dead quality: when the plastic dashboard Virgins go up on the shelves next to the plaster Elvises, pop nostalgia renders every icon equivalent. The experience of shopping there seems to have the power to cancel out the real experience of growing up Chicano/a and Catholic. “For ethnology to live, its object must die”–“. . . the sign as reversion and death sentence of every reference” (13, 11).
I feel a guilty fascination for the store because it looks very much like my own aesthetic. I have always loved bright colors, colors that looked garish in my parents’ suburban home with its white walls, white curtains, white dishes. And for years I have collected Mexican religious articles, sneaking into botanicas where no one spoke English, hoping they wouldn’t divine the irreligious, “inauthentic” uses to which I planned to put such items. When I walk into the store on Melrose, I see my own secret life as a kitsch consumer exposed.
I like to think, however, that there is more going on between me and my Virgins of Guadalupe than my making fun of them. With their angels and showers of roses, I find them beautiful and redemptive. They speak to my desire to connect with the powerful symbols of another culture, and my Protestant longing for a spirituality that has festive colors and a Mother in it. My taste also has an element of defiance: when I was growing up in Southern California, Mexicans were regarded as lower than us whites, and with the exception of `genuine’ folk art, so was their culture.
Postmodernism is all about theft and transformation, as for instance my `inauthentic’ use of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Here are the successive phases of the postmodern image:
-the image is part of a culture, and used by that
culture with straightforward enjoyment;
-the image is rejected as tacky, part of an
outmoded past to be left behind;
-the image is resuscitated and used defiantly,
ironically, self-consciously, often as part of a
new chic.Imagine the store on Melrose again. Now there is a low rider cruising down the avenue, carrying a Chicano couple dressed in the latest youth fashion. The car has a beautiful turquoise and red metallic paint job. It has a plastic Virgin on the dashboard. But there is a crucial difference between the car and the store.
Unlike Baudrillard, I believe that postmodern thefts and transformations do not have to kill the culture to which they refer. A Mexican-American can fragment, reappropriate, reconstruct “Mexicanness” for herself or himself, and help to define what it means to be Mexican. This variety of postmodernism maintains a relationship with a living community; it is not an autopsy on dead referents. In this paper I will describe two postmodernisms, one informal and personal, one heavily capitalized and imposed from outside. I will spend much of my time criticizing the ways French postmodern theory reinforces the cynical logic of kitsch consumerism.
Intolerance is the hallmark of dogma. While postmodern theory, particularly of the French sort, claims to have no “metanarrative,” it reveals its dogmatism by only tolerating certain readings of itself. If Baudrillard refuses to ask or answer moral questions, then perversely I want to view him as a moralist. In Simulations: The Precession of Simulacra, he describes the death of the referent:
-it is the reflection of a basic reality
-it masks and perverts a basic reality
-it masks the absence of a basic reality
-it bears no relation to any reality whatsoever:
it is its own pure simulacrum. (11)
What if we read Baudrillard’s scale not as descriptive but as proscriptive, as a hierarchy of values? Those of us who still believe in realities, however fragmented, contested, and multiple, can then be dismissed as unprogressive, as “naive and cognitively immature” (Gilligan 30).1
How could this postmodern scale of values inform the ethnology of a particular city: Los Angeles? Baudrillard begins with the idea that “what draws the crowds” to Disneyland is not so much the entry into fantastic worlds as the “miniaturised and religious revelling in real America” (23). He immediately moves beyond an ideological analysis to a far more sweeping commentary:
Disneyland is presented as imaginary in order to make us believe that the rest is real, when in fact all of Los Angeles and the America surrounding it are no longer real, but of the order of the hyperreal and of simulation. It is no longer a question of a false representation of reality (ideology), but of concealing the fact that the real is no longer real, and thus of saving the reality-principle . . . Los Angeles is encircled by these "imaginary stations" which feed reality, reality-energy, to a town whose mystery is precisely that it is nothing more than a network of endless, unreal circulation--a town of fabulous proportions, but without space or dimensions . . . this town, which is nothing more than an immense script and a perpetual motion picture, needs this old imaginary made up of childhood signals and faked phantasms for its sympathetic nervous system. (25, 26)
Anyone who has ever tried to get around Los Angeles without a car knows how real it is, how mired in `space and dimensions,’ how cruel to the poor. In promoting the unreality of Los Angeles, Baudrillard does the cops’ dirty work. Because it is the most segmented of American cities, it is possible for the mayor to instruct the police to round up homeless people with bulldozers and drive them into camps without shade or adequate sanitation. It is possible to grow up middle-class a few miles from Skid Row and never see a homeless person. The myth of Los Angeles as a fabulous unreality justifies the quiet elimination of its less-than- fabulous, all-too-real aspects.
Richard Rorty speaks of the “strand in contemporary French thought” that “starts off from suspicion of Marx and Freud, suspicion of the masters of suspicion, suspicion of `unmasking’” (161). By itself, an ideological analysis of Los Angeles would remain impoverished. However, without the intellectual tool of unmasking, there is no suffering to uncover. Without awareness of power, it is the powerless who disappear.
Postmodern architecture plays a concrete role in the disappearance of the unwanted `referent.’ At 515 East 6th Street on Skid Row, there is a soup kitchen and shelter called the Weingardt Center. Elegantly renovated in postmodern style, the building has WPA gargoyles and goddesses of work augmented with medieval banners and tastefully framed reproductions of modern art. Maxine Johnston, director of the Center, does not allow her patrons to form a soup line in front of the building. It would spoil the look. Instead, they line up around the corner, in front of the ugly building where my friend Tinkerbell works.
Johnston’s penchant for postmodern decor and her harshness towards homeless people are more than individual eccentricities. They form part of a pattern. The City of Los Angeles has devoted well over twenty million dollars to a redevelopment agency called SRO, Inc., which agency purchases Single Resident Occupancy hotels, renovates and postmodernizes them. At 5th and San Julian, the hardest corner of Skid Row, a flophouse has been elaborately double- coded. It has neon signs in Old West, Victorian style. It has yuppie colors of mauve, pale green and beige. It has security guards everywhere.
On the morning of its rededication, Andy Robeson, director of SRO, Inc., stood outside the hotel with Mayor Tom Bradley. Robeson waved his hand across the panorama of 5th and San Julian, the street life, the raw deals, the people sleeping on the sidewalk. He turned to the mayor. “This has gotta go,” he said. Now bulldozers sweep 5th and San Julian three times a week; Robeson is agitating to make it every day.
How can it be said that the palest icon, the smallest neon-Victorian curlicue, enables and justifies the displacement of real people? Jochen Schulte-Sasse writes that to comprehend postmodernism we have to examine the “flow of capitalized images” (130). While modernism depends upon ideologically-charged, closed narratives, postmodernism relies on “the immediately transparent visual situation. Owning such images is capital, and the capital they represent reflects the capital that is invested in them. Every political campaign reveals the situation anew” (Schulte-Sasse 139). In this well-financed, officially sanctioned Solution to Homelessness, the transparency of the neon sign makes it an excellent mask. The sign resembles Reagan/Bush’s image of the family–glowing, oversimplified, easy to read. Its readability distracts us from lived experience. It steals from our mouths the vocabulary we need to describe anger, family breakdown, the failure of all Solutions to Homelessness.
Henceforth, it is the map that precedes the territory--PRECESSION OF SIMULACRA--it is the map that engenders the territory and if we were to revive the fable today, it would be the territory whose shreds are slowly rotting across the map. (Baudrillard 2)
Postmodern architecture is highly appropriate to the Los Angeles landscape. Its pastels and fanciful details are analogous to the thousands of stucco bungalows built in Los Angeles in the 1920’s and 1930’s. Both architectural forms represent certain middle-class dreams, but they also differ in worldview.
Although built to look like a miniature castle, hacienda, mosque or Tudor cottage, the stucco bungalow can be called modernist. Families shut the doors of their dreamhouses and imagine themselves into a narrative, a tale of their freedom out West, their escape from an extended family and messy history back East.
In contrast, a postmodern residence is not a fictive universe. It is a surface, oddly two-dimensional, meant to be scanned rather than lived in. “It seems to me that the essay (Montaigne) is postmodern, while the fragment (The Athaeneum) is modern,” Lyotard writes (81). A postmodern building bears a very strong resemblance to an essay. It usually has the strong verticals and horizontals of the printed page and of the modern skyscraper. “Quotations” from past architectures are inserted into this format.
The art of quotation serves many purposes. Particularly characteristic of postmodernism is a blank parody, in which it is impossible to determine the attitude of the citer towards the citation (Jameson 118). Despite this frequent indeterminacy of attitude, quotation in postmodern architecture serves the same function it serves in the essay: it invokes authority. Strangely enough, Linda Hutcheon sees the quotation of classical motifs as a populist gesture. Under her definition of “populism,” the Roman Empire was populist because almost everyone was subject to its authority:
Like all parody, postmodernist architecture can certainly be elitist, if the codes necessary for its comprehension are not shared by both encoder and decoder. But the frequent use of a very common and easily recognized idiom--often that of classicism--works to combat such exclusiveness. (200)
Architects, artists, planners and developers read postmodern theory and put it into postmodern practice. Hutcheon goes so far as to valorize postmodern architects as “activists, the voices of the users” (8). The user can mean the inhabitant, or it can mean the perpetrator of an abuse. What happens when urban planning is done by people who believe there is no subject?
Cut #2: It Will Be "White" Like One of Malevitch's Squares
I was talking with my friend Paul Lopes about the postmodern fragmentation of the "subject," the concept of the individual human doer or creator in Western philosophy. Paul said it reminded him of cults. The first job of a cult is to break down your previous identity and make you distrust it. "But they don't leave it fragmented," he said. "They give you a new identity to take its place--one they choose for you."
While Baudrillard and Lyotard may genuinely believe in the death of the subject, most people do not. Maxine Johnston and Andy Robeson, for example, still believe in a referent. There is a reality out there they wish to manage into submission, and they use postmodern architecture cynically to help them do so. To invoke conspiracy theory, the death of a homeless `subject’ creates a vacuum that can be filled by a `subject’ with a better credit rating. Returning to the cult analogy, identity does not stay fragmented–another identity rushes in to take its place. “We have seen that there is a way in which postmodernism replicates or reproduces–reinforces–the logic of consumer capitalism; the more significant question is whether there is also a way in which it resists that logic. But that is a question we must leave open” (Jameson 125).
In “What is Postmodernism?” Lyotard describes his ideal aesthetic of sublime painting. Again, if we view him as moralist as well as narrator, this process of “making it impossible to see” reads as deliberate erasure of the subject. The critic learns to look the other way when he hears bulldozers coming. Since those most likely to be erased are people of color, when Lyotard says his ideal is “white” I take him at his word.
It will be "white" like one of Malevitch's squares; it will enable us to see only by making it impossible to see; it will please only by causing pain. (78)
French postmodern theorists in general, Lyotard and Baudrillard in particular, embrace the role of pain in knowledge. The impulse is paralleled by the sadomasochism in much postmodern literature and film. Both Baudrillard and Lyotard describe terror with a steady indifference. Richard Rorty comments on this philosophical `dryness’ which descends from Foucault:
It takes no more than a squint of the inner eye to read Foucault as a stoic, a dispassionate observer of the present social order, rather than its concerned critic. . . . It is this remoteness which reminds one of the conservative who pours cold water on hopes for reform, who affects to look at the problems of his fellow-citizens with the eye of the future historian. Writing "the history of the present," rather than suggestions about how our children might inhabit a better world in the future, gives up not just on the notion of a common human nature, and on that of "the subject," but on our untheoretical sense of social solidarity. It is as if thinkers like Foucault and Lyotard were so afraid of being caught up in one more metanarrative about the fortunes of "the subject" that they cannot bring themselves to say "we" long enough to identify with the culture of the generation to which they belong. (172)
Baudrillard observes in a dispassionate footnote:
From now on, it is impossible to ask the famous question:
"From what position do you speak?"--
"How do you know?"--
"From where do you get the power?,"
without immediately getting the reply: "But it is of (from) you that I speak"--meaning, it is you who speaks, it is you who knows, power is you. A gigantic circumlocution, circumlocution of the spoken word, which amounts to irredeemable blackmail and irremovable deterrence of the subject supposed to speak. . . . (77-78)
My first reaction to the above passage is an untheoretical and wordless rage. It is the anger every woman must have experienced, the feeling of being charged with our own victimization. (“Let’s rape his daughter and see how he talks then,” Tink says as she passes through the room.) In this explication Baudrillard calls for the end of dualistic thought, a central postmodernist project: “The medium/message confusion, of course, is a correlative of the confusion between sender and receiver, thus sealing the disappearance of all the dual, polar structures which formed the discursive organization of language, referring to the celebrated grid of functions in Jakobson. . . .” (76).
The critique of dualism was a feminist project before it was a postmodern one. Adrienne Rich:
The rejection of the dualism, of the positive- negative polarities between which most of our intellectual training has taken place, has been an undercurrent of feminist thought. And, rejecting them, we reaffirm the existence of all those who have through the centuries been negatively defined: not only women, but the "untouchable," the "unmanly," the "nonwhite," the "illiterate": the "invisible." Which forces us to confront the problem of the essential dichotomy: power/powerlessness. (48)
Ironically, Baudrillard uses the critique to an opposite end. While the feminist wants to reveal the “invisible,” to expose the power relations inherent in dualism–white over black, male over female, gentry over homeless–Baudrillard maintains that without dualism power relations simply disappear. That is, if a conversation is not organized in binary oppositions, it becomes completely disordered. However, there are other ways to critique the dualism of structural linguistics. For instance, in “The Problem of Speech Genres,” Mikhail Bakhtin maintains that a conversation is ordered not in sentence parts a la Roman Jakobson, but according to the shifts in speaking subjects. Therefore it is still possible to ask, “From what position do you speak?” Speaking “of” me does not mean speaking “(from)” me.
We cannot sufficiently counter the dryness of Baudrillard’s logic without invoking the category of experience. When Baudrillard speaks through the voice of the media or of the nuclear arms race, he speaks of “the inconsequential violence that reigns throughout the world, of the aleatory contrivance of every choice which is made for us.” Violence is inconsequential unless it happens to you. Baudrillard’s indifference reveals the comfort of his own position. For the man who has his freedom, freedom is unimportant, both personally and theoretically. Black South Africans know that freedom is real because they do not have it. A woman unwillingly pregnant who cannot obtain an abortion knows choice is real because she does not have it. When Baudrillard writes that “prisons are there to conceal the fact that it is the social in its entirety, in its banal omnipresence, which is carceral” (25), we know for certain he has never been to jail.
Baudrillard’s mission seems to be to make us accept the blank fact of terror. His work contains seeds of contempt for those who refuse to accept the horror of the world. This rubric marks out a diverse group, from people who desire the comfort of realist art, to those who fight for political change. For Baudrillard, to insist on the category of reality is to be in collusion with the powers- that-be. Lyotard’s contempt for the realist is even more blatant. His sublime painting will “impart no knowledge about reality (experience)”; he disparages realist art forms like commercial photography and film, whose job is “to stabilize the referent” and to “enable the addressee . . . to arrive quickly at the consciousness of his own identity”: “The painter and the novelist must refuse to lend themselves to such therapeutic uses” (78, 74).
Beneath his contempt lies the assumption that people cannot detect the harshness of their own experience and must have it explained to them. When Lyotard uses the word “therapeutic” disparagingly, he dismisses the role of the artist as healer. It never occurs to him that the viewers, the “patients,” may have experienced more horror than he will ever know.
While realism is the dominant style of commercial media, the media do not have the deep stake in reality- effects both Lyotard and Baudrillard attribute to them. Television eats up postmodernism along with any other style available to it. Therefore, parody is not intrinsically subversive, as Baudrillard would claim. A postmodern segment of “Mighty Mouse,” with fragments of 1940’s episodes cut out of their narratives, edited by visual and rhythmic analogy, and set to a 1960’s soul song, is no more or less subversive than any other kiddie cartoon.
Jochen Schulte-Sasse makes an important refinement on the realism argument in pointing out the “simultaneity of the non-simultaneous” between modernism and post-modernism. He remarks that neoconservative politics uses both modes, making a modernist call for “authority” and “values” while engaging in a brilliant postmodern manipulation of images. Schulte-Sasse sees this vacillation as a weakness, “one reason why neoconservatism is likely to remain a transitory phenomenon.” I see it as neoconservatism’s strength: it has managed to win on both fronts, to appeal to the conscience while “colonizing the id” (145). The avant-garde, the State, or the television network can use either mode to any purpose.
Lyotard’s championship of the avant-garde sounds curiously outdated: an anxious Baudelaire in his day made an almost identical argument for painting against photography. Lyotard assumes that there is no creativity outside the artistic bohemia and that the vernacular is by nature reactionary. This is a common academic failing. In Rocking Around the Clock: Music Television, Postmodernism, and Consumer Culture, E. Ann Kaplan sees only two options: either commercial mass media generated by corporations, or the avant-garde. Similarly, for Laura Mulvey there is only the dominating “male gaze” of Hollywood movies, or a quite unwatchable Brechtian cinema.
Lyotard decries the contemporary process of increasing eclecticism and kitsch: ” . . . one listens to reggae, watches a western, eats MacDonalds food for lunch and local cuisine for dinner, wears Paris cologne in Tokyo and “retro” clothes in Hong Kong; knowledge is a matter for TV games . . . But this realism of the `anything goes’ is in fact that of money; in the absence of aesthetic criteria, it remains possible and useful to assess the value of works of art according to the profits they yield” (76).
Lyotard helps to promote the process he decries. “The desire for the sublime makes one want to cut free from the words of the tribe,” Rorty writes (175). To deny the identity of a creative community is to help the media steal its products without acknowledgment. “Local tone” is one of the reality-effects Lyotard likes to see undermined by avant-garde art (79). “Local tone” is the first quality stripped away by the commercial media.
A rap song by the African American group Salt’n’Pepa is postmodern in form–a montage of cuts from past musics–and very New York in feeling. When the same beat occurs in a candy commercial on TV, there is nothing black or local about it. In the age of cannibalization, “to cut free from the words of the tribe” is to cut the tribe free of its own words.
In seeking to “activate the differences and save the honor of the name,” Lyotard apparently desires the inclusion of new and varied voices in our definition of culture (80). However, if he rejects narratives of struggle and liberation, much of Third World writing goes out the window again. For instance, Cherrie Moraga’s Loving in the War Years could be and has been called a postmodern autobiography, because of the montage of genres within the text; the ways sexuality and race are always constructed, never taken as givens; and her constant play between fragmentation and a unified self. Nonetheless, Moraga is also a self-declared “movement writer,” a Chicana lesbian feminist who keeps faith with the ideals of liberation (v). To use her image without her ideas is a reprehensible theft.
Furthermore, current postmodern theory could never come to terms with her insistence on experience, emotion, and direct speech. Moraga’s sometime collaborator Gloria Anzaldua could be speaking of Lyotard when she warns other women:
Bow down to the sacred bull, form. Put frames and metaframes around the writing. Achieve distance in order to win the coveted title "literary writer" or "professional writer." Above all do not be simple, direct, nor immediate. (167)
In postmodernity it is indeed possible, as Lyotard writes, “to assess the value of works of art according to the profits they yield” (17). Price is the only difference between a plastic Virgin of Guadalupe for sale on Melrose Avenue or in a botanica in East Los Angeles. There is a 50% markup for ironic distance. If pop culture becomes art, the critic will have to work harder to redifferentiate herself or himself from the vulgar masses. Hence the writing style of a Lyotard: the invocation of classicism, the return to Kant, the resuscitation of Longinus’ sublime and the traditional genre of the defense of poetry. The “lower” the culture, the “higher” the theory.
The anxious intellectual puts theory ahead of artistic practice; in fact, he or she attempts to make all of human experience look like an example of postmodern theory. This is evident in postmodern approaches to Third World and/or feminist discourses. It is not only a matter of claiming such discourses for postmodernism; it is a matter of approving such discourses because they are postmodern. This somehow establishes their worth. Craig Owens:
Still, if one of the most salient aspects of our postmodern culture is the presence of an insistent feminist voice (and I use the terms presence and voice advisedly), theories of postmodernism have tended either to neglect or to repress that voice . . . I would like to propose, however, that women's insistence on difference and incommensurability may not only be compatible with, but also an instance of postmodern thought. (61-62)
William Boelhower:
This new ethnic pragmatics . . . in the very act of reflecting on its own limits, will discover the very strategies that make the ethnic verbum a major filter for reading the modern and so-called postmodern experience not as a universal condition but as a historical construct. (120)
George Lipsitz:
But ethnic minority cultures play an important role in this postmodern culture. Their exclusion from political power and cultural recognition has enabled them to cultivate a sophisticated capacity for ambiguity, juxtaposition, and irony–all key qualities in the postmodern aesthetic. (159)
As Richard Rorty points out, this intellectual anxiety has to do with the difficulty of being part of one’s own generation. The middle-class members of the post-World War II generation grew up in splendid isolation. In the United States we lived in suburban utopias, deliberately shielded from urban strife and any kind of past. In Europe, especially in Germany, cities were rebuilt out of concrete and the past was paved over. Suburbanization made us stupid. I think of Dustin Hoffman in the film The Graduate (1968), floating aimlessly in his parents’ pool. Barbara Ehrenreich:
A generation ago, for example, hordes of white people fled the challenging, interracial atmosphere of the cities and settled in whites- only suburbs . . . . Cut off from the mainstream of humanity, we came to believe that pink is "flesh-color," that mayonnaise is a nutrient, and that Barry Manilow is a musician. (20)
In Wim Wenders’ 1974 film Wrong Move, Rudiger Vogler wanders through the concrete wasteland of a bedroom town outside Frankfurt:
Statt verzweifelt zu werden spurte ich nur, dass ich immer dummer wurde, und dass ich die wirklich verzweifelten um mich herum nur dumm anschauen konnte. Trotzdem bewegte ich mich durch die zubetonnierte Landschaft als sei ich noch immer der, der alles erlitte--der Held. [Instead of becoming desperate, I sensed that I was becoming stupider, and that I could only stare dumbly at the really desperate people around me. In spite of this, I moved though the concrete landscape as if I were still the one who suffered everything--the hero.]
By the mid-seventies the critique of suburbanized culture was in full swing. In the face of feminism and immigration of ethnic groups, the white male subject becomes worried that he is not the hero of the story anymore. This anxiety has also to do with the gentrification that started in the 1980s. When members of the suburban middle class moved back into the city, into areas such as Kreuzberg in West Berlin and downtown Los Angeles, which had been home to working-class immigrants and other minorities, we learned to negotiate a multi-cultural reality.
Many critics before me have pointed out the irony that, just as previously-silenced, darker-skinned, non-Western, female subjects begin to make themselves heard, the white European male declares “the death of the subject.” I do not want to dwell on that irony here, particularly since I want to affirm that postmodernism is not a sham but a real process, a central part of our creative lives. It is its theoretization and some of its official uses which are inadequate and destructive.
Cut #3: Lawrence Welk Goes PoMo
Deep in the heart of the Midwest, I am watching a rerun of “The Lawrence Welk Show.” I experience the deep spinal tingle of the “certification effect,” as that most Midwestern of television shows doubles for and validates the Midwest itself.2
I try to shove down my hilarity in front of my grandfather. It strikes me that the show isn’t “realist” at all; it suffers from a mannerism so extreme it makes Parmigiano look like Norman Rockwell. Simulated faces a la Baudrillard: ” . . . they are already purged of death, and even better than in life; more smiling, more authentic, in light of their model, like the faces in funeral parlors” (23).
My grandmother, now in a nursing home, was wildly in love with Lawrence Welk. My parents and I used to watch the show to make fun of it. Although we kept up our running ironic patter in front of the screen, over the years the show became a weirdly affirmative bonding ritual for the three of us. As I watch now, it scares me to realize how much of this Midwestern ethic I have absorbed: the sentimentality, the enforced niceness, the determination to not `go over anybody’s head.’
When my parents moved out to Los Angeles after World War II, much of their Michigan past got erased. The more plebeian parts in particular got untold night after night at the dinner table. I have had to reconstruct them for myself with the help of this horrendous videotape.
However, this is not a simulation; Lawrence Welk does not replace or erase me or my family. This odd archeology, this true-and-false process of calling myself a Midwesterner, exists in a set of relationships. There is my desire to remember what my grandmother liked, and was like, before her strokes. There is the smartaleck sense of humor I share with my parents. Out of the tacky pieces of my family, out of the worst of American culture, I am building a self.
I propose a double model for postmodernism. The official variety, the postmodernism of the development corporation and the dead referent, I call classical postmodernism. I name the variety after its reliance on classical motifs in architecture and in the essay; however, I also have in mind Bakhtin’s distinction between the classical and the grotesque (in Rabelais and His World). For me as for him, classical art suffers because it is polished and finished off, denying its origins in unofficial popular art. A TV commercial or avant-garde monologue could be equally classical in their denial of origins. I see postmodernism as a creativity that begins in people’s living rooms and automobiles and then makes its way to Documenta and the Brooklyn Academy of Music.
The second variety I call messy, vital postmodernism after Robert Venturi, who wrote the first postmodernist manifesto: “I am for messy vitality over obvious unity” (16). This postmodernism is not ashamed of its relationship to popular culture and the vernacular. George Lipsitz is quite right in commenting that pop music leads high art in the use of postmodern forms:
It is on the level of commodified mass culture that the most popular, and often the most profound, acts of cultural bricolage take place. The destruction of established canons and the juxtaposition of seemingly inappropriate forms that characterize the self-conscious postmodernism of "high culture" have long been staples of commodified popular culture. (161)
While Lipsitz is writing on Chicano rock’n’roll, I know the truth of his statement through my own work on hiphop music. A three-minute hiphop track epitomizes the postmodern art of quotation. In a high-speed electronic theft the DJ may combine cuts from Funkadelic, Kraftwerk, Mozart, Evelyn “Champagne” King, spaghetti Westerns and Senate testimony. Usually this is the low-affect quotation characteristic of postmodernism. Sometimes, however, you can discern an attitude towards the material quoted, which leads us to some of the differences between classical and messy, vital postmodernism.
Richard Rorty writes of the Habermas-Lyotard debate:
We could agree with Lyotard that we need no more metanarratives, but with Habermas that we need less dryness. We could agree with Lyotard that studies of the communicative competence of the transhistorical subject are of little use in reinforcing our sense of identification with our community, while still insisting on the importance of that sense. (173)
A community feeling still reverberates in the urban popular musics we can call postmodern. For instance, the beats of James Brown are ubiquitous in hiphop music; the form would not exist without him. Brown even recorded a rap song, “I’m Real,” to call attention to his continued existence in the face of so many copies. When the hiphop composer quotes James Brown, his or her attitude is always reverent. However, the listener cannot detect this reverence from the song alone. It is community-based knowledge. One has to hear people from Harlem or the Bronx talk about Brown and his status in Black music history.
Lipsitz stresses the postmodernism of Chicano rock’n’roll, but also its grounding in the culture’s experience: “. . . this marginal sensibility in music amounts to more than novelty or personal eccentricity; it holds legitimacy and power as the product of a real historical community’s struggle with oppression” (175).
The individual subject is still central in urban popular music, part of a proud resistance against racism. “For [the painter] John Valdez, pachuco imagery retains meaning because it displays `the beauty of a people we have been told are not beautiful.’”3 Here we glance back at Jochen Schulte-Sasse’s “simultaneity of the non- simultaneous” in the combined use of modern and postmodern forms:
The forms of cultural reproduction in modernity were closely linked to a mode of socialization intended to produce strong super-egos, which in turn favored the development of agonistic, competitive individuals with clearly delimited, ideological identities. (126)
This sounds very much like the aggressive stance of the pachuco or the rapper, proclaiming a resolute identity over a postmodern beat. While these figures often topple over into machismo, the same idea of mixed modes could also apply to the feminist Cherrie Moraga. She makes an uneasy, wrenchingly honest attempt at a unified self because she needs to. While fragmentation plays an important role in her work, she does not exalt it. Her subjectivity, her community, have already been fragmented enough.
Postmodernism does not have to bulldoze the subject. I know this because I see what happens in my own living room.
Cut #4: Tinkerbell in Theory:
“Postmodernism? Isn’t that when art becomes an insincere pastiche, instead of a statement from your heart?”
Tinkerbell in Practice:
Tink wants to construct an art installation in the living room. Both Jews and Christians live in our house. A creche appeals to her aesthetically, while Judah Maccabee appeals thematically. Her solution: “Judah meets Jesus.”Now that’s postmodern.
Notes
1. I am thinking here of Gilligan’s feminist critique of Lawrence Kohlberg’s scale of moral development, which moves from a stress on concrete human relationships upward to an increasing level of abstraction.
2. See Walker Percy, The Moviegoer (New York: Knopf, 1960).
3. Lipsitz 172, quoting Victor Valle, “Chicano Art: An Emerging Generation” (Los Angeles Times, August 7, 1983).
Works Cited
- Anzaldua, Gloria. “Speaking in Tongues: A Letter to Third World Women Writers.” This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color. Eds. Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldua. New York: Kitchen Table- Women of Color, 1983. 165-173.
- Bakhtin, Mikhail. Rabelais and His World. Trans. Helene Iswolsky. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1984.
- Bakhtin, Mikhail. “The Problem of Speech Genres.” In Speech Genres and Other Late Essays. Trans. Vern McGee. Austin: U of Texas P, 1986.
- Baudrillard, Jean. Simulations: The Precession of Simulacra. Trans. Paul Foss, Paul Patton, and Philip Beitchman. London: Foreign Agents, 1984.
- Boelhower, William. Through a Glass Darkly: Ethnic Semiosis in American Literature. New York: Oxford UP, 1987.
- Ehrenreich, Barbara. “The Unbearable Whiteness of Being.” This World. San Francisco Chronicle 10 July 1988: 20.
- Gilligan, Carol. In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women’s Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1982.
- Hutcheon, Linda. “The Politics of Postmodernism: Parody and History.” Cultural Critique 5 (Winter 1986-87). 179-207.
- Jameson, Fredric. “Postmodernism and Consumer Society.” The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture. Ed. Hal Foster. Port Townsend, WA: Bay Press, 1983. 111-125.
- Kaplan, E. Ann. Rocking Around the Clock: Music Television, Postmodernism, and Consumer Culture. New York: Methuen, 1987.
- Lipsitz, George. “Cruising Around the Historical Bloc– Postmodernism and Popular Music in East Los Angeles.” Cultural Critique 5 (Winter 1986-87). 157-177.
- Lyotard, Jean-Francois. “What is Postmodernism?” 1982. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1984.
- Moraga, Cherrie. Loving in the War Years. Boston: South End, 1983.
- Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Women and the Cinema: A Critical Anthology. Eds. Karyn Kay and Gerald Peary. New York: 1977. 412-428.
- Owens, Craig. “The Discourse of Others: Feminism and Postmodernism.” The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture. Ed. Hal Foster. Port Townsend, WA: Bay Press, 1983. 57-77.
- Rich, Adrienne. Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution. New York: W.W. Norton, 1976.
- Rorty, Richard. “Habermas and Lyotard on Postmodernity.” Habermas and Modernity. Ed. Richard J. Bernstein. Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1985. 161-175.
- Schulte-Sasse, Jochen. “Electronic Media and Cultural Politics in the Reagan Era: The Attack on Libya and Hands Across America as Postmodern Events.” Cultural Critique 8 (Winter 1987-88). 123-152.
- Venturi, Robert. Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. 1966. New York: Museum of Modern Art Papers on Architecture, 1977.