Category: Volume 2 – Number 3 – May 1992

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    Every issue of Postmodern Culture will carry notices of events, calls for papers, and other announcments, up to 250 words, free of charge. Advertisements will also be published on an exchange basis. Send anouncements and advertisements to: pmc@jefferson.village.virginia.edu

     


     

         Journal and Book Announcements:
    
    1)   _Contention_: Debates in Society, Culture, and Science
    2)   _Differences_: A journal of feminist cultural studies
    3)   _Genders_
    4)   _Women's Studies_ 
    5)   _LIT_: Literature Interpretation Theory
    6)   _City Images_: Perspectives from Literature, Philosophy, and
              Film edited by Mary Ann Caws; Gordon and Breach
              Publishers
    7)   _New Perspectives on Women and Comedy_, edited by Regina
              Barreca; Gordon and Breach Publishers
    8)   _New Left Review_: The Claims of Equality, NLR 190
    9)   _Nomad_: An Interdisciplinary Journal of the Humanities,
              Arts, and Sciences
    10)  _Representations_
    11)  _Studies in Popular Culture_
    12)  _Science as Culture_
    13)  _Capitalism, Nature, Socialism_: A Journal of Socialist
              Ecology
    14)  _Rethinking MARXISM_: A Journal of Economics, Culture, and
              Society
    15)  _Communication Theory_: A Journal of the International
              Communication Association
    16)  _Public Culture_
    17)  _Journal of Beckett Studies_ (New Series) 
    18)  _Strategies_: A Journal of Theory, Culture and Politics
    19)  _ Theory, Culture and Society_
    20)  _Poetics Today_
    21)  _Surfaces_, an electronic journal 
    22)  _Discourse_, v.15, n.1--Flaunting It: Lesbian and Gay
              Studies
    23)  _U.S. Latino Literature_: An Essay and Annotated
              Bibliography; March/Abrazo Press
    
         Calls for Papers and Participants:
    
    24)  _The Electronic Journal of Communication/La Revue
              Electronique de Communication_--call for papers on
              computer-mediated communication
    25)  The Principia Cybernetica Project--a call for papers on
              cybernetic concepts and principles, evolutionary
              philosophy, knowledge development, computer-support
              systems for collaborative theory building
    26)  The Disembodied Art Gallery Exhibition, Brighton, England,
              Summer 1992    
    27)  Arts and Technology Symposium--a call for compositions,
              presentations, papers and artwork 
    28)  ECHT '92, Fourth ACM Conference on Hypertext--a call for
              papers, technical briefings, tutorials, panels,
              demonstrations, videos, and posters on hypertext and
              hypermedia
    
         Conferences and Societies:
    
    29)  Penn State University Seminar Series, Issues in Criticism.
              Historicisms and Cultural Critique, June 25-30, 1992
    30)  Penn State Conference on Rhetoric and Composition, July
              8-11, 1992 
    31)  Theory, Culture and Society, 10th Anniversary Conference,
              August 16-19, 1992
    32)  Marxism in the New World Order: Crises and Possibilities at
              University of Massachusetts-Amherst, November 12-14,
              1992
    33)  Society for the Advancement of Games and Simulations in
              Education and Training and The International Simulation
              and Gaming Association Conference, August 18-21, 1992  
    
         Networked Discussion Groups:
    
    34)  VIOLEN-L, a networked discussion group for the study of
              violence, human rights, and public policies on violence
    35)  SOVHIST, a networked discussion group for the study of
              Soviet history from 1917-1991
    36)  AMLIT-L, a networked discussion group for the study of
              American literature 
    37)  INMYLIFE, a networked discussion group for the study of
              Beatle era popular culture 
    
    1)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
                              _CONTENTION_
                Debates in Society, Culture, and Science
    
         IS:
    ". . . simply a triumph from cover to cover."
                                  *Frederick Crews*
    
    ". . . extremely important."
                                  *Alberta Arthurs*
    
    ". . . the most exciting new journal that I have ever read."
                                  *Lynn Hunt*
    
    ". . . superb."
                                  *Janet Abu-Lughod*
    
    ". . . an important, exciting, and very timely project."
                                  *Theda Skocpol*
    
    ". . . an idea whose time has come."
                                  *Robert Brenner*
    ". . . serious and accessible."
                                  *Louise Tilly*
    
    Subscriptions (3 issues) are available to individuals at $25.00
    and to institutions at $50.00 (plus $10.00 for foreign surface
    postage) from the Journals Division, Indiana University Press,
    601 N. Morton, Bloomington, IN 47404.  Phone: 812-855-9449.  Fax:
    812-855-7931.
    
    2)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
                             *_differences_*
    
                 A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies
    
                Edited by Naomi Schor and Elizabeth Week
    
                           Volume 3, Number 1
    Politics/Power/Culture: Postmodernity & Feminist Political Theory
    Edited by Kathy E. Ferguson and Kirstie M. McClure
    
                           Volume 3, Number 2
                Queer Theory: Lesbian and Gay Sexualities
                      Edited by Teresa de Lauretis
    
                           Volume 3, Number 3
          Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak: Feminism in Colonization
                        Joan W. Scott: Commentary
       Ann-Louise Shapiro: Love Stories: Female Crimes of Passion
                         in Fin-de-siecle Paris.
                 Mary Lydon: Calling Yourself a Woman: 
                     Marguerite Yourcenar & Colette.
                    Eric O. Clarke: Fetal Attraction:
                    Hegel's An-aesthetics of Gender.
               Neil Lazarus: Doubting the New World Order:
           Marxism and the Claims of Postmodern Social Theory.
                    Interview with Antoinette Fouque
    
    Subscriptions:  $28 (individuals), $48 (institutions), $10
    (foreign surface post).
    
    Order from:  INDIANA UNIVERSITY PRESS, 601 N. Morton,
    Bloomington, IN 47404.  Phone: 812-855-9449; fax: 812-855-7931.
    
    3)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
                                 GENDERS
    
                           Ann Kibbey, Editor
                     University of Colorado, Boulder
    
    Since 1988, _Genders_ has presented innovative theories of gender
    and sexuality in art, literature, history, music, photography,
    TV, and film.  Today, _Genders_ continues to publish both new and
    known authors whose work reflects an international movement to
    redefine the boundaries of traditional doctrines and disciplines.
    
                          Number 14, Fall 1992
    *Lynda Hart*   Karen Finley's Dirty Work: Censorship, Homophobia,
                   and the NEA
    *Samir Dayal*  The Subaltern Does Not Speak: Mira Nair's _Salaam
                   Bombay_ as a Post-Colonial Text
    *Silvia Tubert*     How IVF Exploits the Wish to be a Mother: A
                        Psychoanalyst's Account
    *Mary A. Favret*    A Woman Writes the Fiction of Science: The
                        Body of _Frankenstein_
    *Karen Brennan*     Anais Nin: Author(iz)ing the Erotic Body
    *Albaraq Mahbobah*  Reading the Anorexic Maze
    *Muriel Dimen*      Theorizing Social Reproduction: On the
                   Origins of De-Centered Subjectivity
    
    _Genders_ is published triannually in Spring, Fall, Winter
    Single copy rates:  Individual $9, Institution $14
    Foreign postage, add $2/copy
    Yearly subscription rates: Individual $24, Institution $40
    Foreign postage, add $5.50/subscription
    
                   University of Texas Press Journals
                      Box 7819, Austin, Texas 78713
    
    4)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _WOMEN'S STUDIES_
    
    edited by *Wendy Martin*
    
    Interdisciplinary and international in scope, the journal
    publishes papers from a broad range of fields, including
    literature, language, art, and history, as well as political
    science, economics, sociology, anthropology, psychology, law and
    the sciences
    
    4 issues per volume -- ISSN: 0049-7878
    Current subscription: Volume 21 (1992)
    
    For journal prices please contact the publisher.  All prices are
    subject to change without notice.  The US dollar price applies in
    North America only.
    
    GORDON AND BREACH PUBLISHERS
    P.O. Box 786 Cooper Station, New York, NY 10276
    US orders: call 1-800-545-8398 * fax 212-645-2459
    All other countries contact the UK: call 44 (0734) 568316 * fax
    44 (0734) 568211
    
    5)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _LIT_
    LITERATURE INTERPRETATION THEORY
    
    edited by *Lee A. Jacobus* and *Regina Barreca*
    
    Placing equal emphasis on theoretical and interpretive positions,
    _LIT_ offers the best in current literary controversy and debate.
    
    Forthcoming issues focus on Helene Cixous as Critic, the Future
    of Marxist Criticism, and the Politics of Popular Fiction.
    
    4 issues per volume -- ISSN: 1043-6928
    Current subscription: Volume 4 (1992)
    
    For journal prices please contact the publisher.  All prices are
    subject to change without notice.  The US dollar price applies in
    North America only.
    
    GORDON AND BREACH PUBLISHERS
    P.O. Box 786 Cooper Station, New York, NY 10276
    US orders: call 1-800-545-8398 * fax 212-645-2459
    All other countries contact the UK: call 44 (0734) 568316 * fax
    44 (0734) 568211
    
    6)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _CITY IMAGES_
    Perspectives from Literature, Philosophy, and Film
    
    edited by *Mary Ann Caws*
    
    Offering glimpses of the city as it appears in films, novels,
    photographs, poems, architecture, stagings and journals, _CITY
    IMAGES_ collects essays by twenty of today's finest urban
    landscape writers.  Among the distinguished contributors are
    Christopher Prendergast, Richard Kuhns, Alfred Kazin and Charles
    Molesworth.
    
    1991 * Pages: 278
    Hardcover * ISBN: 2-88124-426-2   *Price: $42.00
    Softcover * ISBN: 2-88124-464-5   *Price: $16.00
    
    Orders for books do not include postage and handling.  All prices
    are subject to change without notice.  The US dollar price
    applies in North America only.
    
    GORDON AND BREACH PUBLISHERS
    P.O. Box 786 Cooper Station, New York, NY 10276
    US orders: call 1-800-545-8398 * fax 212-645-2459
    All other countries contact the UK: call 44 (0734) 568316 * fax
    44 (0734) 568211
    
    7)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    * * Available--Spring 1992 * *
    
    _New Perspectives on
    WOMEN AND COMEDY_
    
    edited by *Regina Barreca*
    
    The original essays in this volume explore the way women have
    used humor to break down cultural stereotypes between the
    genders.  Examples from literature and the performing and visual
    arts deal with humor and violence, humor and disability, humor
    and the supposition of women's shame, lesbian and ethnic humor,
    and particularly women's response to men's humor.
    
    1992 * Pages: 240
    Hardcover * ISBN: 2-88124-533-1  *Price: $39.00
    Softcover * ISBN: 2-88124-534-X  *Price: $16.00
    
    Orders for books do not include postage and handling.  All prices
    are subject to change without notice.  The US dollar price
    applies in North America only.
    
    GORDON AND BREACH PUBLISHERS
    P.O. Box 786 Cooper Station, New York, NY 10276
    US orders: call 1-800-545-8398 * fax 212-645-2459
    All other countries contact the UK: call 44 (0734) 568316 * fax
    44 (0734) 568211
    
    8)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
                            _NEW LEFT REVIEW_
    
                     NLR 190 THE CLAIMS OF EQUALITY
    
    Introductory Offer--Receive This SPECIAL ISSUE Free!
    
    *G.A. Cohen*        The Future of a Disillusion
    
    *Paul Cammack*      Brazil: Old Politics, New Forces
    
    *Tony Benn*         the Menace of the Secret State
    
    *Roger Taylor*      Surviving the Thatcher Years
    
    *Elizabeth Wilson*       Feminism Without Illusions?
    
    *Julian Stallabrass*     Snapshots of Prague and Berlin
    
    *Terry Bloomfield*       Rock Against the Commodity
    
    *Victor Kiernan*         Marx and the Undiscovered Country
    
    *Dimitris Kyrtatas*      Revelation Revised
    
    *Branka Magas*           Comment on Gellner
    
       * * Subscribe now and receive this 144-page issue FREE * *
    
    ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION (6 ISSUES)
    Individuals: Overseas US$42/Can$50/&26
                             Airmail US$54/Can$65/&34; UK&22.50
    Institutions: Overseas US$82/&47
                             Airmail US$94/&55; UK&43.50
    
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                         *Subscription Address*
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    9)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _*NOMAD*_
    
    ===AN INTERDISCIPLINARY JOURNAL
    ======OF THE HUMANITIES,
    =========ARTS,
    ============AND SCIENCES
    
    _NOMAD_ publishes works of cross-disciplinary interest, such as
    intermedia artwork, metatheory, and experimental writing.  The
    journal is a forum for those texts that explore or examine the
    undefined regions among critical theory, the visual arts, and
    writing
    
    Submissions: Send manuscripts (2 copies, with SASE) and artwork
    (black and white camera-ready, 8.5" by 11" or less) to NOMAD, c/o
    Mike Smith, 406 Williams, Florida State University, Tallahassee
    FL 32306.
    
    Subscriptions:  $9.00 per year (2 issues) from NOMAD c/o Mike
    Smith, 406 Williams, Florida State University, Tallahassee FL
    32306.
    
    10)-------------------------------------------------------------
    You won't want to miss . . .
    
                           _*represent*ations_
    
    Number 36 * Fall 1991
         Frances Ferguson on Sade and pornography; Joseph Pequigney
         on sodomy in Dante; Alan Sinfield on Noel Coward; R. Howard
         Bloch on the romance of Old French Letters; T. Walter
         Herbert, Jr., on Hawthorne and Victorian sexuality
    
    Number 37 * Winter 1992
         Dipesh Chakrabarty and Gyan Pandey in a forum on "India and
         the Writing of History"; Thomas Richards on British Museum
         surveys of Tibet; Stephen Tifft on Renoir and the Fall of
         France; Nicholas Dirks on Castes of Mind
    
    Individuals $26.00, Students $18.00, Institutions $52.00. 
    Outside U.S. add $6.00 postage.  Send payment to: 
    _Representations_, University of California Press Journals, 2120
    Berkeley Way, Berkeley, CA 94720
    
    11)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    STUDIES IN POPULAR CULTURE_ 
    
    _Studies in Popular Culture_, (_SiPC_), The journal of the
    Popular Culture Association in the South, publishes articles on
    popular culture however mediated: through film, literature,
    radio, television, music, graphics, print, practices,
    associations, events--any of the material or conceptual
    conditions of life.  Its contributors from the United States,
    Canada, France, Israel, and Australia, include distinguished
    anthropologists, sociologists, cultural geographers,
    ethnomusicologists, historians, and scholars in mass
    communications, philosophy, literature, and religion. 
    
    _Studies in Popular Culture_ is published in October and April 
    by the Popular Culture Association in the South.  Authors are 
    urged but not required to join the Association.  All members of 
    the Association receive _Studies in Popular Culture_, the PC 
    Newsletter, and announcements of the annual meeting in early 
    October.  Yearly membership is currently $15.00 (International: 
    $20.00).  
    
    Write to the Executive Secretary, Diane Calhoun-French, Academic
    Dean, Jefferson Community College-SW, Louisville, KY, 40272, for
    information regarding membership, individual issues, back copies,
    or sets. 
    
    Direct editorial queries and send manuscripts to the editor:
    Dennis Hall, Department of English, University of Louisville,
    Louisville, Kentucky, 40292.  Telephone: (502) 588-6896 or 0509. 
    Bitnet: DRHALL01@ULKYVM.  Fax: 588-5055.  Please enclose two
    double-spaced copies and a self-addressed stamped envelope. 
    Black and white illustrations may accompany the text.  Material
    also may be submitted for consideration via electronic mail. 
    
    _SiPC_ ordinarily runs short pieces, essays that total, with 
    notes and bibliography, less than twenty pages in typescript. 
    Documentation may be in the form appropriate for the discipline 
    of the writer; the new MLA style sheet is a useful model.  Please
    indicate if the work is available on computer disk.  The Editor 
    reserves the right to make stylistic changes on accepted 
    manuscripts. 
    
    12)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _SCIENCE AS CULTURE_
    
    In a society where icons of progress are drawn from science,
    technology, and medicine, SCIENCE AS CULTURE examines how these
    disciplines relate to the rest of life.  The journal investigates
    how particular values are embodied and naturalized in concepts,
    techniques, research priorities, gadgets, and advertising.  Much
    praised for its evocative articles, _SCIENCE AS CULTURE_
    encompasses peoples' experience at the workplace, the cinema, the
    hospital, the home, and the theater.  Readable and attractive, it
    explores all the ways in which science is involved in shaping the
    values that contend for influence over the wider society.
    
    RECENT ARTICLES INCLUDE:
    
    Cleaning Up on the Farm, *Les Levidow*
    The Social Side of Sustainability, Class, Gender, and Race,
    *Patricia L. Allen* and *Carolyn E. Sachs*
    Biodiversity and Food Security, *Alistair Smith*
    Alternative Agriculture and the New Biotechnologies, *Jack
    Kloppenburg*
    Green Meanings: What Might 'Sustainable Agriculture' Sustain?,
    *Christopher Hamlin*
    
    SAMPLE COPIES AVAILABLE!
    
    **For more information write: Free Association Books, 26
    Freegrove Road, London N7 9RQ; Credit cards (24 hours) 071-609-
    5646.  
    **In North America: Guilford Publications, Inc., 72 Spring St,
    New York, NY 10012, Attn: Journals Dept.  Or call: 212-431-9800. 
    Fax: 212-966-6708.  
    **Volume 3, 1992 (4 issues); Individuals:  20/US $30;
    Institutions:  35/US $65.  Single copy  5.95/US $8.              
    
    13)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _CAPITALISM
    NATURE
    SOCIALISM_
    
    A Journal of Socialist Ecology
    
    Edited by James O'Connor, University of California, Santa Cruz
    
    _CNS_ is the only serious red-green theoretical journal in the
    world.  It is edited by a distinguished group of scholars and
    scholar activists, half of whom are North American, the other
    half from a variety of countries.  _CNS_ seeks to meld the
    traditional concerns of labor movements with the ecological
    struggles in particular, and demands of the new social movements
    in general.  To this end, it publishes articles, reviews,
    interviews, documents, and poems that locate themselves at the
    site between history and nature, or society and the environment. 
    
    RECENT ARTICLES INCLUDE: Political Economy of the Gulf War, J.
    O'Connor  Eco-feminism and Eco-Socialism, Mary Mellor 
    Sustainable Agriculture at the Crossroads, Patricia Allen  Green
    Cities Politics, Patrick Mazza  Lewis Mumford: The Forgotten
    American Environmentalist: An Essay in Rehabilitation,
    Ramachandra Guha  Economics of the U.S. Greens, C. Thurner 
    Ecology and Regulation Theory, Alain Lipietz  Red Green Movements
    in India, Gail Omvedt  Political Ecology of Marx, Manuel
    Sacristan  Is Sustainable Capitalism Possible? James O'Connor
    
    SAMPLE COPIES AVAILABLE!
    
    For more information write: Guilford Publications, Inc., 72
    Spring St, New York, NY 10012, Attn: Journals Dept.  Or call:
    212-431-9800.  Fax: 212-966-6708.  
    
    Volume 3, 1992 (4 issues); Individuals: $20.00, Outside U.S.:
    $25.00 (surface mail), $35.00 (airmail); Institutions: $60.00,
    Outside U.S.: $75.00 (airmail).  
    
    Also available in better bookstores.
    
    14)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                          _Rethinking MARXISM_
              a journal of economics, culture, and society
    
    The aim of this journal is to stimulate interest and debate over
    the explanatory power and social consequences of Marxian economic
    and social analysis.  To that end, it publishes studies that seek
    to discuss, elaborate, and/or extend Marxian theory.  The
    concerns of the journal include theoretical and philosophical
    (methodological and epistimilogical) matters as well as more
    concrete empirical analysis--all work that leads to further
    development of a distinctively Marxian discourse.  Contributions
    are encouraged from people in many disciplines and from a wide
    range of perspectives.
    
    ARTICLES OF INTEREST:  Post-America and the Collapse of Leninism,
    Immanuel Wallerstein  On Marx and Freud, Louis Althusser  Louis
    Althusser and the Unity of Science and Revolution, Nancy
    Hartstock  Race, Culture, and Communications: Looking Backward
    and Forward at Cultural Studies, Stuart Hall  Fordism/Post-
    Fordism, Marxism/Post-Marxism: The Second Cultural Divide, Julie
    Graham  New World Order and Other Art, Sue Coe.
    
    SAMPLE COPIES AVAILABLE!
    
    For more information write: Guilford Publications, Inc., 72
    Spring St, New York, NY 10012, Attn: Journals Dept.  Or call:
    212-431-9800.  Fax: 212-966-6708.  
    
    Volume 5, 1992 (4 issues); Individuals: $27.50, Outside U.S.:
    $32.50 (surface mail), $42.50 (airmail); Institutions: $55.00,
    Outside U.S.: $70.00 (airmail); Students: $20.00 (current I.D.
    required).  
    
    Also available in better bookstores.
    
    15)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _COMMUNICATION THEORY_
    
    A JOURNAL OF THE INTERNATIONAL COMMUNICATION ASSOCIATION
    
    Edited by Robert T. Craig
    University of Colorado at Boulder
    
    COMMUNICATION THEORY is an international, interdisciplinary forum
    for theory and theoretically oriented research on all aspects of
    communication.  It is designed to sustain a scholarly dialogue
    across disciplinary, methodological, and geographical boundaries.
    
    Holding up a mirror to the field of communication in all its
    diversity, stimulating reflection and dialogue on issues of
    interdisciplinary significance, encouraging innovations and
    experimentation, and at times provoking controversy,
    COMMUNICATION THEORY will engage its readers in the
    reconstruction of an academic discipline at a crucial juncture in
    its history.
    
    ARTICLES OF INTEREST:
    
    Communication Boundary Management: A Theoretical Model of
    Managing Disclosure of Private Information Between Marital
    Couples, Sandra Petronio
    Syntactic and Pragmatic Codes in Communication, Donald G. Ellis
    Conversational Universals and Comparative Theory: Turning to
    Swedish and American Acknowledgement Tokens-in-Interaction, Wayne
    A. Beach & Anna K. Lindstrom
    Theories of Culture and Communication, Bradford 'J' Hall
    Communication, Conflict, and Culture, C. David Mortensen
    
    SAMPLE COPIES AVAILABLE!
    
    For more information write: Guilford Publications, Inc., 72
    Spring St, New York, NY 10012, Attn: Journals Dept.  Or call:
    212-431-9800.  Fax: 212-966-6708.  
    
    Volume 2, 1992 (4 issues); Individuals: $30.00; Institutions:
    $60.00.  Outside U.S., add $17.50 (airmail included).  
    
    16)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                            _PUBLIC CULTURE_
    
               * * * Volume 4, Number 1 (Fall 1991) * * *
    
    Looking at Film Hoardings, R. Srivatsan  *  Knocking on The Doors
    of Public Culture, Pradip Krishen  *  The Meaning of Baseball in
    1992, Bill Brown  *  Becoming the Armed Man, J. William Gibson  *
    
    The Function of New Theory, Xiaobing Tang  *  Worldly Discourses,
    Dan Rose  *  Voices of the Rainforest, Steven Feld  * 
    Anuradhapura, Wimal Disanayake  *  River and Bridge, Meena
    Alexander
    
              * * * Volume 4, Number 2 (Spring 1992) * * *
    
    The Banality of Power and the Aesthetics of Vulgarity in the
    Postcolony, Achille Mbembe  *  Take Care of Public Telephones,
    Robert J. Foster  *  The Death of History?, Dipesh Chakrabarty  *
    
    The Public Fetus and the Family Car, Janelle Sue Taylor  *  Race
    and the Humanities: The "Ends" of Modernity?, Homi Bhabha  * 
    "Disappeating" Iraqis, David Prochaska  *  Algeria Caricatures
    the Gulf War, Susan Slyomovics  *  Mobilizing Fictions, Robert
    Stam  *  Television and the Gulf War, Victor J. Caldarola
    
                 Engaging Critical Analyses of Tensions
                Between Global Cultural Flows and Public
                      Cultures in a Diasporic World
    
    _Public Culture_ is published biannually at The University
    Museum, University of Pennsylvania, 33rd and Spruce Streets,
    Philadelphia, PA 19104-6324.  A year's subscription for
    individuals is $10.00 ($14.00 foreign); institutions $20.00
    ($24.00 foreign).  Back issues are available.  Write, call 215-
    898-4054, or fax: 215-898-0657.
    
    17)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    The Florida State University Department of English announces the 
               _JOURNAL OF BECKETT STUDIES_ (New Series)  
    
    Beginning with a double issue Vol. I, Nos. 1 and 2 (spring 1992),
    the Journal will appear semi-annually thereafter:  Vol. II, No. 1
    (autumn 1992) and Vol II, No. 2 (spring 1993). 
    
    The current double issue features two previously unpublished
    poems by Samuel Beckett: "Brief Dream," a five-line poem in
    English which Beckett sent to publisher John Calder in 1988, and
    "L+," a 1987 quatrain in French dedicated to James Knowlson (both
    published with permission of Calder Publications).  Vol. 2, No. 1
    (autumn 1992) will feature Beckett's revised text for _What
    Where_ (with permission of Faber and Faber, Ltd.). 
    
    The Journal is dedicated to printing scholarship, criticism and
    theory of the highest quality, reviewing significant books and
    productions in a timely fashion, and, on occasion, printing
    previously unpublished material by Samuel Beckett.  We cannot
    publish regularly, and even, as we hope, expand our publication
    with special issues and monographs, without your support.  Please
    return the coupon below with your check to help keep the _Journal
    of Beckett Studies_ a vital source of Beckett scholarship. 
    
                   Ruby Cohn Prize in Beckett Studies 
    
    The Journal of Beckett Studies is proud to offer the bi-annual
    Ruby Cohn Prize for the most significant contribution to the
    Journal by an individual who has not previously published on
    Beckett.  The winner will be determined by the Editorial Board
    from nominations submitted by readers and contributors.  The
    award will carry a $250.00 honorarium, be announced in the spring
    1993 issue (Vol. 2, No. 2), and thereafter in even numbered
    volumes. 
    
    Individual subscriptions are $15.00 
    New Series Vol. I, Nos. 1 & 2 (spring 1992)................$15.00
    New Series Vol. 2, No. 1 (autumn 1992) 
               Vol. 2, No. 2 (spring 1993).....................$15.00
    
                  Journal of Beckett Studies (New Series) 
    Dept. of English, Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL 32306
    
    18)-------------------------------------------------------------
    _STRATEGIES_
    A JOURNAL OF THEORY, CULTURE & POLITICS 
    
    4289 BUNCHE HALL 
    UCLA 
    LOS ANGELES, CA  90024 
    
    NEW ISSUE NOW AVAILABLE: 
    
    Marx After Elvis:  Politics/Popular Culture 
    Issue No. 6 
    
    Susan Buck-Morss        Is There a Common Postmodern Culture? 
    Slavoj Zizek            The `Missing Link' of Ideology 
    Iain Chambers           Migrant Landscapes 
    Laurence A. Rickels     Missing Marx: or, How to Take Better Aim 
    Kelly Dennis            Leave it to Beaver: The Object of        
    
                               Pornography 
    
    Michael Shapiro         American Fictions and Political Culture 
    J. Michael Jarrett      Rhapsody in Read: Ishmael Reed and Free  
    
                               Jazz 
    Stathis Gourgouris      Adorno After Sun Ra 
    Katrina Irving          Building Equivalences Through Rap-Music 
    Sande Cohen             Cultural Use-Value and Historicist       
    
                               Reduction 
    
    Current Rates: (Make all checks payable--in US Dollars--to
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    Special Rate for Individuals 
    Ordering Both Nos. 2 & 3                $12 Domestic, $14 Foreign
    
    19)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _THEORY,
    CULTURE &
    SOCIETY_
    
                 Explorations in Critical Social Science
    
    "It seems to me that Mike Featherstone
    and his editorial group have done
    more than any other sociological group
    to move sociology forward into new 
    terrains of thought and discourse and
    they have done so with power, grace
    and insight."  Professor Norman Denzin
    
    _Theory, Culture & Society_ was launched to cater to the
    resurgence of interest in culture within contemporary social
    science.  The journal provides a forum for articles which
    theorize the relationship between culture and society.  _Theory,
    Culture & Society_ builds upon the heritage of the classic
    founders of social theory and examines the ways in which this
    tradition has been re-shaped by a new generation of theorists. 
    _Theory, Culture & Society_ also seeks to publish theoretically
    informed analyses of everyday life, popular culture and new
    intellectual movements such as postmodernism.
    
    The journal features papers by and about the work of a wide range
    of modern social and cultural theorists such as Foucault,
    Bourdieu, Baudrillard, Goffman, Bell, Parsons, Elias, Gadamer,
    Luhmann, Habermas, Giddens and Simmel.
    
    _Theory, Culture & Society_ is published quarterly in February,
    May, August and November.
    
    20% Introductory Discount
    
    Enter your new subscription to _Theory, Culture & Society_ at a
    special introductory discount.  Subscribe today and you'll save
    20% off the cost of your subscription.
    
    Individual: One Year $37 ($46*)
                Two Years $74 ($92*)
    Institutional: One Year $99 ($123*)
                   Two Years $198 ($248*)
    
    *Usual rate
    
    Send your order to:  Sage Publications Ltd.
                         P.O. Box 5096
                         Newbury Park, CA 91359
                         USA
    
    Ask about the special back issue sale!
    
    20)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                             _POETICS TODAY_
    
       International Journal for Theory and Analysis of Literature
                            and Communication
    
    Editor: Itamar Even-Zohar (Tel Aviv)
    Published by Duke University Press in cooperation with the Porter
    Institute for Poetics and Semiotics, Tel Aviv University.
    
    Here's how you can benefit from using _Poetics Today_ special
    issues in your classroom:  CONVENIENT * ACCESSIBLE * CHEAP *
    RISK-FREE
    
    Children's Literature
    Zohar Shavit, editor
              This introduction to the field explores questions of
              childhood and children's culture, the teaching function
              of children's literature and current thinking on the
              demarcation of boundaries between children's and adult
              literature.  250 pages.  1992
    
    Disciplinarity
    David R. Shumway and Ellen Messer-Davidow, editors
              An examination of the discipline as a historically
              specific form, offering diverse perspectives on the way
              modern disciplines control the organization and
              production of knowledge.  171 pages.  1991
    
    Narratology Revisited I, II, and III
    Brian McHale and Ruth Ronen, editors
              In three volumes, narratologists and other scholars of
              narrative reflect on the progress (or lack of progress)
              in narrative theory over the past decade and on the
              current state of the art.  191, 237, 247 pages
              (available singly or as three issues).  1990 and 1991
    
    *Free examination copies* of _Poetics Today_ special issues are
    available for course consideration and will be sent upon receipt
    of your request on departmental letterhead.  Fax: 919-684-8644.
    
    *Single issue orders* send a check payable to Duke University
    Press, $14.00 for each issue.  Or call 919-684-6837 and have
    credit card information ready.
    
    *Subscriptions* Individuals can get a 1992 subscription (4
    issues) for $28; students pay only $14 with a photocopy of their
    current I.D.  Add $8 for postage outside the U.S.  Send a check
    payable to Duke University Press or call 919-684-6837 and have
    VISA or MasterCard information ready.
    
    Mail orders to:  Duke University Press, Journals Division, 6697
    College Station, Durham, NC 27708.
    
    21)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _SURFACES_
    
    A New Interdisciplinary Electronic Journal
    
    Published by the Department of Comparative Literature at the
    University of Montreal, _SURFACES_ is an open forum oriented
    toward the reorganization of knowledge in the humanities.  The
    growth of interdisciplinary study in the humanities and the
    emergence of new areas of inquiry has reached a point that calls
    into question both traditional thematic comparisons and the
    pretensions of any one theoretical approach to delimit and
    dominate a field of study.  _SURFACES_ aims to provide an
    international forum for scholars to address contemporary problems
    and questions, using its electronic format to offer services
    beyond the reach of traditional journals.
    
    _SURFACES_ is available free of charge through the various
    electronic mail networks (Internet, Bitnet, Janet, Earn &
    Netnorth).
    
    Submissions welcomed:  Please address articles, reviews, notes,
    comments and news items for inclusion to the editors either by e-
    mail, on diskette or in hard copy.  We are particularly
    interested in essays that address the cultural problematics
    engendered by and for new technologies.
    
    All correspondence to:  The Editors, SURFACES, Dept. of
    Comparative Literature, University of Montreal, C.P. 6128, succ.
    "A", Montreal, Canada, H3C 3J7.
    
    Tel.: 514-343-5683
    FAX: 514-343-5684
    
    INTERNET Access via FTP anonymous: harfang.cc.umontreal.ca
    
    22)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                                _DIS
                                  COURSE_
    
              Volume 15, Number 1
              SPECIAL ISSUE
    
              **Flaunting It: Lesbian and Gay Studies**
    
              Delinquent Desire: Race, Sex, and Ritual in
              Reform Schools for Girls by *Kathryn Baker*
    
              Lesbian Pornography: The Re-Making of (a)
              Community by *Terralee Bensinger*
    
              Investigating Queer Fictions of the Past:
              Identities, Differences, and Lesbian and Gay
              Historical Self-Representations by *Scott Bravmann*
    
              "I Am What I Am" (Or Am I?):  The Making and 
              Unmaking of Lesbian and Gay Identity in _High 
              Tech Boys_ by Sarah Chinn and Kris Franklin
    
              Nudes, Prudes, and Pigmies: The Desirability 
              of Disavowal in _Physical Culture Magazine_ by 
              Greg Mullins
    
              Muscling the Mainstream: Lesbian Murder 
              Mysteries and Fantasies of Justice by JoAnn 
              Pavietich
    
              Obscene Allegories: Narrative Structures in Gay
              Male Porn by David Pendleton
    
              Applied Metaphors: AIDS and Literature by
              Thomas Piontek
    
              The Traffic in Dildoes: The Phallus as Camp and
              the Revenge of Genderfuck by June L. Reich
    
    Special Issue: $12.95 individual
                   $25.00 institution
                   $1.75 post
    
    Subscription (3 issues): $25.00 individual
                             $50.00 institution
                             $10.00 foreign surface post
    
    Send orders to Journals Division, Indiana University Press, 601
    N. Morton, Bloomington, IN 47404; Fax to 812-855-7931; Call 812-
    855-9449 with credit card orders.
    
    23)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _U.S. LATINO LITERATURE_
    
    An Essay and Annotated Bibliography
    
    by Marc Zimmerman
    
    From visions of a reclaimed Aztlan and Borinquen to portrayals of
    inner city rural and urban life to the multi-faceted perspectives
    of Latina feminists, U.S. Latino literature has developed and
    flourished as a new sphere of cultural expression.
    
    Marc Zimmerman's new book introduces the representative Chicano,
    Puerto Rican, Cuban and other U.S. Latino writers' key works in
    poetry, fiction and drama, the major trends, the pre-history,
    history, and possible future of the literature and the diverse
    people it represents.
    
    Including a thought-provoking, overview essay, _U.S. Latino
    Literature_ is above all the most handy, comprehensive and
    economical one-volume reference work in its field.
    
    Marc Zimmerman teaches Latin American Studies at the University
    of Illinois at Chicago.  His recent books include _El Salvador at
    War_ (MEP, 1988 and with John Beverley, _Literature and Politics
    in Central American Revolutions_ (University of Texas Press,
    1990).
    
    Order from: MARCH/Abrazo Press * P.O. Box 2890 * Chicago IL 60690
                tel. 312-539-9638
                           ISBN 1-877636-01-0
                           Paperback, 158 pp.
                $10.95 plus $3.00 postage for single copy
    
    24)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                          CALL FOR PAPERS
                          ---------------
                           SPECIAL ISSUE
    
              THE ELECTRONIC JOURNAL OF COMMUNICATION/
               LA REVUE ELECTRONIQUE DE COMMUNICATION
    
             Topic:  "COMPUTER-MEDIATED COMMUNICATION"
    
    Issue Editor:
    Thomas W. Benson
    Department of Speech Communication
    Penn State University
    BITNET:   T3B@PSUVM
    INTERNET: t3b@psuvm.psu.edu
    
    =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
    
    The ELECTRONIC JOURNAL OF COMMUNICATION/LA REVUE ELECTRONIQUE DE
    COMMUNICATION is seeking original, unpublished manuscripts on the
    topic of "Computer-Mediated Communication."  Papers addressing
    any issues related to the general topic, based on any conceptual
    framework and any methodological approach, are welcome, though we
    are interested in approaches that include the human and social
    aspects of communication and are not exclusively technical or
    technological in content.  Examples might include critical,
    discourse analytic, or content analytic studies of computer
    networks; historical accounts; considerations of theoretical,
    political, or economic issues; user surveys; analyses of policies
    about access and use; reviews of literature; and so on.  Book
    reviews are solicited; contact the editor with your suggestions. 
    International perspectives are encouraged.  The major criterion
    is that papers should make a significant contribution to our
    understanding of the nature, roles, effects, or functions of
    computer mediated communication.  Papers will be reviewed
    anonymously.
    
    The final DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSION is September 15, 1992;
    manuscripts are now (February 1992) being accepted for review and
    the issue will be closed to further manuscripts when the issue is
    complete--which may be before September 15, 1992.  Publication is
    expected in late Fall, 1992.
    
    SUBSCRIPTIONS TO EJC/REC may be obtained free of charge, by
    sending the message:
    
    SUBSCRIBE EJCREC your_name
    
    as in:  Subscribe EJCREC  Jane Smith
    
    to: Comserve@Rpiecs (Bitnet) or Comserve@Vm.Ecs.Rpi.Edu
    (Internet).  Subscribers automatically receive each issue's table
    of contents, abstracts for each article in the issue, as well as
    instructions for how to obtain electronic copies of each article
    in the issue from Comserve.  The EJC/REC is supported by the
    Communication Studies Department at the University of Windsor,
    and Comserve at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, of Troy, N.Y. 
    Articles are protected by copyright (c) by the Communication
    Institute for Online Scholarship (ISSN # 1183-5656).  Articles
    may be reproduced, with acknowledgment, for non- profit personal
    and scholarly purposes.  Permission must be obtained for
    commercial uses.
    
    25)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                          Call For Papers
    
         *********************************************************
         *   SYMPOSIUM:  THE PRINCIPIA CYBERNETICA PROJECT       *
         *      computer-supported cooperative development       *
         *        of an evolutionary-systemic philosophy         *
         *********************************************************
    
                            as part of the
    
                13th International Congress on Cybernetics
                   NAMUR (Belgium), August 24-28, 1992
    
    About the Principia Cybernetica Project
    _______________________________________
    The Principia Cybernetica Project (PCP) is a collaborative
    attempt to develop a complete and consistent cybernetic
    philosophy.  Such a philosophical system should arise from a
    transdisciplinary unification and foundation of the domain of
    Systems Theory and Cybernetics.  Similar to the metamathematical
    character of Whitehead and Russell's "Principia Mathematica", PCP
    is meta-cybernetical in that we intend to use cybernetic tools
    and methods to analyze and develop cybernetic theory.
    
    These include the computer-based tools of hypertext, electronic
    mail, and knowledge structuring software.  They are meant to
    support the process of collaborative theory-building by a variety
    of contributors, with different backgrounds and living in
    different parts of the world.
    
    As its name implies, PCP will focus on the clarification of
    fundamental concepts and principles of the cybernetics and
    systems domain.  Concepts include: Complexity, Information,
    System, Freedom, Control, Self-organization, Emergence, etc.
    Principles include the Laws of Requisite Variety, of Requisite
    Hierarchy, and of Regulatory Models.
    
    The PCP philosophical system is seen as a clearly thought out and
    well-formulated, global "world view", integrating the different
    domains of knowledge and experience.  It should provide an answer
    to the basic questions: "Who am I?  Where do I come from?  Where
    am I going to?"  The PCP philosophy is systemic and evolutionary,
    based on the spontaneous emergence of higher levels of
    organization or control (metasystem transitions) through blind
    variation and natural selection.  It includes:  
    
     a) a metaphysics, based on processes or actions as ontological
    primitives
    
     b) an epistemology, which understands knowledge as constructed
    by the subject, but undergoing selection by the environment
    
     c) an ethics, with survival and the continuance of the process
    of evolution as supreme values.
    
    PCP is to be developed as a dynamic, multi-dimensional conceptual
    network.  The basic architecture consists of nodes, containing
    expositions and definitions of concepts, connected by links,
    representing the associations that exist between the concepts.
    Both nodes and links can belong to different types, expressing
    different semantic and practical categories.
    
    Philosophy and implementation of PCP are united by their common
    framework based on cybernetical and evolutionary principles: the
    computer-support system is intended to amplify the spontaneous
    development of knowledge which forms the main theme of the
    philosophy.
    
    PCP is managed by a board of editors (presently V. Turchin [CUNY,
    New York], C. Joslyn [NASA and SUNY Binghamton] and F. Heylighen
    [Free Univ. of Brussels]).  Contributors are kept informed
    through the Principia Cybernetica Newsletter, distributed in
    print and by email, and the PRNCYB-L electronic discussion group,
    administered by C. Joslyn (for subscription, contact him at
    cjoslyn@bingvaxu.cc.binghamton.edu).  Further activities of PCP
    are publications in journals or books, and the organization of
    meetings or symposia.  For more information, contact F. Heylighen
    at the address below.
    
    About the Symposium
    ___________________
    After the successful organization of a symposium on "Cybernetics
    and Human Values" at the 8th World Congress of Systems and
    Cybernetics (New York, June 1990), and of the "1st Workshop of
    the Principia Cybernetica Project" (Brussels, July 1991), the
    third official activity of the Principia Cybernetica Project will
    be a Symposium held at the 13th Int. Congress on Cybernetics. 
    The informal symposium will allow researchers potentially
    interested in contributing the Project to meet.  The emphasis
    will be on discussion, rather than on formal presentation.
    Contributors are encouraged to read some of the available texts
    on the PCP in order to get acquainted with the main issues
    (Newsletter available on request from the Symposium Chairman).
    
    Papers can be submitted on one or several of the following
    topics:
    
    The Principia Cybernetica Project
    Cybernetic Concepts and Principles
    Evolutionary Philosophy
    Knowledge Development
    Computer-Support Systems for Collaborative Theory Building
    
    About the Congress
    __________________
    The International Congresses on Cybernetics are organized
    triannually (since 1956) by the Intern.  Association of
    Cybernetics (IAC), whose founding members include W.R. Ashby, S.
    Beer and G. Pask.  The 13th Congress takes place in the "Institut
    d'Informatique, Facultes Universitaires Notre-Dame de la Paix, 21
    rue Grandgagnage, B-5000 Namur, Belgium".  The official congress
    languages are English and French.
    
    Registration fee :
    members of the IAC and authors of papers: 6000 BF (about $180)
    other participants:                       10000 BF (about $300)
    Young researchers under 30 years          2000 BF (about $60)
    (with certificate of their university)
    
    The fee covers congress attendance, conference abstracts and
    coffee-breaks.
    
    Submission of papers
    ____________________
    
    ==Deadlines==
    
    * for abstract submission:                    March 31, 1992
    * for final texts (max 5 pages):              August 28, 1992
    
     For submissions of papers or further information about the
    Principia Cybernetica project, contact the symposium chairman:
    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
    Dr. Francis Heylighen
    PO-PESP, Free Univ. Brussels, Pleinlaan 2, B-1050 Brussels,
    Belgium
    Phone   +32 - 2 - 641 25 25     Email  fheyligh@vnet3.vub.ac.be
    Fax     +32 - 2 - 641 24 89     Telex  61051 VUBCO B
    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
    
    For congress registration or further information about the
    congress, contact the secretariat:
    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
    International Association for Cybernetics
    Palais des Expositions, Place Ryckmans, B-5000 Namur, Belgium
    Phone     +32 - 81 - 73 52 09     Email  cyb@info.fundp.ac.be
    Fax     +32 - 81 - 23 09 45
    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
    
    26)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                 THE DISEMBODIED ART GALLERY EXHIBITION
                         BRIGHTON, ENGLAND, 1992
    
            *=*Starting in May and Continuing Until . . .*=*
    
            England's largest Arts Festival will be taking place in
    Brighton again this year.  Each May over one hundred theatre,
    dance and comedy events are presented in venues throughout the
    town - from traditional opera to experimental dance, classical
    Greek plays to world debut performances.
    
            However little of the Festival spirit seems to overflow
    onto the streets and much of the population could be forgiven for
    not even noticing when the Festival begins or ends.  
            Participation in the Festival just costs the price of a
    ticket, but these often seem prohibitively high to some sections
    of the community that the Festival aims to introduce to the Arts.
    
    Few of the scheduled events actually present interesting, new
    work TO the people of the town ON the streets.
    
            By contrast, Edinburgh can barely contain the (much
    larger) Festival that it hosts each August - and it is impossible
    to walk around the town, day or night, without encountering
    street plays, jugglers and buskers from literally all over the
    world.
    
            As a small independent group, we feel that we can do
    little to attract international artists to travel to Brighton but
    we can attempt to invite a little MAIL ART CULTURAL TOURISM into
    our town.
    
            So, we have decided to hold Brighton's first DISEMBODIED
    GALLERY EXHIBITION throughout the town during the month of May. 
    We would like to put some new visual artwork onto the streets
    instead of inside a gallery space;  distribute original artwork
    around the town and give anyone the opportunity in participating
    or collecting these artifacts.
    
            Our aim is to broaden the base of the Festival and to
    initiate a much needed debate about the role of this Festival,
    and more importantly about the role of the Arts within the
    community.
    
            So we are making a call for original A3 or A4 decorative
    artwork, on paper or card, originals or Xeroxes, 1 to 100 copies.
    
    All artwork that we receive will be displayed in the streets of
    Brighton in the month of May and into June and beyond if the
    artwork keeps coming.  In return for your contribution, we will
    photograph the artwork in place and document the comments from
    the towns' people about your artwork.  Your pictures will be
    fly-posted, hung from bus-stops and distributed around shops,
    arcades, pubs and clubs.
    
            We wish to challenge the concept of Art being a sacred
    relic to be worshipped from a distance and be sold as a costly
    trophy.  We will ask passersby to comment on the artwork and its
    place in THEIR town and encourage them to keep work that they
    like.
    
    Although there is no rigid theme to the exhibition, we would
    particularly like to encourage you to produce new work that
    addresses the issues that are documented above.  Prospective
    participants are reminded that their work will be displayed in
    full public view and so the subject matter should be chosen with
    this fact in mind.
    
                  K. de Mendonca  and M. A. Longbottom,
                         (disembodied curators)
    
                 PLEASE SEND YOUR ARTWORK OR QUERIES TO:
    
                 1992 DISEMBODIED ART GALLERY EXHIBITION
                       FLAT 5, 65 LANSDOWNE PLACE
                        HOVE, SUSSEX, BN3 1FL, UK
    
    27)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
      =*CALL FOR COMPOSITIONS, PRESENTATIONS, PAPERS AND ARTWORK*=
    
    The Connecticut College Center for Arts and Technology, in
    conjunction with the departments of Music, Art, Art History,
    Dance, Theater, English, Mathematics/Computer Science, Physics,
    Physical Education, Psychology and Linguistics is pleased to
    announce: 
    
            The Fourth Symposium on The Arts and Technology 
                            March 4-6, 1993  
    
    The Symposium will consist of paper sessions, panel discussions,
    an art exhibition, and concerts of music, mixed media works, 
    video, dance, experimental theatre and interactive performance. 
    Selected papers will be published as Proceedings and will be 
    available at the Symposium. 
    
    Papers: 
    
    A detailed two page abstract including audio-visual requirements
    should be sent to the address below no later than 15 September,
    1992.  Approved abstracts will be notified by 15 November 1992. 
    Finished papers must be submitted in camera-ready form by 15
    January, 1993.  The Symposium encourages research presentations
    and demonstrations in all areas of the arts and technology but is
    particularly interested in receiving work concerned with
    Interactivity, Virtual Reality, Cognition in the Arts,
    Applications in Video and Film, Experimental Theater, The
    Compositional Process, Speculative Uses of Technology in
    Education and examples of scientific visualization.  Other topics
    include but are not limited to acoustics, artificial
    intelligence, psyhco-acoustics, vision, and imaging.  
    
    Artworks: 
    
    Works of computer-generated or computer-aided art, or computer- 
    controlled interactive art are encouraged.  Animation or other
    works of computer art on tape will be shown throughout the
    Symposium.  Slides or Video Tapes (VHS), and complete
    descriptions of works should be submitted no later than 15
    September 1993.  Accepted artists will be notified by November
    15, 1993.  Black-and-white photographs of accepted works should
    be sent by 15 January, 1993.  Selected works will be published as
    an insert in the Proceedings.  Funds available for the shipping 
    of work are extremely limited.  Call or write the address below
    for more information on the transport of artwork. 
    
    Compostions: 
    
    Works for instruments and tape or tape alone are being solicited
    at this time.  Available instruments are: flute (doubling on
    piccolo), oboe, clarinet (doubling on bass clarinet), bassoon,
    trumpet, horn, trombone, percussion (two players), piano, and
    strings (2,1,1,1). 
    
    Works should not exceed 15 minutes in length and should be
    submitted with accompanying score, where appropriate, before 15
    September 1992.  We are especially interested in receiving a
    number of interactive performance compositions and video works. 
    Dance compositions are also encouraged, as are experimental
    theater works using "new technology." 
    
    Tapes for selection purposes should be on cassette or 1/2 inch
    VHS.  Tapes for performance should be 15 i.p.s. stereo or
    quadraphonic, or DAT.  Video works should be 3/4 inch Umatic or
    1/2 inch VHS. 
    
    A self-addressed, preposted envelope should be provided for the
    return of materials within the U.S.A.  Foreign materials will be
    returned at our expense. 
    
    Send art and science related materials before 15 September 1992
    to: 
    David Smalley, Co-director 
    Center for Arts and Technology 
    Box 5637 
    Connecticut College 
    270 Mohegan Avenue 
    New London, CT 06320-4196 
    Internet:  dasma@mvax.cc.conncoll.edu 
    Bitnet:    dasma@conncoll.bitnet 
    
    Send music and AI related materials before 15 September 1992 to:
    Dr. Noel Zahler, Co-director 
    Center for the Arts and Technology 
    Connecticut College 
    Box 5632 
    270 Mohegan Avenue 
    New London, CT 06320-4196 
    Internet:  nbzah@mvax.cc.conncoll.edu 
    Bitnet:    nbzah@conncoll.bitnet 
    
    28)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                         CALL FOR PARTICIPATION
    
                                ECHT'92 
    
                   Fourth ACM Conference on Hypertext 
    
                     NOVEMBER 30 - DECEMBER 4, 1992 
                              MILANO ITALY 
    
    Sponsored by: 
    ACM 
    SIGLINK 
    SIGOIS 
    SIGIR 
    
    In cooperation with: 
    SIGCHI, POLITECNICO DI MILANO, AICA, LINK-IT!, INRIA 
    
    SUMMARY OF DEADLINES 
    ***July 13, 1992 -- papers, technical briefings, tutorials,
              panels, demonstrations, videos, and posters 
    ***September 20, 1992 -- acceptance notification for paper,
              panels, technical briefings, tutorials 
    ***September 30, 1992 -- acceptance notification for
              demonstrations, videos, posters 
    ***October 15, 1992 -- final copy of papers imperatively received
              by the conference secretariat 
    
    All submissions must be sent to: CONFERENCE SECRETARIAT,
    Enza Caputo, Politecnico di Milano,  Dipartimento di Elettronica,
    Piazza Leonardo da Vinci 32, 20133 Milano (Italia). 
    E-mail: Caputo@ipmel1.polimi.it 
    Telephone: (39) 2-23993405   Fax: (39) 2-23993411 
    
    SCOPE
    ECHT'92 is the second in a series of European conferences on 
    Hypertext and Hypermedia in alternation with the U.S.-based 
    HYPERTEXT conferences, coordinated and sponsored by ACM SIGLINK. 
    
    The conference will include prominent guest speakers, 
    presentations of refereed papers, panel sessions, technical 
    briefing sessions, poster and video presentations, as well as 
    demonstrations of experimental research prototypes and 
    commercial products.  The conference will also feature two days
    of introductory and advanced tutorials on a variety of topics.
    There will be opportunities for informal meetings of special
    interest groups. 
    
    You are invited to participate in ECHT'92 and to submit original
    papers, proposals for panels, tutorials, technical briefings, 
    demonstrations, videos and poster sessions.  All submissions will
    be stringently reviewed to ensure the highest levels of 
    originality and merit.  We encourage innovative submissions in
    any area concerned with Hypertext and Hypermedia research
    development and practice.  A non-exhaustive list of suggested 
    topics includes: 
    
    Hypertext and Hypermedia 
    -Applications 
    -Modelling and design 
    -Development methodologies and tools 
    -Responsive interfaces 
    -Evaluation 
    -Systems software technologies 
    -Authoring 
    
    Hypertext-Hypermedia in connection with: 
    -Database management systems 
    -Object-oriented systems and languages 
    -Operating systems 
    -Knowledge-based systems 
    -Information retrieval 
    -Cooperative work 
    -Computer-aided design 
    -Software engineering 
    -Electronic publishing 
    -Technical documentation 
    -Presentation, museums, and kiosk systems 
    -Fiction 
    -Interactive learning and teaching 
    
    INSTRUCTIONS FOR SUBMISSION 
    
    PAPERS 
    Technical papers relate original work or integrative review 
    (theoretical, empirical, systems).  We discourage simple 
    presentations of projects or commercial products.  We encourage 
    emphasizing "experiences," "lessons learned," or "integrative 
    reviews."  Papers should provide a clear scientific message to 
    the audience, place the presented work in context within the 
    field, cite related work, and clearly indicate the innovative 
    aspects of the work. 
    
    Submission:  Full papers (<6000 words) should be submitted in 
    five paper copies.  A separate cover page must contain the title 
    of the paper, name(s), affiliation and complete mailing address 
    (incl. phone, telefax, e-mail) of the authors together with an 
    abstract (about 200 words) and 3 - 5 keywords.  Please send an 
    e-mail version of the abstract with title, name, address, and 
    affiliation to the conference secretariat as soon as possible. 
    
    Deadline:  July 13th, 1992
    For more information, please contact: 
    Jocelyne & Marc Nanard - PAPERS CO-CHAIRS 
    LIRMM, Universite Montpellier II, France 
    Phone: (33) -67148517 or (33) -67148523 
    Fax: (33) -67148500 
    E-mail: nanard@crim.fr 
    
    TUTORIALS 
    Courses should be designed to provide advanced technical 
    training in an area, or to introduce a rigorous framework for
    learning a new area.  Courses can be proposed for half-day (3
    hours) or full-day (6 hours) length. 
    
    Submission: Proposals should describe the content of the course 
    and its format (1000-2000 words), should identify the target 
    audience, the level of expertise required, and the length (1 or 2
    half days).  Qualification and profile of the instructor(s) 
    should also be included.  A separate page containing title, 
    name(s), affiliation and complete mailing address (incl. phone,
    telefax, e-mail) of the instructors must be provided. 
    
    Deadline: July 13th, 1992  
    For more information, please contact: 
    Franca Garzotto - TUTORIALS CHAIR 
    Dipartimento di Elettronica Politecnico di Milano, 
    Piazza L. da Vinci 32, 20133 Milano, Italy 
    Phone: +39-2-2399 3520 
    Fax: +39-2-2399 3411 
    E-mail: garzotto@ipmel1.polimi.it 
    
    PANELS 
    Panels are meant to provide an interactive forum for involving 
    both panelists and audience in lively discussions and exchanges 
    of different points of view. 
    
    Submission: Moderators are invited to provide a description of 
    the proposed panel by submitting 3 - 5 pages listing the topic, 
    e.g., by providing leading questions to be raised by the 
    moderator, the specific format intended, the names and 
    affiliations of the panelists with their specific backgrounds 
    and their positions on the (hopefully  controversial) issues of 
    the panel.  Panel statements will appear in the proceedings. 
    A separate cover page must contain the title of the panel, 
    name(s), affiliation and complete mailing address (incl. phone, 
    telefax, e-mail) of the panelists. 
    
    Deadline:  July 13th,  1992  
    For more information, please contact: 
    Norbert Streitz - PANELS CHAIR 
    GMD-IPSI 
    Dolivostr. 15, D-6100 Darmstadt, Germany 
    Phone: +49-6151 869 919 
    Fax: +49-6151 869 966 
    E-mail: streitz@darmstadt.gmd.de 
    
    DEMONSTRATIONS, POSTERS, AND VIDEOS 
    Demonstrations provide the attendees with the opportunity to 
    experience hypertext systems and question the developers of the 
    systems.  Poster presentations give researchers the opportunity 
    to  present significant work in progress or late-breaking results
    and to  discuss their work with those attendees most deeply 
    interested in the topic.  Videos are appropriate for illustrating
    concepts that are best captured visually. 
    
    Submission: Demonstrations and posters should be submitted in the
    form of an extended abstract (approx. 1000 words), describing the
    content, the relevance for the conference and what is noteworthy
    about the presented work.  Demonstrators are informed that they 
    must provide  their own hardware.  Videos should be submitted in 
    the form of a 5-10 minutes VHS PAL or NTSC tape, with a 500 
    word abstract, describing the content, relevance, and 
    noteworthiness as above.  A separate page must contain the title 
    of the demo, poster, or video, name(s), affiliation and complete
    mailing address (incl. phone, telefax, e-mail) of the author(s). 
    Deadline:  July 13th, 1992  
    For more information, please contact: 
    Paul Kahn - DEMONSTRATIONS, POSTERS, AND VIDEOS CHAIR 
    IRIS, Brown University 
    P.O.BOX 1946, Providence RD 02912, USA 
    Phone: 401 - 863 2402 
    Fax: 401 - 863 1758 
    E-mail: pdk@iris.brown.edu 
    or 
    Antoine Risk - EUROPEAN DEMONSTRATIONS  CHAIR: 
    EUROCLID 
    Promopole 12 Av. des Pres, 78180 Montigny le Bretonneux, France 
    Phone: 1 - 30441456 
    Fax:     1 - 30571863 
    E-mail: antoine.rizk@.inria.fr 
    
    TECHNICAL BRIEFINGS 
    Technical briefings aim at presenting details of a concrete
    design rather than an empirical or theoretical contribution.
    Presentations should emphasize experience in the design and
    implementation of hypertext systems or applications, and discuss
    decision points and trade-offs. 
    
    Submission: Proposals (approx. 1500 words) should be submitted in
    five paper copies and outline the points to be made in the 
    briefing.  A separate page must contain the title of the 
    briefing, name(s), affiliation and complete mailing address 
    (incl. phone, telefax, e-mail) of the author(s). 
    
    Deadline:  July 13th, 1992  
    For more information, please contact: 
    Norman Meyrowitz - TECHNICAL BRIEFINGS CHAIR 
    GO Corporation, 950 Tower Lane- Suite 140 
    Foster City CA 94404, USA 
    Phone: 415 - 345 9833 
    Fax:    415 - 345 7400 
    E-mail: nkm@go.com 
    
    For more information or to be added to the ECHT'92 mailing list: 
    
    Paolo Paolini - GENERAL CONFERENCE CHAIR 
    Politecnico di Milano, Italy 
    Dipartimento di Elettronica, 
    E-mail: paolini@ipmel1.polimi.it 
    Telephone: (39) 2-2399 3520 
    Fax: (39) 2-2399 3411 
    or 
    Polle Zellweger - U.S. COORDINATOR 
    Xerox PARC 
    3333 Coyote Hill Rd 
    Palo Alto CA 94304 U.S.A. 
    Phone: 415-812 4426 
    Fax: 415-812 4241 
    E-mail: zellweger.parc@xerox.com 
    Phone: 415 - 345 9833 
    Fax:    415 - 345 7400 
    E-mail: nkm@go.com 
    
    29)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                       PENN STATE UNIVERSITY SEMINAR SERIES
                                ISSUES IN CRITICISM
    
                                  Summer Seminar
    
                        HISTORICISMS AND CULTURAL CRITIQUE
    
                                 June 25-30, 1992
    
                            State College, Pennsylvania
    
    WAI-CHEE DIMOCK, Department of English, University of California,
    San Diego.  Author of Empire for Liberty: Melville and the
    Poetics of Individualism (1989) and Symbolic Equality: Political
    Theory, Law, and American Literature (forthcoming); co-editor of
    the forthcoming Class and Literary Studies.  Professor Dimock
    will focus on the shifting configurations of gender and history.
    
    MARJORIE LEVINSON, Department of English, University of
    Pennsylvania.  Editor of Rethinking Historicism (1989) and author
    of Keats's life of Allegory: the Origins of Style (1988) and
    other monographs treating Romantic poetry.  Professor Levinson's
    general title is "The Dialectic of Enlightenment: To Be
    Continued," considering paradigms from the preCartesian to the
    present deep ecology movement.
    
    BROOK THOMAS, Department of English and Comparative Literature,
    University of California, Irvine.  Author of Cross-Examination of
    Law and Literature (1987) and The New Historicism and Other Old-
    Fashioned Topics (1991).  Professor Thomas's central topic "The
    Turn to History and the Crisis of Representation."
    
    Participants will hear presentations by three well-known scholar-
    critics--Wai Chee Dimock, Marjorie Levinson, and Brook
    Thomas--and engage in seminar-type discussions organized by these
    leaders.  Registrants are asked to indicate their first and
    second choices for morning seminar groups.  The schedule and
    atmosphere are intended to encourage informal discussions among
    participants.
    
    For further information contact:
    
                                  Wendell Harris
                               Department of English
                           Pennsylvania State University
                       University Park, Pennsylvania  16802
                     Telephone: 814-863-2343 or 814-865-9243
    
    30)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
         The Penn State Conference on Rhetoric and Composition 
    
                            July 8-11, 1992 
    
    The Penn State Conference on Rhetoric and Composition, now 
    entering its second decade, is a four-day gathering of teachers
    and scholars.  It offers a generous mixture of plenary and
    special-interest sessions in a relaxed atmosphere; a chance for
    learning, leisure, and reflection on composition and rhetoric;
    and an extended opportunity to discuss professional concerns with
    nationally known speakers and interested colleagues. 
    
    Each year the conference features plenary sessions, concurrent 
    sessions, workshops, and roundtable discussions on topics of
    current interest.  This year, the conference will run
    concurrently with the Association of Departments of English (ADE)
    regional summer meeting of department heads; several joint
    activities are planned. 
    
    ***Panel Sessions and Workshops 
    Papers this year will concern a wide variety of subjects
    involving rhetoric and composition, such as rhetorical theory;
    the composing process; technical or business writing; advanced
    composition; ESL; writing across the curriculum; the history of
    rhetoric; teaching methods; collaborative learning; tutoring and
    writing labs; connections among reading, writing, and speaking;
    computers and writing; legal, political, or religious rhetoric;
    literacy; language and stylistics; basic writing; social
    implications of writing; writing in the workplace; rhetorical
    criticism; rhetoric and literature; testing and assessment; and
    the administration of writing programs. 
    
    Workshops will be offered on multimedia resources for the writing
    classroom, portfolio assessment, and teacher development. 
    
    ***Saturday Morning Sessions 
    On Saturday morning, participants will have a special opportunity
    to concentrate for an extended period on one of three important
    areas: New Ideas for Integrating Critical Writing and Critical
    Reading, Peer Tutoring and Reviewing, and Program Assessment in
    English. 
    
    ***Plenary Session Speakers 
    
    Donald McCloskey, our keynote speaker, is professor of history
    and of economics at the University of Iowa, where he directs the
    Project on Rhetoric of Inquiry (POROI).  
    
    Anne Ruggles Gere, professor of English and of education at the 
    University of Michigan.   Her research encompasses both the
    theory and pragmatics of composition.
    
    Steven Mailloux, professor of English and Comparative Literature
    at the University of California at Irvine.  His work examines the
    relationships among rhetoric, literary theory, cultural studies,
    and hermeneutics.  
    
    ***Time and Location 
    This conference will begin at 10:30 a.m. on Wednesday, July 8 and
    will end at noon on Saturday, July 11.  It will be held on Penn
    State's University Park Campus in State College, Pennsylvania. 
    
    ***Fee and Registration 
    The $100 fee ($75 for graduate students, lecturers, and retired 
    faculty) covers registration, materials, and three social events.
    It may be paid by check, money order, VISA, MasterCard, or
    request to bill employer (accompanied by a letter of
    authorization).  We regret that we cannot offer daily rates for
    conference registration.  Fees remain the same for all or any
    part of the conference.  To register, contact Penn State by June
    22.  See below for address and telephone numbers.  Those who
    register in advance will be notified of program changes.
    Registrations will be acknowledged by mail. 
    
    Refunds will be made for cancellations received by June 22. 
    After that, the individual or organization will be held
    responsible for the fee.  Anyone who is registered but cannot
    attend may send a substitute. 
    
    ***For more about program content: 
    Davida Charney 
    117 Burrowes Building 
    The Pennsylvania State University 
    University Park, PA 16802 
    phone (814) 865-9703 
    secretary (814) 863-3066 
    FAX (814) 863-7285 
    E-mail to IRJ at PSUVM.PSU.EDU 
    
    ***About registration and housing:
    Chuck Herd 
    409 Keller Conference Center 
    The Pennsylvania State University 
    University Park, PA 16802 
    phone (814) 863-3550 
    FAX (814) 865-3749 
    
    31)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                        THEORY, CULTURE & SOCIETY
    
                       10TH ANNIVERSARY CONFERENCE
                           AUGUST 16-19, 1992    
    
                      Seven Springs Mountain Resort
                       Champion, Pennsylvania, USA
    
    The Conference's main plenary themes are: 
              Modernity/Reflexivity/Postmodernity; 
              The Body, Self, and Identity; 
              Cultural Theory and Cultural Change.  
    
    ***The themes are continued in six panels and five parallel
    streams of sessions.  These are:  The Body, Modernity and
    Postmodernity; Cultural Theory; Political Culture and Cultural
    Studies.  
    
    ***We also have an additional stream in which six postmodern
    films will be shown and discussed.  
    
    ***To complete the program we have over twenty round tables on a
    wide range of topics.
    
    The _Theory, Culture & Society_ Conference will provide a unique
    opportunity to participate with leading figures in the discussion
    of some of the central issues in social and cultural theory.  
    
    For complete details and a conference packet:
    
    Kathleen White
    -Theory, Culture & Society_ Conference
    University Center for International Studies
    4G22 Forbes Quadrangle
    University of Pittsburgh
    Pittsburgh, PA 15260, USA
    telephone:  412-648-7418
    fax:        412-648-2199
    
    OR
    
    _Theory, Culture & Society_ Conference
    School of Health, Social and Policy Studies
    Teesside Polytechnic
    Middlesbrough,
    Cleveland, TS1 3BA
    United Kingdom
    telephone:  (44) 0642 342346/7
    fax:        (44) 0642 342067
    
    32)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
                            CALL FOR PAPERS
    
         ========================
         /    __Rethinking      /
         /      MARXISM__       /
         ========================
    
             --- Announcing an international conference ---
    
        MARXISM IN THE NEW WORLD ORDER: CRISES AND POSSIBILITIES
                          November 12-14, 1992
                   University of Massachusetts-Amherst
    
              We encourage papers and, especially, organized panels
              and events on the many dimensions (political, artistic,
              cultural and academic) and in the many traditions with
              which contemporary Marxism can meet the challenges of
              today.
    
              For conference information: Antonio Callari, Conference
              Coordinator, Economics Department, Franklin and
              Marshall College, Lancaster PA 17604.  Phone 717-291-
              3947; Fax 717-399-4413.
    
    33)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
    ** *                                                             
    
      * **     ----------------------                                
    
            **     Call for participation:  ---------------------    
    
                **     ----------------------   Joint 1992
    conference:  ///////////    **                             
    ---------------------   S A G S E T    **                        
    
                                 I S A G A     **   Society for the
    Advancement of Games and           \\\\\\\\\\\    **  
    Simulations in Education and Training                            
    **                   International Simulation and Gaming
    Association   **                                                 
    
                      **   Conference theme:        Developing
    transferable skills through   **   ----------------              
    
              simulation and gaming   **                             
    
                                          **   18-21 August, 1992    
    
     Napier University, Edinburgh, Scotland   **                     
    
                                                  **   For further
    information:                          Fred Percival   **  
                                 SAGSET/ISAGA Conference Secretary  
    **                                                 Napier
    University   **                                                
    219 Colinton Road   **   Telephone:  44 / 31-455-4394            
    
       Edinburgh EH14 1DJ   **   Facsimile:  44 / 31-455-7989        
    
                     Scotland   **                                   
    
                                    ** *                             
    
                                      * *  * * * * * * * * * * * * *
    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
    +----------------------------------------------------------------
    -------+|  Chet Farmer, Assistant Director   |   English / 103
    Morgan           ||  Project IDEALS -- FIPSE, DoE      |  
    Tuscaloosa, AL  35487-0244     ||  University of Alabama         
    
      |   tel 205-348-9494               |
    
    34)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    From: PSDMSPIN@BRUSP.ANSP.BR
    Subject: Announcing a new list
    
    Dear Friends,
    
    We would like to announce the creation of VIOLEN-L, a
    discussion group for those devoted to the study of the problem
    of violence, Human Rights, and public policies on these
    and related subjects.  VIOLEN-L is managed by the Nucleo de
    Estudos da Violencia da Universidade de Sao Paulo (Center for the
    Study of Violence of the University of Sao Paulo).  Those who
    want to subscribe must send the following command:
    
    TELL LISTSERV AT BRUSPVM SUB VIOLEN-L "your true name"
    
    Everybody who would like to join the discussion will be welcomed!
    
    Sincerely yours,
    
    Mario Baldini
    (PSDMSPIN@BRUSP.BITNET)
    
    35)------------------------------------------------------------- 
    
    This letter is to announce the formation of and offer a welcome
    to a new Listserv discussion list--SovHist--(the discussion of
    Soviet history from 1917-1991).
    
    This list will be used as a forum for the reasonable discussion
    of any aspect of the history of the Soviet Union from the
    "February Revolution" of 1917 to the breakup of the USSR that
    occurred 25 December, 1991.
    
    Any element of this period is discussable, so long as the
    criteria of being reasonable and polite in one's discourse are
    adhered to.  Any questions about suitable topics should be
    directed to me, Valentine Smith, at the Internet address
    (cdell@vax1.umkc.edu).
    
    Anyone wishing to participate in this list should send the
    following command to one of the following Listservs; USCVM,
    DOSUNI1, or CSEARN via e-mail in the body of a mail message (not
    the "Subject:" line) SUB SovHist (your real name).  To
    unsubscribe, send the command UNSUB (your real name).  Other
    Listserv commands can be gotten by sending HELP in the message
    body to any Listserv.
    
    This is an unmoderated list.  However, I will closely keep an eye
    on it, and hope that we can engage in some fruitful discussions
    on Soviet history.  All that is asked is reasonable and polite
    dialogue--any problems will be first addressed by private mail,
    and then removal if that private discussion fails to resolve a
    conflict.  This could be an exciting forum, I hope it will be,
    and I encourage you to be an active participant.
    
    Enjoy! Valentine Smith (cdell@vax1.umkc.edu)
    
    36)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    AMLIT-L on LISTSERV@UMCVMB           American Literature
    Discussion List
            or LISTSERV@UMCVMB.MISSOURI.EDU
    
       The American Literature Discussion List has been created for
    the discussion of topics and issues in the vast and diverse field
    of American Literature among a world-wide community interested in
    the subject.  You can expect consultations, conferences, and an
    ongoing exchange of information among scholars and students of
    American Literature on this list.  In addition, announcements of
    relevant conferences and calls for papers are welcome and
    encouraged.
    
         To subscribe send a message to listserv@umcvmb or
         listserv@umcvmb.missouri.edu.  In BODY of the message state:
    
              SUB AMLIT-L your full name
    
         eg: SUB AMLIT-L E. Allen Poe
    
         If you have any questions please contact the owner.
    
         Owner: Michael O'Conner 
                            or 
    
    37)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    NEW LIST: INMYLIFE - Beatle era popular culture 
    
    INMYLIFE@WKUVX1.BITNET 
    
    Topics will include but not be restricted to history, politics, 
    culture, music, literature, collectibles, comic books, comix,
    counter culture, drugs, Vietnam (and the war), Cold War, between
    1962 (the first Beatle hit record in England) and 1974 (US out of
    Vietnam). 
    
    Interested parties should send a one line command 
    
                    SUB INMYLIFE firstname lastname 
    
    to LISTSERV@WKUVX1.BITNET. 
    
       Owner: Matt Gore

     

  • The Pressures of Merely Sublimating

    Rei Terada

    Department of English
    University of Michigan, Ann Arbor

    <Rei.Terada@um.cc.umich.edu>

     

    Wilson, Rob. American Sublime: The Genealogy of a Poetic Genre. Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1991.

     

    The American academy rediscovered the theoretical force of sublimity about fifteen years ago, mainly through three post-Freudian efforts–Thomas Weiskel’s The Romantic Sublime (1976), Harold Bloom’s “Emerson and Whitman: The American Sublime” (in Poetry and Repression [1976]), and an influential series of essays by Neil Hertz, written over a period of years and eventually collected in The End of the Line: Essays in Psychoanalysis and the Sublime (1985). The emphases of these critics differ, but as Rob Wilson observes at the outset of his own revisionary study, the lowest common denominator of sublimation for all is its participation in an Oedipal “ego-quest,” an individual “struggle for strong selfhood” (8). Since the mid-seventies, however, criticism so devotedly post-Freudian has become more difficult to find. It is a commonplace to assume that individualistically psychological work too easily slights the sociohistorical forces that sustain and restrain the psyche and its potential for genius. In Wilson’s words, “to oedipalize the sublime–as is the dominant mode of Weiskel, Bloom, and Hertz–is to dehistoricize its implied workings” (12).

     

    Yet, in spite of this, the notion of the sublime has lost no currency. In American Sublime, as elsewhere, the sublime outlives the Freudian matrix of its academic rediscovery to the extent that its description of an outer linguistic limit assists explorations of radical otherness and of power. Wilson states that his book is concerned principally with the ideological convenience of the sublime and that he therefore intends his “genealogy” in the Foucauldian sense, as a “historical knowledge of struggles” (14); in practice, American Sublime reorders primarily literary-historical genealogy. Both of these genealogical enterprises are more questionable on grounds of predictability than of controversy; the advantages of an eclectic Postmodern reading of the American sublime are plain to see. But American Sublime does not come close to achieving these aims, in part because the desiderata seem so obviously agreeable that Wilson hardly feels the need to fulfill them.

     

    The first third of American Sublime is composed of three introductions (an “Introduction,” an introductory first chapter entitled “An American Sublime,” and a second chapter entitled “Preliminary Minutiae”), which range from Emerson to Language Poetry to set forth the argument which later, overlapping chapters restate. The “decreative” nature of the American sublime throughout American literary history “voids history and nature of prior presences” (4) in order to cast the reconstruction of the continent as an original, thus more innocent, construction. American emptiness, itself fictive, can then be read as an invitation to produce still more fictions. Wilson also asserts that discussions of the American sublime too often retain a version of poetic genealogy that elevates Bloom’s favorite relentless individualists. The “scenario of the American sublime argued” in 1980s criticism, as Wilson sees it, still begins with Emerson, then moves on to “generate a hugely incarnational son (Whitman), and a fiercely deconstructive daughter (Dickinson), and to filter this power-influx into increasingly self-defensive voices of ‘countersublimity’” (8). Wilson proposes to modify this poetic lineage by attending to Emerson’s lesser-known precursors and by carrying his argument through Modernism–represented here by the work of Wallace Stevens–into contemporaneity with chapters on the “Postmodern” and the “Nuclear” sublime1; Whitman appears in this scheme as “not so much the cause as the effect . . . of this collective will to the American sublime” (10). Throughout, American Sublime suspends the question of the structure of the sublime while stressing its political usefulness (or its “cash-value,” as Wilson calls it): American poets found in the idea of the sublime a ready-made language for the American will to power.

     

    According to the literary-historical narrative which comprises the latter two-thirds of Wilson’s book, Bradstreet introduced the sublime to American literature through the Puritan meditative tradition, which licensed sensual and poetic transport when it “serve[d] the rapture of conversion” (75). Livingston then harnessed the sublime to “an emerging Whig ideology of liberation, on Lockean and Miltonic grounds, evoking the sublime not just as natural but as social/political terror that can be made to work to liberal American purposes” (95), and William Cullen Bryant’s development of a native natural sublime showed “the infinite wealth of this world as transformable to ideal human usages such as poetry” (125). Bryant’s loosely Wordsworthian landscapes also democratized the sublime, proving that “ordinary words and commonplace sites could serve” (125). While Whitman merely embodies more clearly and dramatically the ideals of these precursors, the Modernist sublime exemplified by Stevens “comes to refer less to superlative revelation than to the circumstances in which such a revelation might have taken place” (45). Wilson seems most at home, finally, in the Postmodern era; there, liberated from the obligation to revaluate traditions, Wilson’s restless glances at bits of text are most appropriate, and he can most easily connect “American grandeur” to “that equally vast source of American infinitude reified into power, ‘Capital’” (200). American Sublime is most innovative in its speculations on the “nuclear sublime,” a force “so vast and final in its disclosures of power that it renders the vaunted ‘supreme fiction[s]’ of the Romantic imagination ludicrous or mute” (230).

     

    Wilson’s discussions of Whitman and Stevens, in contrast, expose the shallowness of his revisionism. These chapters tread explicitly on Bloomian ground, but seem contented to rehearse Bloom’s arguments in the midst of their supposed refutation of them. Thus Wilson claims that “Walt Whitman became the American sublime in 1855” (134), that Whitman’s is an “exemplary case” (134), and that “all prior American versions seemed wishful tonality more than earthy fact” (135). American Sublime seems in thrall not only to Bloom’s promotion of Whitman but to his grandiloquently Oedipal emphasis when Wilson maintains that “future disciples such as Allen Ginsberg (or Robert Pinsky) . . . must absorb this transgressive language to become their greatest American selves” (143). Wilson’s would-be containment of Whitman thus finally seems timid, amounting to no more than the tautological assertion that “Leaves is fully ‘autochthonic’ if situated in the context of earlier American poetics of the sublime” (163); and his reading of Stevens, which argues that “the spirit of the sublime . . . can only exist for Stevens through counter-movements of the spirit which negate (‘decreate’) false or prior notions of the sublime, even if they are images from his own earlier poems” (177), is hardly more insurgent. Here and elsewhere, American Sublime fails to construct a truly iconoclastic literary history insofar as it relies instead upon foregone conclusions which all good Postmodernists can be counted upon to believe. Thus, to suggest that A. R. Ammons’s Sphere is tempted by the idea of a traditionally sublime “God-drenched voice” (69), it suffices to point out that “the poem, after all, is written ‘For Harold Bloom’” (69). We all know what that means–“a foreshortened view of literary tradition” (70), of which Wilson firmly disapproves. Yet Wilson’s index devotes fourteen lines to Bryant, twelve to Bradstreet, and eight to Livingston, but seventy lines to Stevens, forty-four to Whitman, twenty-one to Emerson, and ten to Harold Bloom. American Sublime thus substitutes a declarative “decreation” of canonicity–fiat multiplicitas–for the reconfiguration of American poetic genealogy it announces.

     

    This sort of substitution is unfortunately typical of Wilson’s procedure. On page 39, for example, Wilson promises to “return to quarrel with [Terrence] Des Pres’s Bloom-like and inadequately theorized claim that this ‘American sublime’ has exhausted its very power of imaginative resistance in ‘late Stevens.’” On page 235, however, “it is no wonder that, as Terrence des Pres contends . . . ‘the “American Sublime,” as critics call it, has been missing in our poetry since at least late Stevens.’” Indeed, American Sublime makes little distinction between claiming to take a position and taking one, between talking about historicism or cultural criticism and doing any. Marxism and feminism function more as sources of atmosphere than as bodies of knowledge. A discussion of Bradstreet needs, of course, to consider gender. Wilson therefore refers not to Bradstreet’s voice but to her “woman’s voice,” her position as “a Puritan woman given to the very male art of English poetry” (72); for “Bradstreet would be a ‘merry bird’ and sing a sublime lyric of divine praise, in a summer of bliss. Such, however, cannot be her woman’s lot in that sin-conscious version of Christianity disseminated as American Puritanism” (91). And why not? Because “Bradstreet early–indeed first— undergoes what Harold Bloom has termed ‘the anxiety of influence’” (88).

     

    This disinclination to distinguish between a critical stance and its simulacrum extends to Wilson’s very definition of the sublime. It is unclear throughout whether Wilson means by the sublime an experience and its representation, or the representation of a nonexistent experience (the latter would not be a weaker argument, but a different one). On the one hand, “the geographical magnitude of America mythically if not in fact inspired these sublime sensations” (157); on the other, American poets are “convinced by the presence–if not the metaphor–of vast space” (68); and on a third, so to speak, Whitman was “inspired by the scenery if not the sublime of capital” (135). American Sublime finally dissolves into a celebration of the sublime as neither psychological structure nor ideological tool, but as a euphoric “tone” or “mood” far more disembodied and departicularized than anything in Weiskel or Hertz. Wilson refers to “moods of pious arousal” and “literary sublimity” (95), “of moralized rapture” and “self-elected awe” (124), a newer mood of landscape elevation” (94), “a commonsense mood of exaltation” (124), Livingston’s “Protestant-liberal tone” (113), a William Smith lyric “emotive in tone” (103), and so on, until there is no difference between sublimation and making sublime sounds: “Livingston had helped to develop a tradition (or at least tone) of transport” (113).

     

    The same confusion crops up in Wilson’s stylistic mannerisms. Wilson often provides a gloss on a term in parentheses immediately following it (when dealing with quoted material he tends to operate the other way around, glossing the quotation, then referring back in parentheses to the quoted term). The resulting system of equivalences, taken seriously, implies a world of astonishing conceptual sloppiness. In the introduction we find “American vastness (emptiness),” “immensity and wildness (‘power’),” “multiple identifications (‘use’),” “art-empowerment (transport),” “poetic language (art),” “beholding (letting go of),” “subjugating (interiorizing),” “recreate/decreate (alter),” and “fullness (vacancy).” These sound like elements of a nightmarish logic problem: If vastness means emptiness, and immensity (which is usually equivalent to vastness) means power, and vacancy (which is usually equivalent to emptiness) means fullness, how many ways are there of looking at a blackbird? If, on the other hand, we don’t take these pairings as equivalences, what are they? Simulacra of bits of analyses, evoking the “mood” of a critical enterprise. American Sublime comes down to its synthetic atmosphere:

     

    The American landscape, as site of collective sublimity, has transported poets from Bradstreet to Bryant and beyond into whit-manic tropes of expanded power and higher energy. This continental sublimity, signifying at some semiotic bottom line the project of American expansion (will) taking "dominion everywhere" from Florida to India, has helped to entrench the tropes of a liberal nation legitimating it on its own innermost terms. (37)

     

    The critical content of such a passage is hard to perceive, but might be paraphrased, “The landscape encouraged tropes of power that legitimated American expansion.” This is not a moment of summation in particular; open American Sublime to virtually any page and it is saying the same thing.

     

    It’s an understatement to say that American Sublime participates in the metaphorization and generalization of the sublime that has for better and worse preserved its critical vitality. Wilson’s is an extreme case, since he carries that generalization about as far as it can go. Other contemporary modifications of the sublime to which Wilson refers in passing, such as Gary Lee Stonum’s reading of Dickinson2 or Lyotard’s reflections on the sublimity of Postmodern information systems,3 are more engaging and less reductive. Still, the ease with which Wilson’s obviously well-intentioned “more broadly historical description” (27) of the sublime falls into reifications and mystifications greater than those it charges to its predecessors should give pause to Postmodern criticism as it struggles to define itself against the recent past. The political implications of Weiskel’s meticulous meditations (on the way, for example, in which “the price of [sublimation’s] freedom for will or ego–and of this enhanced sense of self–is alienation from particular forms of primary experience”4) are not slight. And Bloom’s inaugural essay on the American sublime does more and better historical work on its second page, surprisingly, than Wilson does in his entire volume:

     

    It is noteworthy, and has been noted, that Emerson's two great outbursts of prophetic vocation coincide with two national moral crises, the Depression of 1837 and the Mexican War of 1846, which Emerson, as an Abolitionist, bitterly opposed. The origins of the American Sublime are connected inextricably to the business collapse of 1837. I want to illustrate this connection by a close reading of relevant entries in Emerson's Journals of 1837, so as to be able to ask and perhaps answer the invariable question that antithetical criticism learns always to ask of each fresh instance of the Sublime. What is being freshly repressed? What has been forgotten, on purpose, in the depths, so as to make possible this sudden elevation to the heights?5

     

    American Sublime is not the Postmodern critique it wants to be because it operates too much by means of its own expedient repressions, “clearing the ground” of contemporary criticism in order to avoid engaging entire schools of thought whose flaws it believes it knows. Wilson never absorbs the point of “American Sublime,” the Stevens lyric he frequently quotes, in which “General Jackson / posed for his statue” and “knew how one feels.”6 The point lies in the immediate necessity of the next question: “But how doesone feel?”

     

    Notes

     

    1. This reorganization is familiar; see, for example, Mutlu Konuk Blasing, American Poetry: The Rhetoric of Its Forms (New Haven: Yale UP, 1987).

     

    2. The Dickinson Sublime (Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1990).

     

    3. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1984).

     

    4. The Romantic Sublime: Studies in the Structure and Psychology of Transcendence (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1976), 58-59.

     

    5. Poetry and Repression (New Haven and London: Yale UP, 1976), 236.

     

    6. The Collected Poems (New York: Vintage, 1982), 130-31.

     

  • Speaking in Tongues: Dead Elvis and the Greil Quest

    Linda Ray Pratt

    Department of English
    University of Nebraska-Lincoln

    <lpratt@unlcdc2>

     

    Marcus, Greil. Dead Elvis: A Chronicle of a Cultural Obsession. New York: Doubleday, 1991.

     

    `You gotta learn how to speak in tongues.’
    `I already know how,’ Elvis says.

     

    –Greil Marcus, Jungle Music

     

    the communication

    Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language

    of the living.

     

    –T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

     

    From the evidence in Greil Marcus’s new book, the dead Elvis is a Postmodern Elvis, a hermeneutic object in whose emptiness even fictions becomes simulacra. Subtitled A Chronicle of a Cultural Obsession, Dead Elvis collects Marcus’s writings on Elvis from 1977 to 1990, but they are inspired by the wide range of representations that make this book more of a cultural conversation than a chronicle. Marcus calls the invention of dead Elvis “a great common art project, the work of scores of people operating independently of each other, linked only by their determination to solve the same problem: who was he, and why do I still care?” The collective representation both legitimizes and subverts “Elvis,” the cultural production that would make discerning who the man was irrelevant were it not for the imagination invested in the project.

     

    For those who still care, the questions are sometimes really, really big ones: is Elvis in Heaven or Hell? (we’ve given up on the K-Mart in Kalamazoo). Is Elvis more like Hitler or Jesus? The questions are openly joking but mask the still unsettled doubt about what it means that we want Elvis, alive or dead. Should we think about him with Melville, Lincoln, and Faulkner (as Marcus did so brilliantly in Mystery Train) or was he just a piece of Southern white trash (as Albert Goldman wishes) or, like Byron, “an epicene and disrupter,” one of the “revolutionary men of beauty” who burn godlike (as Camille Paglia argues). This book doesn’t really explain who he was, or even why we still care. Its strength is in showing how the art project is coming along, what image of Elvis, dead, we are keeping alive. Too recent for the book was the phenomenon of Americans voting on which image to keep alive. The heady choice of young or old Elvis on “the stamp” engaged us more than our political elections and plays like a last ritual of mass investiture, a kind of cultural laying out of the robes in which Dead Elvis will officially ascend, transcend, and return to sender.

     

    The book contains reviews Marcus has written on Nik Cohn’s King Death, Goldman’s Elvis, Peter Guralnick’s Lost Highways, and Nick Tosches’s Hellfire: The Jerry Lee Lewis Story. These reviews are often occasions for Marcus to comment both on the various authors’ uses and abuses of Elvis and on his own continuing fascination with the king who wouldn’t die. Combined with the many visual representations in paintings, album covers, and other less classifiable forms, the book itself becomes part of the art project. Marcus assembles a set of Elvis images that range from the stupid to the clever. The article in Publish! Desktop Publishing on “Clones: The PostScript Impersonators” that is illustrated with computeresque-Elvis clones is an unexpected triple pun in what would otherwise be the dullest of pieces. The exhibition advertisement for “Outside the Clock: Beyond Good and Elvis,” rewrites Nietzsche’s wisdom in a pop vernacular. Holding all of this together is Marcus’s own cultural obsession; more than a decade after his death, “Elvis was everywhere, and each mask was simply the thing the thing wore over its true face, which no one could see” (188).

     

    “The thing” speaks in tongues both vulgar and sublime, and Marcus is struggling with the translation. Questing after what it was in the music that holds us, Marcus writes abstractly of “the grain of his voice.” His Elvis remains an “inner mystery . . . where the secrets are outside of words. . . .” The problem is how to account for the magnitude of Elvis’s “cultural conquest” when it “remains impossible” to believe that Elvis “understood” what he was doing. “Is it possible that Elvis Presley appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show not as a country boy eager for his big chance but as a man ready to disorder and dismember the culture that from his first moment had tried to dismember him, to fix him as a creature of resentment, rage, and fatalism, and that had failed?” (195). But it is not possible to attribute social design to the fallout of an explosion of self, and neither Living nor Dead Elvis yields up his secrets in service to sociology.

     

    Marcus’s book is an intellectual quest by the critic of culture uncomfortable with the Dionysian confusion in the spectacle. Elvis did not plan a cultural revolution, but he did mean to be sexy, and what his intellect did not design, his body knew instinctively. The images of Dead Elvis are often either a defacement of his youthful body or a restoration of it. Paglia talks about the power of his sexual beauty in terms that rock critics (mainly a male world) shy away from. Marcus knows that it was his dazzling sexuality that made Elvis different from other early rockers, but he is more comfortable discussing him in the context of America as a culture than he is as a post- Protestant Dionysian god. Was it the culture of Melville and Lincoln, or even Eisenhower, that Elvis dismembered, or was it the culture which dismembered him in order to consume him sexually? Wouldn’t a book seeking to explain him have to be subtitled, “The Chronicle of a Sexual Obsession”? Or how about “The Culture of a Sexual Chronicle”? “Cultural” reads like an intellectual displacement, just as the comparison of Elvis with Jesus conceals the worship of the body instead of the soul. Marcus calls the Cortez photographs of Elvis among the Munich whores “repulsive and irresistible,” a seedy, corrupt image that makes you “want to turn away.” This won’t “mesh with the Elvis we carry in our heads,” Marcus says, but perhaps what doesn’t mesh is the crude eroticism of these pictures with the myths of Elvis we invented to conceal the thing in the shadow of the thing.

     

    One of those myths that everyone still wants to look away from is that of Elvis’s devotion to his mother. Marcus reviews Elaine Dundy’s Elvis and Gladys, a book designed “to rescue Gladys Presley from her usual dismissal as a dumb, sentimental woman” who drowned her son in overprotection. Dundy’s thesis suggests to Marcus that “Elvis’s infantile adult life had far more to do with class . . . ,” an idea that opens up for Marcus his own interest in “a degeneration of democratic values” from the Southern frontiersman to the sterile aristocrat of modern Memphis. (Marcus has this backwards: in the South, it’s the degeneration of aristocratic values unhinged by urban development and big capital. Elvis came out of the one and made the other, becoming in the process an icon of the “New South.”) But what we’ve learned about Elvis’s sexual identity makes him sound more like an unprotected victim of incestuous abuse than an overprotected beloved child. Gladys Presley was an alcoholic with a weak husband and the most beautiful boy in the world. The legend says that Elvis first recorded “My Happiness” for her birthday, but maybe the record he did for her was “That’s All Right, Mama,” with its combination of angry self-assertion (“I’m leaving town for sure”) and pleasured acquiescence (“That’s alright now Mama, just any way you do”). That “grain” Marcus hears in his voice has the complex emotional intensity that stops us dead with its authenticity, something like the inescapable edge we hear in Sylvia Plath’s. His voice mixes desire and rejection, suffering and rage, that overpowers the conventions of musical form or pop language. Its rhythm is an emotional pulse of inconsolable misery and delighted abandonment. Elvis’s music, like Plath’s poetry, is full of threats of revenge that dissolve in need and sadness: “I’m leaving town for good” and then you’ll be sorry for the way you treated me. When Elvis called Mama every day he was on the road, who was taking care of whom? Did she walk him to school every day to see that he was safe and got his education, or to see that he did not throw her over? Perhaps she never touched her boy, but he came to us profoundly aware of his sexual attractiveness and too damaged to handle the power his body could command. Elvis’s psychological pattern was denial: working to reduce the audience to screaming ecstasy, he told us he wasn’t doing anything “sexual” on stage; consuming handfuls of pills, he flashed his badge as a drug agent; wearing the black leather suit at the peak of his physical beauty, he was sexually dysfunctional with his wife. When he was declaring his love of his mother, what was the rest of the formula?

     

    The question is if any of this matters. Culture’s quest is not to understand “the reality” of its idols but to make them up to fit its needs. Perhaps the cultural obsession is about not wanting to know who the real Elvis was, and so the questions Marcus poses are not really the ones he pursues. Creating Dead Elvis is what we’ve been doing instead of asking, “who was he, and why do I still care?” Those who speak in tongues give voice to messages we can only bear in hints and guesses. The word made flesh moved from the sexual to the excremental, and the body’s beauty was held hostage to the heart’s misery and mind’s decay. The pop representation of Elvis is the lie we tell about this, the collective story that conceals just how well we did know who he was, how much we did translate the “grain” of his voice, and how it felt to see him die. But such knowledge is too elemental, too crude and unrelenting to be borne, and so we deface and adorn to make the thing itself smaller than a man or larger than life.

     

    The cultural joke that is the Dead Elvis is as irrepressible as nervous laughter at a funeral. Marcus tells us of the bold little girl in his fourth grade class in 1955 who “went off to see Elvis.” Nervous and confused by their own responses, the students made her the object of mockery and jealousy and lied to themselves to conceal their own unnameable emotions. Not much has changed in all this, except that the emotions became more complex and her classmate has thought longer and harder. But Marcus is still not easy in his mind about Elvis, and that drives him to ask better questions and play with more suggestive answers than anyone else who thinks about such things. Dead Elvis serves the art project well, mystifying further what it cannot really want to strip away, rewriting a funny ending to an absurd tragedy in which the king died in his bathroom before the town was saved.

     

  • BOOK REVIEW OF: Michel Foucault

    Mark Poster

    Department of History
    University of California at Irvine

    <mposter@orion.oac.uci.edu>

     

    Eribon, Didier. Michel Foucault. Trans. Betsy Wing. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1991. $27.95. 374 pp.

     

    Didier Eribon has written an excellent biography of Michel Foucault, one that will probably take its place as the standard for some time. Eribon has done thorough research including extensive interviews with individuals who played significant roles in Foucault’s life from his early childhood and comprehensive reading of his works and private writings. The book is well-informed, judicious without being remote, sympathetic without losing a critical edge. And Eribon understands Foucault’s difficult corpus well enough to take note of the irony of his undertaking. Foucault stood firmly against interpretations that privileged the author’s intentions, unity, authority. So this biography, if it be Foucaultian, cannot contribute to an interpretation of Foucault’s works.

     

    Eribon is especially good on Foucault’s student life, evoking with particular atmospheric verisimilitude French intellectual life after World War II. The rigors of entry into the Ecole Normale Superieure, the teaching of Jean Hyppolite, the circle of friendships with those who would later do important work–all of this makes fascinating reading for anyone interested in the extraordinary efflorescence that in the United States is called poststructuralism. The period of Foucault’s travels to Sweden, Germany, Poland and Tunisia are also illuminating. Eribon devotes separate sections or even chapters to Foucault’s major writings. In these he sketches the reception of the books and Foucault’s reception of the receptions. His attention to the content of the works is adequate but certainly not extensive or novel.

     

    Foucault’s political activity after 1970, during his years at the College de France, his work with the prison information group, and the countless protests and petitions in which he participated, are also extensively recounted. Eribon’s account of Foucault’s advocacy of the Khomeini revolution in Iran, derisively regarded as Foucault’s biggest political blunder, is remarkable in its ability to allow credence for Foucault’s position without pretending that such credence might not require for many a deliberate abandonment of one’s critical faculties.

     

    Foucault’s politics have often been attacked by Marxists for adherence with the positions of the New Philosophers who garnered a certain presence in France in the late 1970s. For these Marxists such an association discredits all of Foucault’s thought as a kind of right-wing liberalism. These tactics are proof enough of the exhaustion of their author’s intellects as well as of the political perspective they attempt to further. For Eribon’s account makes clear the serious dedication of Foucault to a critical politics, one perhaps that does not fit neatly into the categories of the major European parties but certainly one that is in no way conservative. Interestingly enough, Eribon mentions the term “new philosopher” only once, in connection with a review Foucault wrote of a book by Andre Glucksmann. Although in the period before May ’68 Foucault was perceived as politically enigmatic and perhaps “untrustworthy” for those on the left, after 1970 there can be no doubt of his firm commitment to anti-authoritarian politics and of his search for a new style for the politically engaged intellectual, one that would deal more effectively than the French Communists or even the Socialists with a critique of current configurations of domination.

     

    I found only one inaccuracy in Eribon’s Foucault. It concerns the chapter on Foucault’s visits to the United States, which Eribon in general describes very well, with none of that ambivalent snobbery/envy one finds too often in French discussions of this country. The error is a small one, in no way affecting Eribon’s overall discussion, but since I was involved in the incident I feel I should set the record straight. Eribon refers in passing to a lecture Foucault delivered to a huge crowd at UCLA in 1981. Actually this lecture was given at a conference I organized for the Humanities Center at USC on October 31st of that year. On that occasion, before a large audience, Foucault presented an important paper disputing critiques of his view of power and arguing that his concern was with the subject’s relation to truth. The paper later appeared in the paperback edition of Dreyfus and Rabinow’s excellent book on Foucault. The conference was also interesting because Foucault’s hesitations about it illustrate a salient feature of his intellectual work. In September he phoned me to say he would not appear at USC because he learned that the conference had a large audience and he preferred to work in small workshop settings. In fact the conference was organized to have both plenary sessions, of which Foucault’s presentation elicited by far the largest attendance, as well as smaller workshops. In the end he consented and attended many of the workshops, immensely enjoying the discussions.

     

    The incident illustrates the seriousness of Foucault’s dedication to intellectual work. As Eribon’s book indicates, he was relentless in attempting to establish small work situations where scholars could collaborate on projects. In his practice as well as in his theory he consistently opposed the system of the “universal intellectual.” Complicated, troubled at times, Foucault was a person of extraordinary intelligence, whose impact will long resonate in the fields of humanities and social sciences. I regard it as a privilege to have met him and even more of one to be able to read him. Eribon’s book deserves high praise for doing him justice.

     

  • BOOK REVIEW OF: Making Sex

    Meryl Altman and Keith Nightenhelser

    DePauw University
    <maltman@depauw>
    <k_night@depauw>

     

    Laqueur, Thomas. Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1990.

     

    Making Sex is an ambitious investigation of Western scientific conceptions of sexual difference. A historian by profession, Laqueur locates the major conceptual divide in the late eighteenth century when, as he puts it, “a biology of cosmic hierarchy gave way to a biology of incommensurability, anchored in the body, in which the relationship of men to women, like that of apples to oranges, was not given as one of equality or inequality but rather of difference” (207). He claims that the ancients and their immediate heirs–unlike us–saw sexual difference as a set of relatively unimportant differences of degree within “the one-sex body.” According to this model, female sexual organs were perfectly homologous to male ones, only inside out; and bodily fluids–semen, blood, milk–were mostly “fungible” and composed of the same basic matter. The model didn’t imply equality; woman was a lesser man, just not a thing wholly different in kind.

     

    However, since the Enlightenment, Laqueur argues, males and females have been seen as different in kind, and many social and political consequences have followed. Where theorists of the “one-sex” model saw all human bodies as if resulting from arrows aimed at the target human, before which the arrows producing females fell short, the new “two-sex” model supposed that male and female were separate, opposed targets. Laqueur first noticed this paradigm shift while examining “the question of disappearing orgasm”: once thought biologically necessary for the conception of a child, female orgasm after the appearance of the “two-sex body” became a contingent or coincidental matter bound up with various political interpretations of “women’s nature.” He does not claim that one model definitively supplanted the other at a given historical moment. Traces of the “two-sex body” can be found in Aristotle, and the “one-sex body” lives on in popular myth even today. And he cautions against giving a causal account of the shift, one that relies on social or political explanations of it, since “the remaking of the body is itself intrinsic” to such explanations (11). Nonetheless Laqueur redraws the map of Western sexuality in a breathtakingly grand gesture.

     

    Laqueur describes his book as a history of “bodies and pleasures” (Foucault’s phrase), and begins by situating his work amid current debates about the epistemological status of scientific and historical narratives. Still, his main techniques of inquiry remain those of traditional intellectual history. He combines a chronological tour through the usual philosophers (beginning of course from Aristotle) with ultraclinical discussion of changing anatomical knowledge and medicalizing fantasy, accompanied by startling illustrations. The argument is sweeping, the narrative lumps centuries together, and national differences are given little importance. Scholars of each subspeciality will be kept busy commenting on his work for years, no doubt, and the common reader who has absorbed it will perceive gender-switching plots differently than before.1

     

    Laqueur often seems more interested in how literate Europeans thought about (and pictured) sex than in how most people actually lived sex and gender. Of course, such experience is notoriously difficult to find out about. So like most recent work on the history of sexuality, Making Sex operates within the Foucaultian claim that “discourses” –sets of culturally maintained representations–organize lived experience and human perception. This stance, by implication, narrows the gap between intellectual and social history.

     

    Laqueur’s work also follows Foucault in finding metaphor where we most expect the literal–in biology, on the body–and in often making a “negative case,” showing that advances in the state of medical knowledge haven’t driven ideological change (though he is sensibly coy about exactly what does drive it). “No set of facts ever entails any particular account of difference”–since, given the wealth of detailed evidence for BOTH similarity AND difference between “women” and “men,” any model of sexual difference must always choose to highlight some issues and ignore others. His account of the Renaissance “poetics of biology” is particularly effective in showing that people didn’t make cultural use of what they might have scientifically known, if only they had cared to know it. Every era, he shows, has invented the science it (politically and culturally) needed within the boundaries set by prevailing epistemologies. Nonetheless, he realizes that actual bodies exist and have existed, and acknowledges “scientific progress”–for example, in fixing the relationship of ovulation to pregnancy and the menstrual cycle. To speak, as he does, of “scientific fictions” is not to say all science is somehow bogus, done with mirrors, purely in the service of ideology.

     

    On the other hand, new scientific discourses may determine which cultural questions can be asked, but they don’t legislate any one answer. So, for example, around the time of the French Revolution the recognition that female orgasm was a contingent, not a necessary, part of reproductive intercourse made possible theories of women’s “passionlessness,” while female organs received new and differentiating names, and Woman took on a whole character derived (in one way or another) from her ovaries, her experience of menstruation, and so forth. Because the testes were different, Woman was a different creature on all levels, from the cellular to the moral-philosophical. But these theories could be and were put to use by anti-feminists and feminists alike–though agreed to be different, woman might still be either physically weaker (unfit for participation in the public sphere) or morally stronger (more suited than men to duties of political governance). In political culture as in science, discourse determines the terms and the vigour of the debate, but not the outcome.

     

    The argument that scientific explanation of the body is socially contingent leads Laqueur to Freud’s revisionary anatomy. It is no news to most of us that Freud’s account of progress from clitoral to vaginal orgasm as a sign of female “maturity” does not correspond to any biological reality. But Laqueur demonstrates conclusively that Freud must have known his progress narrative was social/cultural rather than physiological/biological–must, in other words, have known that it was either fanciful or coercive–because biologists had routinely discussed the centrality of the clitoris to female sexual pleasure, and the absence of physiological bases for sensation in the vagina, for literally centuries. We can now be sure that what Laqueur rather kindly calls Freud’s “aporia of anatomy” was a result of active repression rather than simply a primitive state of medical knowledge; and this has obvious consequences for current feminist debate about Freud.

     

    Laqueur’s perspective relies heavily, as he acknowledges, on developments within “women’s history” and on feminist theory–particularly on the distinction between “sex” and “gender” first made by Simone de Beauvoir in The Second Sex, and developed memorably in Gayle Rubin’s influential essay “The Traffic in Women.”2 Within the second-wave of twentieth century Anglo-European feminism, the concept of “gender” denotes those “observable” differences between women and men that could be argued to be culturally constructed (and thus mutable) rather than eternally, biologically given. Such a division between natural “sex” and cultural “gender” was absolutely crucial in combatting the myth of women’s natural inferiority, of the appropriateness of their subordination to men, and so forth–it was a way of naming and undoing sexual essentialism.

     

    Making Sex explicitly revises this dualism, asserting centrally that “sex, as much as gender, is made” (ix). Under the discursive regime of the one-sex body, it is asserted, there was not (as today) a base-superstructure relationship between sex and gender. Rather, gender was “real”–was constitutive of social relationships–while sex was contingent, an epiphenomenon. Laqueur suggests a paradox: that for the ancients, sex was socially constructed, gender “naturally” given–for example, through an insistence that hierarchical relations between men and women, as between free men and slaves, were eternal, immutable truths to be actualized in social roles, not in anatomical structures.

     

    Does this make a complete hash, then, of the sex/gender dualism? Not necessarily. Feminist theorists Donna Haraway and Judith Butler have both argued that the recent success of feminists and cultural historians at distinguishing “sex” (biological givens) from “gender” (cultural constructions) has had the unfortunate side effect of letting anatomy off the hook, leading us to ignore the potential dangers (and pleasures) of cultural construction within the biological sciences and other discourses about “the body.”3 Laqueur’s work advances this project, and further unsettles biologistic arguments about the differences between women and men.4 It is not clear, however, that unsettling the sex/gender dualism–which has after all proved politically quite useful under the two-sex model we have to live with now–is the best way to criticize biological essentialism. What would be lost if we said, not that “sex” is socially constructed too, but simply that we need to move the boundary a bit–that we’ve been calling some things “sex” that are really, after all, gender?

     

    We might well lose the title of the book, of course, which plays on the equivocation between sexual difference and sexual activity, and (coupled with the naked women on the cover) gives a rather false impression of forthcoming titillation, since the subject of Making Sex is actually quite a sober one. In fact, there is very little discussion here of pleasures–and even less attention to pain. One thing that strikes a feminist as odd about this book is its tone: the emotional distance and the absence of horror while recounting rapes, clitoridectomies, ovarectomies performed for no medical reason but curiosity, death sentences meted out to those of ambiguous gender (or is it sex?), and the general subjection, manipulation, and domination of female bodies by male doctors and other “experts” throughout the long period the book covers. Laqueur does acknowledge, early on, that “the fact that pain and injustice are gendered and correspond to corporeal signs of sex is precisely what gives importance to an account of the making of sex.” He also acknowledges an absence in his book of “a sustained account of experience in the body.” (This he suggests is perhaps appropriate in a man writing about women; it is probably inevitable anyway given his broad schematic approach and his reliance on the methods of intellectual history.) But overall, Laqueur has clearly chosen to write a history of difference rather than a history of oppression.

     

    This is more than a matter of tone: it leads frequently to what we might, borrowing Laqueur’s own term, call an aporia of political consequences. Feminists undertake to study the history of sexuality, for the most part, to understand women’s subordination in order to see whether and how it can be undone. Laqueur does note, from time to time, the social applicability or function of various conceptions of the body. The one-sex model served male power by explaining why men were needed for generation, and established the centrality of paternity; the two-sex model served male power by enabling discourses of female inadequacy. But since (for example) we know already that ancient Greece was an extremely sex-segregated and misogynist society in its social practices, its physicians’ specific conception of the body seems almost irrelevant to the major issue of power. One might contrast Laqueur’s approach to the sex/gender question in ancient Greece with Anne Carson’s in her essay “Putting Her In Her Place: Women, Dirt and Desire.”5 Carson deals with some of the same medical and philosophical texts as Laqueur, but she begins with a discussion of lived gender relations as they can be reconstructed from historical, literary, and juridical sources. This provides a fuller social context for discussion of, say, why women are considered “cooler” and “wetter” than men, and what follows from this in the social sphere.

     

    Laqueur’s underlying point still stands, that ancient relations of gender provided the base for which “anatomy” was the superstructure. But we wonder whether, in directing his attention so exclusively to the “scientific” discourses of the ancient world–rather than to, say, the pre- scientific ideology reflected in Hesiod, Semonides of Amourgos, and Aeschylus, which did elaborate differences of kind between two sexes–Laqueur has been anachronistically motivated by the modern assumption that sex differences really do come “first,” that sexuality is the key to identity.

     

    It also strikes us as curious that Laqueur did not find it important to address alternatives to procreative heterosexuality in any systematic way–either as a history of repression or as a (Foucaultian) history of “incitement to discourse.” “Lesbianism” (the word does not appear in the index, though “tribade” does) is discussed only as it may or may not apply in cases of hermaphroditism; male homosexuality is discussed almost exclusively in sections about ancient Greece. The discussions of hermaphroditism suggest that doctors until quite recently were concerned purely to assign male or female sex to a body, rather than to assign male or female gender to a person–or to lay down moral injunctions about how such bodies might be permitted to behave. These are significant observations, and particularly interesting in light of the recent work on ancient Greek sexuality done by David Halperin and John Winkler.6 But the sketchiness of the discussion is another byproduct of Laqueur’s own decision to focus on bodies rather than people.

     

    None of these criticisms need prevent Laqueur’s argument from being useful in political debate, as a further marshalling of evidence for social constructionism generally. But there is something paradoxical–even when Foucault does it–about “marshalling evidence” for the conclusion that the facts didn’t matter. Laqueur ends with the following sentence: “But basically the content of talk about sexual difference is unfettered by fact, and is as free as mind’s play.” We are uneasy about the use of fundamentally positivist historical argument to make this Foucaultian point.7 We also wonder how to understand his (truth-)claims about the Great Divide between “one-sex theorists” and us, after he observes that “the play of difference never came to rest” (193). Such endless play of signifiers can disarm the counterexamples to his narrative of historical change, such as the eruption of the one-sex theory into “Dear Abby,” or a pattern of ambiguities in Aristotle. The question is whether this freedom is compatible with saying that “in or about the late eighteenth [century] . . . human sexual nature changed” (5).

     

    Twenty years ago, the raw materials of Making Sex would have made an amusing book about the odd persistence of sexual misconceptions. After Foucault, “misconception” might seem a misconception, and such a book would look antiquated and politically naive. Laqueur’s book is more sophisticated and politically aware, but equally lacking in polemical edge. He suggests in passing that Making Sex might be used against sociobiology and against the “science of difference” (21). That he himself does not do so, however, indicates what the history of sexuality has lost in becoming academically respectable.

     

    Notes

     

    1. Laqueur notes how one-sex theory makes possible some new readings of classic texts (23ff), and others are already producing such readings, notably Stephen Greenblatt. See also Susan McClary’s discussion of “erotic friction” in 17th-century vocal music, which cites both Greenblatt’s Shakespearean Negotiations (Berkeley: U of California P, 1988) and an essay by Laqueur Feminine Endings [Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1991], 37).

     

    2. A full and helpful genealogy of this distinction can be found in Donna Haraway, “‘Gender’ for a Marxist Dictionary: the Sexual Politics of a Word,” in Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (London: Routledge, 1991). Rubin’s “The Traffic in Women” can be found most conveniently in Rayna Reiter, ed., Toward a Feminist Anthropology (New York: Monthly Review, 1975).

     

    3. Donna Haraway throughout the book cited above, and Judith Butler in Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London: Routledge, 1990).

     

    4. As a historical realist, Laqueur does, however, seem to believe in some immutable sex differences, though he doesn’t state what they are, and in this he may differ from Butler and Haraway.

     

    5. Anne Carson, “Putting Her In Her Place: Women, Dirt, and Desire,” in Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Greek World, ed. D. Halperin, J. Winkler, and F. Zeitlin (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1990). Our comment on Carson’s essay applies as well to the other essays in that collection, and to Carson’s Eros the Bittersweet (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1985).

     

    6. David Halperin, One Hundred Years of Homosexuality: and Other Essays on Greek Love (London: Routledge, 1990), especially “The Democratic Body: Prostitution and Citizenship in Classical Athens”; and Jack Winkler, The Constraints of Desire: The Anthropology of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece (London: Routledge, 1990).

     

    7. Ironically, Laqueur clings to his conventional methods of intellectual history even as he demolishes other foundational structures, such as the sex=nature/ gender=culture system. If we think of these methods as natural to him, the Foucaultian conclusions become a culture built (unsteadily?) upon them. But this paradox has no easy solution, and we’d rather have our history with evidence than without.

     

  • BOOK REVIEW OF: Thinking Across the American Grain

    Matthew Mancini

    Department of History
    Southwest Missouri State University

    <mjm225f@smsvma>

     

    Gunn, Giles. Thinking Across the American Grain: Ideology, Intellect, and the New Pragmatism. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. xii/272 pp.

     

    Giles Gunn has emerged as a major voice in that cacophonous semi-discipline known as American Studies. Every time the American Studies Association meets, it seems to be seized by a new collective enthusiasm. One year it might be Victor Turner, the next it’s Annette Kolodny, or John Stilgoe, or Henry Louis Gates, Jr., or Nina Baym. Such commotions are in part symptomatic of the Association’s puppy-like eagerness to be identified with changing intellectual fashions. But they also represent a remarkable record of committed intellectual openness and daring. I anticipate that everyone will be discussing Giles Gunn this year.

     

    Thinking that is “aslant” or “cross-hatched,” or that runs “across the grain” or “on the bias” is Gunn’s preferred mode of critical practice. He sees it as a means, if not of escape, then at least of fragmentary and fitful release from the worst constraints of that prison house of language and culture that an assortment of poststructuralists, ideology critics, new historicists, deconstructionists, and neopragmatists from Michel Foucault to Richard Rorty have contended is all that is left of what used to be called the human condition.

     

    Postmodernism’s antifoundationalism has rendered an independent critical perspective unattainable and thrown into question the very possibility of a critique of culture that is not implicated in that culture’s own repressive practices. By thinking across postmodernism, what Gunn seeks to achieve is not a new “grounding,” but something more akin to a fingernail-hold somewhere in the rough, uneven, scratchy grain of cultural experience. For he argues that, contrary to the impression, and often the explicit arguments, made by many of our most compelling contemporary critics, the web of culture, of ideology, of power, is not seamless or monolithic; that “The grain of cultural experience is . . . interwoven and cross-hatched in ways that make it possible for the predications of which it is composed not only to confront but also, as it were, to address one another” (38).

     

    Gunn’s aim, then, is to “complement” rather than to “contest” the recent tide of thought from the Continent (3). And his instrument for doing so is Pragmatism, a method of approaching problems whose formulation at the hands of William James and John Dewey not only anticipates, but, he argues, also addresses directly, precisely those predicaments raised by the postmodern thinkers. Gunn misses no opportunity to reveal the “convertibility . . . of pragmatist motifs into postmodernist preoccupations” (7). Accordingly, he divides his book into two parts, the first concerned with rethinking the pragmatist heritage in light of contemporary cultural critiques, and the second with shedding a pragmatist light on certain vexing, contemporary critical problems.

     

    Quite literally occupying the center of the book is the formidable figure of Richard Rorty. The last chapter of Part One and the first chapter of Part Two can be seen as an extended critique by which Gunn seeks first to challenge, and then perhaps even to some degree to displace, Rorty as the leading contemporary pragmatist theorist of liberal society.

     

    The central issue, for American as for Continental critics, is the Enlightenment and its heritage of liberalism. But for Americans the problem has a somewhat different resonance than it would have for, say, Bataille, Foucault, or Habermas. Gunn thus characterizes Rorty’s project as “the most important political attempt since John Dewey to resituate the tradition of American pragmatism within the broader framework of modern Western liberalism” (96). This effort is noteworthy because

     

    pragmatism, or neopragmatism as it is now called, has come to be associated with cultural currents that are thought to be postliberal, if not antiliberal, in some very specific ways. It aligns itself . . . with the postmodernist and poststructuralist repudiation of culture as an expression of individual consciousness woven into patterns of consensus and dissent, of conformity and conflict, and it prefers to view culture as an intertextual system of signs that can be infinitely redescribed. (96)

     

    In Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity (Cambridge UP, 1989), Rorty’s elucidation of the role of contingency in the formation and reception of language and of selfhood, Gunn believes, is masterly. But a third contingent conception, that of community, seems in Rorty’s account to be curiously resistant to the rediscription that Rorty sees as the only remaining object of speculative thought. Thus the project of social restructuring is but poorly served by the thinkers who have shown “how the languages of moral responsibility and social purpose are always contingent” (102). For Rorty, the end of liberal society is to tear us away from the blandishments of metaphysics; to have convictions, to be sure, but to realize at the same time that such convictions cannot be defended with arguments that persons from other communities are constrained to accept.

     

    In the last chapter of Part One, Gunn mounts a Jamesian critique of what he sees as Rorty’s tendency toward the absolutization of opposites when he addresses such questions–what Richard J. Bernstein calls “ethical-political” questions in his recent, exceptionally useful study, The New Constellation (Polity Press, 1991). Rortian oppositions like “justice and love, or irony and common sense, or force and persuasion,” Gunn argues, themselves cry out for deconstruction. Yet Rorty “rarely entertains the possibility that their opposition may itself be a product of contingency” (111). According to Gunn, William James knew better. “In his later thought, experience transcends language by virtue of a conjunctive process of which language itself reminds us” (113).

     

    Starting from this Jamesian perspective Gunn elaborates a different view from Rorty’s about the possibilities of liberal society, and in the strongly argued chapter that opens Part Two, which is the only chapter in the book that has not been published in some form previously (although an unfortunate typo in the Acknowledgements misidentifies it as having appeared elsewhere), he undertakes a reevaluation of the American Enlightenment.

     

    In so doing, Gunn boldly goes to the heart of recent debates about the nature and fate of modernity. Whenever you see someone alive to postmodern ideas seeking to rescue the Enlightenment to even the slightest degree, there, I believe, you will find one of the leading edges of contemporary critical thought. To defend any part of the Enlightenment after the ravages of Foucault and Derrida, not to mention Nietzsche and Heidegger, is to probe for the outer boundaries of postmodernism’s reach. Somewhat curiously, however, especially in light of his obvious erudition, Gunn neglects to situate himself in a wider circle of recent critics hospitable to postmodern currents of thought who nonetheless seek to recover something of value from the dark ruins of the once-heavenly city of Enlightenment discourse. Chief among them is Jurgen Habermas, whose The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity (MIT Press, 1987) is a narrative of the history of Enlightenment philosophy and its deconstruction by postmodernists. Habermas’s solution is not to junk the Enlightenment wholesale, but to begin again–this time, however, not with the philosophy of consciousness, with its pernicious subject-object split, but with intersubjectivity instead. For Habermas, objectivity is a chimera, intersubjectivity is prior to the subject-object opposition, and communication thus prior to cognition.

     

    Gunn’s purpose is analogous to Habermas’s. He wishes to argue both for the centrality of the American Enlightenment’s influence–an enormous influence on nineteenth century thought and culture, he contends, which has been obscured by the twentieth century’s focus on Calvinism–and against the notion that such sway as it did enjoy over literary production and criticism was a baneful one. The Great Awakening is the American problem that distorts an assessment of the Enlightenment; because of it “The Enlightenment has become the absent, or at least the forgotten, integer in the American equation of the relationship between faith and knowledge” (131). As Habermas seeks to recover scraps of “the Enlightenment project” from Horkheimer and Adorno and others, so Gunn, facing a peculiarly American version of the same problem, attempts to reclaim the American Enlightenment from those who think the Great Awakening towers over it.

     

    Disputing the standard interpretation of Henry F. May The Enlightenment in America [Oxford, 1976]), Gunn argues that the most important strains of Enlightenment thought in America were those May called the Revolutionary and the Skeptical, rather than the Rational and Didactic varieties. These influences, maturing in the nineteenth rather than the eighteenth century, and in the United States rather than Europe, worked toward a “dismantling of virtually all of the religious assumptions on which American literary culture was then based” (138). And–guess what–this is a form of proto-pragmatism, “proleptically present” in Moby-Dick, which turns out to be “a prefiguration of . . . pragmatic consciousness” (138), perceivable in the shift from the “old consciousness,” as D. H. Lawrence put it, of Ahab, to the “new” of Ishmael. Moreover, this skeptical and revolutionary consciousness leads quite directly to modernism.

     

    Pragmatism thus turns out to be in Gunn’s narrative the connection between the Enlightenment and the postmodern, as well as between Enlightenment epistemology and Calvinism. And so even postmodern literary culture “has not seen the last of the Enlightenment” (145).

     

    In other chapters, on the New Historicism, on interdisciplinarity, and on academic pluralism, Gunn employs his simultaneously rigorous and conversational approach to investigate the “question as to whether the critic can ever escape the ideological contamination of his or her own process of reflection” (168). In the concluding chapter, Gunn observes the ways in which the pragmatists’ concern for further, deeper, richer conversation can be enhanced by careful attention to current critical struggles–struggles that are finally, he writes, over “‘difference,’ politically, socially, sexually, racially, psychologically, religiously” (215). In other words, they are about otherness–“what many people think of as the fundamental problem of our time” (7). The problem is “how to conceive or represent ‘the Other’ without succumbing to the false artificiality of oppositional thinking” (215). The site that should be available for this purpose, space that was or should be public, has been “rendered trivial and vapid” (220) and survives only as a site of self-referential simulacra. The interest in “civil religion,” which seemed for a time to be an attempt to retake that public space, turned out to be “a defense mechanism for shoring up American cultural consensus” (227). And, though such a world that stands “over against the symbolic solipsism of the religion America has made of its own civic celebrations” (230) might still be found in a liminal domain of vulgarity and vernacular humor, Gunn is too unillusioned not to see that domain as an “endangered” one (236).

     

    This, then, is a book of many virtues. Yet one of its central objectives remains incompletely fulfilled, and for reasons that I think are somewhat curious. Gunn wishes to show that the genealogy of postmodern thought reveals a strong American, or at least pragmatic, extraction; and, conversely, that the resurgence of pragmatism is more than a local American phenomenon. He makes the argument with elegance, but, in truth, it does not constitute a revelation. American Studies scholars have been acknowledging these cross-currents and actively engaging the new forms of “Continental” criticism for a decade and more.

     

    What is curious is that Gunn, in arguing for the compatibility of “American” pragmatic and “Continental” postmodern thought, exaggerates the alleged gap between them, and simultaneously–and contrary to his own stated intention–depreciates the “American Studies” side of the alleged dichotomy he seeks to overcome. One symptom of this undervaluing lies in Gunn’s title, for in the beginning, so to speak, there was In the American Grain, William Carlos Williams’s acute, eccentric recovery and appropriation of American foundational themes. The “grain” of Williams’s title connoted seed, texture, weave, and coarseness at once. The book was published in 1925, and remained obscure until its celebration nearly two generations later by American Studies pioneers.

     

    Gunn–like another historian, David Hollinger, who evokes Williams in the title of his 1985 collection, In the American Province–mentions Williams just once, very briefly, in passing. Here is an absence indeed. For critics and scholars seeking to explore the rough texture of the seam between the modern and the postmodern, especially in the United States, might also turn to that poet and physician and contemporary of Gunn’s admired John Dewey. “The American Grain,” in its very multivalence, is made for thinking across. Gunn’s book demonstrates that–but demonstrates it yet again, not for the first time.

     

  • The Text Is Dead; Long Live the Techst

    Edward M. Jennings

    Department of English
    State University of New York at Albany

    <emj69@albnyvms>

     

    Landow, George P. Hypertext: The Convergence of Contemporary Literary Theory and Technology. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins UP, 1992.

     

    [1] This is a review of George P. Landow’s book about a phenomenon almost as outlandish in a paper-based culture as scripture must appear to be when it arrives in societies without records. Hypertext: The Convergence of Contemporary Literary Theory and Technology is part of a series called “Parallax: Re-visions of Culture and Society.” Steven G. Nichols, Gerald Prince, and Wendy Steiner are the series editors. I think it is a marvelous book, and this essay is meant to prod you into reading it from cover to cover.

     

    Hypertext could be the keystone volume in a graduate curriculum where the rhetorics of networking and screen display are scrutinized right beside those of oral and scribal modes, of scroll and codex technologies. But at least four audiences may still be hostile to it: Curmudgeons who don’t know which upsets them more, critical theory or technology; closet word-processors for whom the concept “programming” still smacks of mind control; theorists for whom Barthes and Derrida and Lyotard are old wallpaper against which background some significant struggles are (at last) taking place; and technophiles ashamed of their access to tools that others cannot afford.

     

    The book itself is not a menace, but the technologies it celebrates–or the still unexplored opportunities offered by the hypertext technology–threaten assumptions so deeply held that most people will deny that they can be challenged. After all, these words mean what they mean, don’t they?

     

    Text.
    Author.
    Story.
    Knowledge.

     

    Landow himself issues no directly apocalyptic challenges. No foam around his mouth. His presentation is measured, experiential, lucid, moderate and sensible. He merely points out that the concept “hypertext” lets us test some concepts associated with critical theory, and gracefully shows how the technology is contributing to reconfigurations of text, author, narrative and (literary) education.

     

    As an advocate for the technology Landow describes so clearly, my goal in this review is to tell you enough about it so that you will feel compelled at least to read Hypertext, even if you don’t rush out and invest all at once in the electronic paraphernalia you would need to become acculturated. I will try to describe the phenomenon, and then try to suggest how hypertext demands that we re-place those four self-evident terms. As I perceive it, the technology undermines fundamental assumptions about authority and control of time.

     

    Just what is this “thing,” this “concept,” this technology that has acquired the label “hypertext”? Landow does a good job of explaining it, as do Bolter and Moulthrop and Slatin (emphasizing “Storyspace”), but it’s like trying to describe digital recording to Oscar Wilde or trying to help a fish understand “breathing.” Even readers of PMC need help, I suspect, in spite of their acquaintance with at least two other transforming technologies, word-processing and networking. Not everyone has easy access to the relatively expensive Macintosh platform where most of the writer-artist hypertext software performs.

     

    Please note: We are not discussing the ballyhooed “multimedia” here, nor the pseudo-hypertext built in to the “Help Menus” of commercial software applications. My own experience (limited) is with Eastgate Systems’ “Storyspace” (and a few hours with Ntergade’s “Black Magic,” and a few minutes with Knowledge Garden’s “Knowledge Pro”). George Landow, in sharp contrast, has designed and experienced entire “docuverses” in the “Intermedia” environment developed and installed at Brown University. He has practiced what he preaches, that is. What’s more, he and Paul Delany have already edited Hypermedia and Literary Studies (MIT, 1991), 17 essays whose cluster of perspectives supplements and qualifies the authoritative focus of his 1992 monotext being reviewed here.

     

    Once more, then: What “is” hypertext?

     

    It can be imagined as an endless electronic nesting of “footnotes,” each one enriching all the others, none of them secondary even though one had to be encountered first. You can place them whenever you want, in whichever typeface (or “tone”) you choose, and with whatever coloration you prefer.

     

    Another image is of a book’s index accompanied by a pointer that would let readers wander from one reference to another without having to keep their index finger between index pages. The sequence of assimilation–associative or whimsical or undeviatingly purposeful–rests in the digits of the reader.

     

    A third image starts with pictures, not books. Imagine a handful of cubes connected by straws, a cluster that almost resembles those models of molecules that illustrate articles in National Geographic. These cubes are “lexias or blocks of text” (Landow 52). The straws are electronic links. Hypertext is nothing more than electronically connected chunks of text.

     

    Expand the imaginary handful into a roomful. Consider that those little cubes are not word containers, but receptacles holding whole sentences, paragraphs, scenes, speeches–or photographs, diagrams, songs, symphonies, videotapes of vaudeville acts with barking dogs…. Consider also that those straws, now enlarged to tunnel size, can arch from one corner of the room to another without going through all the neighboring cubes along the way. The designer lays out the linkages. Instead of a neat model molecule, all primary colors and straight lines, we have a web, a Gibsonian Matrix, an elecTRONic habitat.

     

    As “readers” of this space, we who have entered the habitat’s first chamber take our seats and watch the message-performance composed for us. Finished, we take a hint from the options posted on the wall and stroll– together or separately, next door or to the far reaches– stopping off anywhen that looks promising.

     

    The crux of hypertext is where those spatially distinct “cubes” intersect with temporally distinct sequences. Authors compose the cubes.lexias.performances and construct the tunnels.web.links. The audience, having entered the space at cube one, has to choose where to explore next, and has to endure the consequences of the risks implicated in that choosing.

     

    So much for telling fish about breathing. Instead of holding a book, we look at a screen displaying a map of an Index. By now, two of those self-evident terms, “text” and “author,” no longer mean quite what they used to. Instead of being sentences and paragraphs and two-dimensional pages bound as a book or journal or newsletter, what we “read” is distinct, self-contained chunks of performance frozen in a three-dimensional “space.”

     

    As it happens, two of Landow’s chapters are about reconfiguring the text and reconfiguring the author, so we have not strayed too far from his (two-dimensional) text. Another pair of his chapters has to do with narrative and education, so I will have a chance to show how hypertext technology can question “story” (the morality of narrative) and “knowledge” (construct versus instruct) later in this essay. Meanwhile, I trust that the convergence Landow writes about between computer technology and critical theory is beginning to sound plausible and interesting. His own Index (if displayed on your screen) would show about 75 citations for Barthes and Derrida. Foucault, Lyotard, Bakhtin, Miller and four others together match that number. Vannevar Bush leads the techies with 15 citations; Theodor H. Nelson (14) and Jay David Bolter (12) outpoint McLuhan, Ong, Joyce (Michael) and Moulthrop.

     

    After a glance at Landow’s first chapter, about theory, then, I shall cycle through more modulations of writer-reader-text dislocation, stressing control of time and sequence, and press on to try to legitimize narrative disorder.

     

    The first chapter, “Hypertext and Literary Theory,” is for me a clear, succinct and persuasive elaboration of the argument that hypertext actually concretizes a lot of what poststructuralism theorizes. Landow himself is not so insistent. His moderate claim: “What is perhaps most interesting about hypertext . . . is not that it may fulfill certain claims of structuralist and poststructuralist criticism but that it provides a rich means of testing them” (11). Some nexial terms in the early pages are inter-textuality, multi-vocality, de-centering and non-linearity. Central to the “convergence” argument is the quasi-equation of techie Nelson’s “text chunks” and critic Barthes’s lexia: “Hypertext . . . denotes blocks of text–what Barthes terms a lexia–and the electronic links that join them” (4).

     

    Landow finishes this first chapter in the context of Alvin Kernan’s thesis that printing technology virtually created the concepts of “authorial property, authorial uniqueness, and physically isolated text.” The book, the artist, and even “intellectual property” are fragile, socially constructed phenomena. Landow predicts that hypertext will, in its turn, frame and historicize several such heretofore “self-evident” Truths about Art. Hypertext technology thus “has much in common with some major points of contemporary literary and semiological theory, particularly with Derrida’s emphasis on de-centering and Barthes’s conception of the readerly versus the writerly text” (33-4; see also Kernan, Printing Technology).

     

    Even though Landow concentrates on ways that hypertext reconfigures text and author, the role of Reader is inseperable from both, and I shall emphasize the paradox of that role: The reader is no longer subjected totally to the authoritative will of a single mind, and the reader can be a collaborating writer within the hypertext space. BUT each new reader IS still under the previous reader-writer’s control, and NO reader can tamper with the lexias already in place.

     

    There are two ways to unravel these apparent contradictions. The first involves a digression into the way two mutually exclusive words are being juxtaposed. Here is Landow on writer and reader:

     

    Today when we consider reading and writing, we probably think of them as serial processes or as procedures carried out intermittently by the same person: first one reads, then one writes, and then one reads some more. Hypertext, which creates an active, even intrusive reader, carries this convergence of activities one step closer to completion; but, in so doing, it infringes upon the power of the writer, removing some of it and granting it to the reader. (71)

     

    Notice how comfortably familiar this terminology is–power, writer, reader–even though juxtapositions of dominance-subservience relationships (“power”) and conventionally self-evident labels (“reader” and “writer”) are moderately disconcerting. We are accustomed to assuming that “the reader” cannot be the same individual as “the writer,” that the practices are mutually exclusive. When I write, that is, I am “by definition” not reading. As Landow’s account here indicates, it is difficult not to reproduce this distinction terminologically, even where its inadequacy as regards the hypertext becomes clear. To capture what really goes on in hypertextual pactice we will need to develop a new vocabulary capable of signifying such concepts as “wreading” and “wriding.” (And my “readers” should be warned that I have engaged in some terminological experimentation along these lines below, grotesque though the results may be.)

     

    In any case, it would seem that the hypertext environment brings about a collapsing of the identities of composer and audience, a relinquishment of creative control, a triumph of the consumer. But it is necessary to back somewhat away from these implications and return to the image of a space full of chambers connected by tunnels. Within Landow’s Intermedia technology and my chamber-tunnel image, the “writer” carries out two tasks: preparing the separate lexias in their chambers and installing the first set of tunnels linking them. That design process is creative and authoritative in traditional ways. “Readers” needn’t be privileged to tamper with what the “writer” has installed. And the relationships among the lexias, the links, are–when imagined as existing in space–determined by the writer, and must be “followed” by the reader. Writer and reader are not identical. There is no aleatoric “audience participation,” no wresting of control from the performance artist.

     

    In that case, how can it be said that the technology “infringes upon the power of the writer, removing some of it and granting it to the reader”? First, the person who enters the hypertext space may construct chambers and link them to those already there. Thus the “wreader” gambit. You can compose your objection to these sentences, or your qualification, or even your endorsement, and “file” it in the same size type–ah, where?–Think of the position as “right behind” this screen/plane, visible the way the labelled edge of a Mac window could be visible.

     

    That privilege of reader-being-writer is more easily imagined, but may be less important, than the consequence of the other “transfer of power” effected by the technology. This involves the disintegration of the celebrated essence of literacy, “linearity.” I don’t mean to imply a mandate for chaos; the originator still can design a preferred sequence for the readers’ encounter with the lexias. And sentence-level linearity is not eroded (nor is frame-level pictorial syntax, nor a melody’s phrasing). But the reader-audience-explorer is no longer bound by sequences of paragraphs or chapters. At the granular level we usually call “organizational,” the writer loses what had been almost complete control over the reader.

     

    Before hypertext, that is, author(ities) designed the one-and-only-one sequence of sensation-chunks to be imposed on and shared by all (subservient) readers. The order in which memories were layered, the sequence of admonitory qualifications and concluding caveats was determined by the single creative mind. A rebellious reader who flipped casually from back to front, or read the “last” chapter first, or started with the Index, was a social deviant. Now, however, “Flipping back and forth” is no longer defiant. It’s encouraged. The authority can no longer presume that everyone will have read “the same book,” and it won’t be easy for two readers to discuss their differently based interpretations of the same work. They might be similar, but congruence would be an unlikely accident. The author or wrider still influences, but no longer determines, the way the reader or wreader spends time.

     

    For hypertext generally, then: The wreader can add to a hypertext docuverse, but (usually) cannot alter its existing lexia; the wrider maintains authority over the original lexias and links, but abdicates control over sequence and boundary. With that paradox and transformation outlined for the technology in general, we can turn to a slightly restricted arena, narrative. Hypertext affects storytelling.

     

    If the relationship between wrider and wreader has been transformed, if no single individual is responsible for the whole text, and if that text is no longer a fixed, sacred record–what then are the implications for morality in a record-addicted, legalistic, guilt-needing culture? This might seem like an impertinent question, except that the following sentence is as provocative as any in Landow’s chapter called Reconfiguring Narrative: “Since some narratologists claim that morality ultimately depends upon the unity and coherence of a fixed linear text, one wonders if hypertext can convey morality in any significant form or if it is condemned to an essential triviality” (106). Landow’s answer is affirmative; hypertext storytelling can “convey morality,” and his argument here is consistent with his other positions. Using Michael Joyce’s hypertext Afternoon as his example, Landow maneuvers some responsibility onto the reader’s shoulders. As readers, he says, “our assistance in the storytelling or storymaking is not entirely or even particularly random . . . we do become reader-authors and help tell the tale we read.”

     

    “Nonetheless,” he continues, “as J. Hillis Miller points out, we cannot help ourselves: we must create meaning as we read: ‘A story is readable because it can be organized as a causal chain . . . . A causal sequence is always an implicit narrative’” (115; Miller, Versions of Pygmalion).

     

    One purpose of Landow’s argument here seems to be to rescue hypertext “stories” (and perhaps the medium itself) from “essential triviality.” But I don’t think the rescue operation is called for. The struggle is not between the trivial and the serious, or between absurdity and order, even though Miller (and Aristotle) implies that the absence of centralized, authorial control of time, and the concomitant absence of obvious causes and necessities, would leave hypertext vulnerable to the defamatory epithets “random” and “chaotic.” I see randomness and chaos making a comeback, however, and if morality’s principal basis really is sequence–consequence, post hoc ergo propter hoc, narrative–then I believe that conventional “morality,” thermodynamic morality, is in for a hard time.

     

    My conviction is founded in the implications of fractals and chaos theory, which permit the simultaneous domination of events by absolute determinism and absolute uncertainty. I do not expect “causality” to fade away, any more than Newton or Einstein have, but we are questioning some default assumptions deeply rooted in our culture–see Miller’s casual but inevitable use of “because,” above, for instance. Consider also the questions implicit in a passage Kernan quotes from McLuhan’s The Gutenberg Galaxy:

     

    The crucial literary concepts of a central plot and a single structure are extensions of the movement of type in precise lines, which generates "the notion of moving steadily along on single planes of narrative awareness . . . totally alien to the nature of language and consciousness." (Kernan 52)

     

    As Landow himself says, hypertext technology lets us start testing questions and assumptions. In the case of story-telling, hypertext does not demand attention to a single Creative Authority who designs sequences of sensation and requires that audiences accept them in that order. This is why there is really no need, in spite of the consistency and symmetry of Landow’s nostalgic argument (that readers will construe their own causality, and narrative morality will remain essentially the same), to succumb to the argument’s temptations.

     

    Almost half the book is devoted to ways hypertext affects realms outside its own texts. The last two chapters are about pedagogy and politics. Both of them start small and expand. One begins with students and concludes with hypertext’s effect on canonicity. The other starts out with “humanist technophobia” and ideology, and ends with a succinct survey of networks’ and hypertext’s unpacking of the mouldy concept of “intellectual property.” One sentence seems to me to be at the heart of both chapters: “Educational hypertext redefines the role of instructors by transferring some of their power and authority to students” (123). Implicit in this kind of transfer, as I have experienced it, is a modification of the concept “knowledge” away from a “thing” to be sought and found and guarded and delivered by coteries–by mysterious “hoods,” as in brotherhoods or priesthoods or doctoral hoods–away from monolithic thing-ness, that is, and toward a complex system of interpenetrating contributions. “Facts” don’t change much in such an environment, but some dogmatically self-evident conclusions are less likely to be called “facts.”

     

    I have watched this happen in a simple, inexpensive networking environment, and have no trouble accepting Landow’s sweeping statement about the inestimably more challenging environment of hypermedia. To prevail in that environment, students have to become engaged with learning. They will have trouble if they try to get by with habits of remembering and mimicking. Landow says that hypertext provides “the perfect means of informing, assisting, and inspiring the unconventional student” (129), that the environment “frees learners from constraints of scheduling without destroying the structure and coherence of a course” (132), and asks instructors to “rethink examinations and other forms of evaluation” (134). We also have to make some adjustments in our beliefs about “knowledge.” Instead of being a commodity that professors have exposed, “knowledge” is revealed as a dynamic cluster of interacting perceptions being constructed and transformed by real people.

     

    Pleasing as these abstract ramifications may sound, they are also disturbing. How many educators really want “active, independent-minded students who take more responsibility for their education and are not afraid to challenge and disagree” (163)? Landow assesses the prospect as “terrifying” for many, perhaps especially so in an atmosphere of “widespread humanist technophobia” (164).

     

    Beyond the threat to professors’ assumptions about their power, deeply rooted in the proscenium classroom (Barker and Kemp), and registrars’ schedules and “credit hours,” Landow perceives hypertext as more than a teaching tool, a learning machine, an “educational program.” For him it is a medium, and its unprecedented massage (sic) is potentially multicentered and democratizing far beyond the campus. One already hears rumors about the ways some people in medium-sized organizations have adjusted their activity away from obeying and toward collaborating as “horizontal” networks encroach on “chain-of-command” hierarchies. That the change is still in the service of “productivity” seems to me a minor flaw, perhaps temporary, in a near-Odonian transformation of attitude.

     

    A basic image for Landow, and for this review, has been transfer of power. The author’s authority is decreased and the reader’s power is increased by the same “amounts,” it would seem. Democracy gains to the extent that autocracy loses. The image implies scarcity, limitation, restriction. But “power” does not really exist as a fixed quantum, after all, to be shared only among the privileged and withheld from, kept secret from, the underclass. In certain contexts, power resembles information, in that sharing power does not leave the sharer with less of it. To the extent that information and power (and authority) overlap, hypertext’s ecology of abundance can be regarded as spreading all of them around, rather than either reducing or increasing any of them. To that extent, at least, hypertext technology resembles network technology: sharing, abundance, even the dreaded “overload” are its hallmarks, rather than the sort of de-centering that implies reduction or diminishment.

     

    Although it takes some rigorous imagining to do so, I can even extrapolate the hypertext environment in the direction of broadly anti-propertarian attitudes. The propertarian, anti-collaborative concepts of artist and inventor, copyright and patent, publication and secrecy, are closely linked. But the impetus toward collaboration already evident in the Matrix or on the Net looks to be compounded by the experience of hypertext. IF the overlapping cultural schemas of a) deference to isolated genius, b) worship of mystery, and c) reverence for hierarchy continue to be eroded by a technology that virtually mandates collaboration, our great-grandchildren will share a radically refabricated culture in which concepts like intellectual property, trade secrets, and even searching for The Truth may have been significantly altered.

     

    These declarations are mine, not Landow’s. He wisely stops short of such gee-whiz speculation. His boldness in discussing pedagogy alongside critical theory, and in discussing the political implications of an academic technology, are more significant for me than the specific directions we may make guesses about.

     

    For it is this convergence of technology, pedagogy, scientific and literary theorizing, and the feedback processes of cultural evolution, that Landow’s volume heralds. Indeed, I wish he had brought his talent for drawing the most crucial particulars out of a complex framework to bear on the broader academic curriculum (and political agenda). It seems to me that the sooner we can integrate hypertext’s opportunities for exploration into our graduate training in all the artistic and critical disciplines, the greater the likelihood that some system of positive global cooperation will prevail over the temptations to self destruct.

     

    There are other matters that I wish Landow had been able to address. On the technical side, they include the implications of the broader definition of “text” forthcoming when “cinema” and “sound” join “plain words” and “pictures” in the hypermedia “space.” On the theoretical side, they include the intriguing hypothesis that “Time”–as in the dis-integration of before-and-after relationships–is the concept that arches over all his reconfigurations. Pedagogically, they include the implications of the growing demand for computing resources, including trained people, that will issue from the humanistic disciplines as the technology’s value to all forms of textual-interpretive endeavor comes to be recognized. Politically, they include the ramifications of high cost and slow distribution of the technology (which brings us full circle, centrifugally, around the bullseye Landow has anatomized). But in a book so thoroughly admirable, these few lacunae are no more worrisome than the missing “the” on page 131.

     

    There are skeptics about hypertext, particularly scholars concerned about its apparent promotion of bull-session anarchy and rigorless dissipation. Landow quotes doubts about “the erosion of the thinking subject” (Said, Beginnings) and “the disintegration of the centering voice of contemplative thought” (Heim, Electric Language). For Landow himself, however, whatever is lost at the center appears offset by benefits of collaboration. In discussing the relationships he experienced during an Intermedia project, for instance, he lambastes those who, still bathing themselves “in the afterglow of Romanticism, uncritically inflate Romantic notions of creativity and originality to the point of absurdity” (91). Quoting Bolter about the way “book technology itself created new conceptions of authorship and publication” (93), Landow celebrates the fact that “hypermedia linking automatically produces collaboration” (95).

     

    There is also suspicion that anything to do with computers is essentially materialistic and centralized, and an associated suspicion that any “program” must be a “product” whose acceptance will implicate us in the machinations of the producers. One reviewer, objecting to Jay Bolter’s attitude toward computing technology (in Writing Space), links this threat (of a “decentering, associative technology being developed by and for the greater consolidation of post-industrial, multi-national, capitalistic institutions”) with “a neo-conservative position” and “Republican ideology” (Tuman, “Review,” 262-63). The paradox of “consolidated decentering” might be resolvable, but it will be hard for a while yet to fight the presumption that network technology and hypertext technology have the same effects on their users. I can testify that the impacts are very different, however, and I will insist that confusing the concept hypertext with whoever delivers and installs a particular version is like confusing the generic technology of the book with the sellers of paper and printing presses; hypertext is a generic technology, not a product. And Usenet (to shift to The Matrix of networks) is like an anarchists’ convention compared with commercial bulletin boards’ shopping malls.

     

    A related objection, also directed at Bolter and Writing Space, has been to his “radical environmentalism,” which allows the “human mind to be shaped by whatever writing space it happens to be occupying” (Kaufer and Neuwirth, “Review,” 260). But while one must certainly beware of absolute technological determinism, it seems clear enough that the human mind is used differently, say, in paper-based cultures than in memory-dependent societies. If that translates into environmental “shaping,” then hypertext, in its disruption of such self-evident categories as “reader” and “writer,” would seem already to have begun to reshape us.

     

    Hypertext is as radical a social technology as there has been since compound interest, and its subsequences won’t crystallize in a rationally predictable way. Who could have prophesied, for instance, that the internal-combustion engine and the quartz-crystal radio would play out as suburban decentralization and public television broadcasting? I am willing to predict that the nature of record-keeping is going to change now that we can tape events in “real-time” as well as write down summaries from memory. Since we live in a record-grounded culture, that is, changes in recording technology will have effects as profound as they are gradual–over the next century or two. Hypertext, a recording medium, will play some part in those tectonic changes, but it is far too early to predict its exact role or the precise changes. Isaac Asimov once made the point that most people can carry out a plausible straight-line extrapolation of (some) effects of change in a single variable. He grinned as he added that plotting the feedback effects where those extrapolations affect other variables is, shall we say, more difficult. Few “variables” affect the understructure of culture more subtly or seismically than its recording technology, and hypertext is an unprecedented, appealing, available recording technology. Its effects on what we call “writing” may turn out to be as momentous as those of photography on “drawing.”

     

    I doubt that any member of the four hostile audiences I enumerated at the outset will now rush off to buy Landow’s Hypertext. But I hope that others who are more prepared to credit an emerging technology with the potential to radically reshape our institutional lives–right down to such assumed conceptual bedrock as text, author, story, knowledge, and reader–will give this admirable book the chance to convince them.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Barker, T.B., and F.O. Kemp. “Network Theory: A Postmodern Pedagogy for the Writing Classroom.” In Carolyn Handa, ed., Computers and Community: Teaching Composition in the Twenty-First Century. Portsmouth, New Hampshire: Heinemann/Boynton-Cook, 1990.
    • Bolter, Jay David. Writing Space: The Computer, Hypertext, and the History of Writing. Hillsdale, New Jersey: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1991.
    • Delany, Paul, and George P. Landow, eds. Hypermedia and Literary Studies. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1991.
    • Gibson, William. Neuromancer. New York: Ace, 1984.
    • Heim, Michael. Electric Language: A Philosophical Study of Word Processing. New Haven: Yale UP. 1987.
    • Kaufer, David, and Chris Neuwirth. “Review” of Bolter, Writing Space. College Composition and Communication 43.2 (May 1992): 259-61.
    • Kernan, Alvin. Printing Technology, Letters and Samuel Johnson. Princeton: Princeton UP 1987.
    • Lanham, Richard A. “From Book to Screen: Four Recent Studies.” College English 54.2 (February 1992): 199-206. Review of Bolter, Writing Space; Hardison, Disappearing Through the Skylight: Culture and Technology in the Twentieth Century; Kernan, The Death of Literature; Ulmer, Teletheory: Grammatology in the Age of Video.
    • McLuhan, Marshall. The Gutenberg Galaxy. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1962.
    • Miller, J. Hillis. Versions of Pygmalion. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1990.
    • Moran, Charles. “Computers and English: What Do We Make of Each Other?” College English 54.2 (February 1992): 193-98. Review of Handa, ed., Computers and Community; Holdstein and Selfe, eds., Computers and Writing: Theory, Research, Practice.
    • Moulthrop, Stuart. “Polymers, Paranoia, and the Rhetoric of Hypertext.” Writing on the Edge 2.2 (Spring 1991): 150-59.
    • Said, Edward W. Beginnings: Intention and Method. New York: Columbia UP, 1985.
    • Schwarz, Helen J. “Computer Perspectives: Mapping New Territories.” College English 54.2 (February 1992): 207-12. Review of Delany and Landow, eds., Hypermedia and Literary Studies; Hawisher and Selfe, eds., Critical Perspectives on Computers and Composition Instruction; Hawisher and Selfe, eds., Evolving Perspectives on Computers and Composition Studies: Questions for the 1990s.
    • Slatin, John. “Reading Hypertext: Order and Coherence in a New Medium.” In Delany and Landow, eds., Hypermedia and Literary Studies.
    • Storyspace, a hypertext writing environment. Cambridge: Eastgate Systems.
    • Tuman, Myron. “Review” of Bolter, Writing Space. College Composition and Communication 43.2 (May 1992): 261-63.

     

  • Becoming Postmodern?

    Ursula K. Heise

    English Department
    Stanford University

    <uheise@leland.stanford.edu>

     

    Ermarth, Elizabeth Deeds. Sequel to History: Postmodernism and the Crisis of Representational Time. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1992.

     

    Elizabeth Deeds Ermarth’s Sequel to History: Postmodernism and the Crisis of Representational Time addresses a problem that has been all too long neglected in studies of contemporary avant-garde art and thought: the concept of temporality. Although postmodernism’s relationship to and construction of space, time, and historicity has been discussed with some frequency in more general accounts, there has not so far been any book-length study focused in particular on postmodernism and temporality. In its attempt to fill this theoretical gap, Ermarth’s book must be welcome to any reader interested in postmodern theories and practices.

     

    Ermarth analyzes the problem of temporality within the general framework of poststructuralist theory as well as the more specific one of narrative structure. The three theoretical chapters that constitute the bulk of her book explore the ramifications of her central thesis: postmodern theory and postmodern art replace the %historical temporality% which has dominated Western thought since the Renaissance with the concept of %rhythmic time%. Chapter One, “Time Off the Track,” defines historical temporality as a convention that emerged in the Renaissance and came to inform all the most important forms of Western knowledge. As a “realistic” or “representational” device,

     

    historical time [is] a convention that belongs to a major, generally unexamined article of cultural faith . . . : the belief in a temporal medium that is neutral and homogeneous and that, consequently, makes possible those mutually informative measurements between one historical moment and another that support most forms of knowledge current in the West and that we customarily call "science." History has become a commanding metanarrative, perhaps %the% metanarrative in Western discourse. (20)

     

    Postmodernism radically subverts this convention by relying on a “rhythmic time” which is no longer a transcendent and neutral medium “in” or “on” which events take place as in a container or on a road stretching to infinity. Rather, rhythmic time is coextensive with the event and does not allow the subject to distance itself from it, but collapses the two and binds both of them in language. It is a “time of experiment, improvisation, adventure”:

     

    Because rhythmic time is an exploratory repetition, because it is over when it's over and exists for its duration only and then disappears into some other rhythm, any "I" or ego or %cogito% exists only for the same duration and then disappears with that sea change or undergoes transformation into some new state of being. What used to be called the individual consciousness has attained a more multivocal and systemic identity.(53)

     

    This new type of identity, the topic of Ermarth’s second chapter entitled “Multilevel Thinking,” renders humanist and Cartesian notions of individuality obsolete, since the subject now exists in an irreducible multiplicity of perspectives and moments of awareness and becomes indistinguishable from the object. Ultimately, it turns out to be a construct of language, as Ermarth details in her third chapter, “Time and Language”:

     

    If time is no longer a neutral medium, a place of exchange between self-identical objects and subjects and "in" which language functions, then the language sequence--especially in the expanded theoretical sense of discourse--becomes the only site where temporality can be located and where consciousness can be said to exist. (140)

     

    In one of her most interesting theoretical moves, Ermarth describes this innovative linguistic constellation in terms of the medieval notion of %figura%, in opposition to the modern concept of %image%. In contrast to the image, the term %figura% for Ermarth emphasizes an understanding of the linguistic sign as reflexive rather than as representational, as a value within a system rather than as an indicator of some external reality. In the medieval as in the postmodern figura, the sign attains an “absolute” status insofar as it is not separate from the reality it is linked to, but coextensive with it. “[In postmodernism] [t]ime and subject %are% the figure,” Ermarth concludes, “and there is no ‘other side’ to it, except in some other figure” (181).

     

    Each of the three theoretical chapters is followed by a “rhythm section” which illustrates the theory through an interpretation of a postmodern novel: Alain Robbe-Grillet’s Jealousy, Julio Cortazar’s Hopscotch, and Vladimir Nabokov’s Ada. In all three, Ermarth emphasizes the amount of reader involvement that is required for the construction of the narrative sequence, to the point where readerly construction comes to form part of the text itself. Rather predictably, she focuses on the repetition and variation of key scenes in Jealousy, the varied reading itineraries of Hopscotch and the repetition and superimposition of themes and motifs in “alternative semantic contexts” in Ada, but all three novels are well chosen to give an idea of how rhythmic time in narrative differs from the traditional linear and “historical” plot. One wonders, however, whether the concept could have been shown to work equally well if Ermarth had included examples of those maybe more typically postmodern texts whose narrative is structured by formal principles not so easily accounted for in terms of repetition and semantic multivalence: Walter Abish’s Alphabetical Africa, for example, the texts produced by the Ouvroir de Litterature Potentielle (OULIPO), or some of the novels of Ronald Sukenick, Raymond Federman, or Christine Brooke-Rose, in which the layout of the printed page comes to play a crucial role for the understanding of narrative progression. Neither is it clear how the notion of rhythmic time would apply to the novels of, for example, Ishmael Reed or Kathy Acker, whose “storylines” are far more radically disrupted than those of Jealousy or Hopscotch. Ermarth here seems to have chosen her examples from that particular brand of early postmodernism that can be made to serve as support for her theoretical approach, to the exclusion of later, more radical experiments that present a much greater challenge to any notion of rhythm.

     

    Nevertheless, Ermarth’s general claim that postmodernism implies a reconceptualization of time is in itself an innovative and promising one. But it is also obvious from the start that her definition of historical time as a realist convention dependent upon the Cartesian %cogito% leads her straight back to two of the most well-beaten tracks of postmodern theory: the critique of subjectivity and the critique of representation. The strength of this approach is that it makes the entire methodological and terminological arsenal of poststructuralist theory available for the study of time. But precisely as a consequence of this, time turns out to be just another metaphysical convention, another meta-narrative to be dismantled in terms that are by now familiar. I am not objecting to this on the basis of those reproaches that the more “historicist” camp of postmodern theorists has frequently leveled at the more “deconstructionist” camp–for example, that an account such as Ermarth’s, which opposes postmodern temporal notions to earlier forms of historical reasoning, relies on historical reasoning even in the process of announcing its demise; that the radically discontinuous “rhythmic time” she describes seems to preclude any notion of individual morality and any possibility of meaningful political thought or action; and that such a temporality makes it impossible for socially repressed groups to articulate their “histories” against the dominant “History” of the elite. Ermarth is aware of these objections, and answers them–tentatively, as she herself concedes–by arguing that social reform in the postmodern age must proceed through the construction of new forms of discursive mediation, and that the reformation of language is itself a political act (112-14, 156-57). To repeat the arguments against such a view would be merely to rehearse once more one of the most well-worn–though admittedly crucial–controversies over postmodernism. Instead, I would like to discuss briefly three central points of Ermarth’s account that seem to me to weaken its theoretical grasp: the absence of any discussion of already existing literature on temporality, the construction of the relationship between modernism and postmodernism, and the connection of time and language which, according to Ermarth, underlies the notion of “rhythmic time.”

     

    Whereas the strength of Sequel to History lies in its familiarity with and survey-presentation of various theories of postmodernism, especially feminist ones, its maybe most serious shortcoming lies in its failure to engage any strand of previous research on temporality. Ermarth mentions Ricoeur’s Time and Narrative and Fraser’s Voices of Time in passing, but does not once refer to David Carr’s or Hayden White’s explorations of the connection between historical time and narrative.1 There is no reference to any of the recent studies of time as a social dimension by Eviatar Zerubavel, Michael Young, David Landes, Paul Halpern or Stephen Kern, nor to any of the more specific studies of the contemporary experience of time by Jeremy Rifkin or David Harvey. None of the classical studies of literary and narrative temporality by Jean Poulet, Georges Pouillon, Hans Meyerhoff, A.A. Mendilow or Frank Kermode finds its way into her study, not to speak of much more recent ones such as Gerard Genette’s, Peter Brooks’s, or Suzanne Fleischman’s. Ermarth does not quote Roland Barthes’s critique of narrative time as a purely representational convention, or Thomas Docherty’s recent concept of a postmodern “chrono-politics,” both sources that are highly relevant to many of her considerations; neither does she mention Philippe Le Touze’s claim that in the %nouveau roman%, temporality has shifted from story to discourse, a hypothesis that anticipates her own claim that in the postmodern novel, time becomes a function of language. But maybe most surprising, given Ermarth’s attempt to develop a non-transcendental concept of time, is the absence of any engagement with Derrida’s suggestion that time itself is an irrecuperably metaphysical concept, and David Wood’s extensive discussion of this hypothesis in The Deconstruction of Time (1989). In a book which justifies its existence by the absence of theoretical considerations of time and postmodernism, this large number of omissions cannot but weigh heavily.

     

    It does so not only at a purely theoretical level. Practically, Ermarth’s lack of concern for earlier analyses of time leads to the disappearance of high modernism from her historical map. The only current of pre-World War II literature she discusses is surrealism, but the more crucial precursors in questions of temporality–Joyce, Woolf, Wyndham Lewis’s rebellion against the “time school in modern literature,” and Gertrude Stein’s experiments with narrative time and timelessness, to name only a few–are left out of consideration. In fact, since Ermarth defines as “modern” the period from the Renaissance to the beginning of the twentieth century, one is left with the impression that novelists such as Proust or Faulkner would have to be considered postmodernists in her terminology. Is there any difference between them and the postmodernists she discusses –Robbe-Grillet, Cortazar, Nabokov? Nowhere does Ermarth spell out whether she sees any fundamental break between the high modernist and the postmodernist conceptualization of time, or whether she views them as essentially homogeneous in their break away from Cartesian rationalism and realist forms of representation.

     

    This is more than quibbling over labels, since her central theoretical notion, “rhythmic time,” can be applied to a number of modernist novels as well as postmodernist ones. Rhythmic time, according to Ermarth, manifests itself in narrative as a structure that no longer consists of linear plot development, but the repetition of identical motifs, details and descriptions with slight but disturbing variations, or as repeated and incompatible accounts of what the reader must take to be the same events. These variations and distortions make it impossible for the readers to construct a rational, representational picture of the novel’s world and events. Rather, they are invited to perceive the text as a figural pattern of elements which can be arranged and rearranged, “[e]mphasizing what is parallel and synchronically patterned rather than what is linear and progressive” (85). Thus, Ermarth argues, the structuring principle of the postmodern novel is paratactic rather than syntactic, relying on a style which “thrives by multiplying the valences of every word and by making every arrangement a palimpsest rather than a statement, rather as poetry does when it draws together a rhythmic unit by means of repeated sound or rhythm” (85). This is, on the surface, a valid enough account of the functioning of many postmodern stories and novels. But the emphasis on synchronicity, multiple meanings, and a structure closer to poetry than to traditional narrative also characterizes the late novels of, for example, Joyce, Woolf or Stein. In what way, then, is rhythmic time typically postmodern?

     

    Furthermore, Ermarth’s definition of rhythmic time raises the question of why one would even insist on still calling this kind of narrative “temporal” at all in a sense other than the superficial one that it takes time to read. One cannot but remember that Joseph Frank used a very similar argument when he characterized the novels of Proust and Joyce as “spatial” in his influential essay, “Spatial Form in Modern Literature”: overcoming the linearity of the 19th-century plot, Frank argued, the modernist novel invites the reader not so much to follow an evolving story, but a gradually spreading network of images which must be perceived in simultaneity. This simultaneity of perception he calls “spatial form.” Like Ermarth, then, he sees a paratactic patterning to be perceived in parallel or in simultaneity as the structuring principle of the 20th-century novel–only Ermarth does not call this “spatial form,” but “rhythmic time,” a concept she herself explains by means of other, sometimes quite distinctly spatializing terms such as “pattern,” “arrangement,” or “figura.” In this context, she quotes Robbe-Grillet’s programmatic statement from For A New Novel to the effect that “in the modern narrative, time seems to be cut off from its temporality. It no longer passes. It no longer completes anything” (155; Ermarth 74). But she seems unaware of how easily this could be used to support a concept such as “spatial form” rather than any specifically temporal approach.

     

    Ermarth’s reference to poetry adds another twist to this: if the postmodern novel is configured on the basis of rhythm, repetition and patterns, then indeed how %is% it different from poetry? Given this affinity, could one not argue that postmodernism’s rhythmic time constitutes no real “reformation of time” at all, but simply the extension of a concept of time that has been present all along in the poetic tradition? I hasten to add that this is not at all a conclusion that I find satisfactory; I am quite prepared to accept that postmodern narrative does innovate our construction of temporality. But Ermarth’s account does not really explain why and how we do still read postmodern narratives as narratives rather than as extended poems. Hopscotch is %not% like long poems such as Pound’s Cantos or Hejinian’s My Life, but one cannot tell by Ermarth’s theory why that is so.

     

    Even discounting these difficulties of applied narratology, though, Ermarth’s theory of time remains problematic. It follows logically from her critique of historical temporality as a representational convention that she ends up describing both postmodern time and consciousness as anchored in the differential signifying system of language. This final emphasis on the crucial role of language may appear at first like a staple of much poststructuralist theory. But the exclusivity which Ermarth attributes to language as the ground and site of all discursive formations, be they philosophical, esthetic, or ethical (“all thought is discourse and all discourse is language” [156]), turns into a serious problem for her theory of temporality. Let us assume for the sake of argument that our conception of time, and in general our cultural, social, and political practices do indeed “take place” principally in and through language, and that changes in these practices must be based on changes of or in language. But then how does language change? How do we get, for example, from the discursive formation that grounds historical time to the one that opens up the possibility of rhythmic time? How do–or did–we become postmodern? I do not see how Ermarth’s account can solve this dilemma: by situating time “in” language, she makes it virtually impossible to situate language “in” time.

     

    This question cannot be brushed off by saying that it is a “historical” one of the kind Ermarth condemns (and even if it were, this would not eliminate the necessity of an answer, since Ermarth herself admits that her account cannot in all respects avoid historicity). Rather, it is a question regarding the very nature of change, of Becoming– that is, regarding the very “processual” character of time that Ermarth herself considers crucial. Possibly, Ermarth would argue that this question cannot be answered in general terms, since we would in this case be again reduced to a “neutral and homogeneous” temporality of some sort. But this is really conceding that there simply can be no non-metaphysical concept of time–a conclusion which leads Ermarth’s idea of a non-transcendental “rhythmic time” %ad absurdum%. A concept of time that is coextensive with the event cannot explain the process that leads from one event to another, and hence evades one of the most central questions in any theory of temporality.

     

    These, in brief, are some of the difficulties Ermarth’s account of postmodernist time encounters, and which might have become, if not solvable, at least more manageable through an engagement with those texts that have already discussed them. My own prediction would be that a successful reformulation of the concept of time will only become possible once we rethink the postmodern notions of “metaphysics” and “transcendence.” Time will tell.

     

    Note

     

    1. I am indebted to Shirley Brice Heath for pointing the latter omission out to me.

     

  • BOOK REVIEW OF: Post-Modernism and the Social Sciences

    Michael W. Foley

    Department of Politics
    The Catholic University of America

    <foley@cua>

     

    Rosenau, Pauline Marie. Post-Modernism and the Social Sciences: Insights, Inroads, and Intrusions. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton UP, 1992.

     

    On display in the New York Museum of Modern Art’s current exhibit of postmodernist drawing is a piece by Stephen Prima: 67 framed sheets, of various shapes and sizes, broad brushed, light tan ink wash on rag barrier paper, with the suggestive tag “No Title/(‘The History of Modern Painting, to label it with a phrase, has been the struggle against the catalog….’ Barnett Newman).” Pauline Rosenau’s book is a thoroughgoing repudiation of that (post)modernist preoccupation. To analyze postmodernism, in Rosenau’s mind, is to catalog it. In the process, her “postmodernists” mix and blend, as indistinguishable, but for her frames, as Prima’s paintings. Postmodernism plays on the ambiguity, contradiction, and confusion of the text. Rosenau falls victim to it. She mixes description and prescription, observer and observed, thinker, thought and thought-about in an eclectic and often bewildering catalog of postmodern opinion.

     

    Running through the book is a distinction between two broad categories of postmodernists. The “skeptical post-modernists”

     

    argue that the post-modern age is one of fragmentation, disintegration, malaise, meaninglessness, a vagueness or even absence of moral parameters and societal chaos. . . . In this period no social or political 'project' is worthy of commitment. Ahead lies overpopulation, genocide, atomic destruction, the apocalypse, environmental devastation, the explosion of the sun and the end of the solar system in 4.5 billion years, the death of the universe through entropy. (15)

     

    Given such powerful and alarming claims, it may seem surprising that the skeptics also maintain “that there is no truth” and that “all that is left is play, the play of words and meaning” (15).

     

    The "affirmatives" are a still more nebulous category: More indigenous to Anglo-North American culture than to the Continent, the generally optimistic affirmatives are oriented toward process. They are either open to positive political action (struggle and resistance) or content with the recognition of visionary, celebratory personal nondogmatic projects that range from New Age religion to New Wave life-styles and include a whole spectrum of post-modern social movements. (15-16)

     

    Who are these post-modernists? We never learn, though Rosenau cites Baudrillard, Derrida, and articles by Todd Gitlin and Klaus Scherpe. The theorists of postmodernism and its exemplars exchange places freely in Rosenau’s account, and it is often difficult to tell which is being described. Nor do we get the opportunity to judge postmodern thought for ourselves; Rosenau rarely quotes her theorists and even more rarely explores an individual author’s work or argumentation. Postmodern thinkers, in her account, do not argue: they claim, they assume, they relinquish or adopt ideas, they reject or they share views; but they never appear to present a connected argument, elaborate an interpretation, or explain their case. How could they when, as Rosenau never tires of repeating, postmodernism “rejects reason,” preferring instead “the romantic, emotions, feelings” (94). This attack on reason, on the truth claims of modern science, on “the modern subject,” and on moral certainty make up, in Rosenau’s view, “one of the greatest intellectual challenges to established knowledge of the twentieth century” (5).

     

    Rosenau is far from comfortable with that challenge. She dedicates her book to her parents, identified as “strong modern subjects, who had no confusion about their identity or their values.” She worries about the “cynical, nihilist, and pessimistic tone” of the skeptics, who find in “death, self-inflicted death, suicide,” “affirmations of power that conquer rationality” (143). She finds it alarming that “postmodern social movements” like fundamentalism have become “widespread and hegemonic” in some places, because “post-modernism in the Third World provides a justification for requiring women to adopt forms of dress that were abandoned by their grandmothers” and promotes the re-establishment of traditional marriage roles and the restoration of male prerogatives (154-5). In this book, Derrida lies down with the Ayatollah Khomeini; their issue is, as might be expected, monstrous.

     

    Rosenau does scant better justice to her primary concern, the challenge of postmodernism to the social sciences. Though she cites work which has attempted to incorporate postmodern themes into a wide variety of social science disciplines, from international relations to urban planning, her treatment of these efforts is as superficial and unsatisfying as her references to Derrida, Foucault, or Baudrillard. More generally, though, she is inclined to pit postmodernism against social science. In the end, she suggests, efforts to create a “post-modern social science” run aground on what she sees as postmodernism’s fundamental denial of any standards for evaluating knowledge claims. “Can post-modernism survive for long,” she asks, “in a methodological vacuum where all means for adjudication between opposing points of view are relinquished?” The answer seems to be no. “Without any standard or criteria of evaluation post-modern inquiry becomes a hopeless, perhaps even a worthless enterprise” (136).

     

    It is not clear in this presentation of an essentialized “post-modernism” that Rosenau grasps what her radical postmodernists are about. Baudrillard, she tells us, “claims the nuclear holocaust and the Third World War have already taken place; in so doing he violates all modern concepts of time” (68). Without linear time, she asks, what becomes of contemporary social science’s pursuit of causal explanation? Certainly Baudrillard challenges conventional notions of space and time. Does he do so to “overturn” them, as Rosenau asserts? Or to open up our thinking by shattering the self-validating presuppositions of “normal science”? Unless he and other postmodernists are offering an alternative metaphysic with exclusive truth claims of its own, it is hard to see how their “challenge” could be quite as cataclysmic as Rosenau imagines. Rosenau, however, prefers to stress the destructive confrontation of postmodern critique and social scientific presuppositions. In doing so, she evidently intends to take seriously both the most radical claims of the postmodernists and the most positivist pretensions of mainstream social science. But the maneuver is fatal, for it blocks an opportunity to investigate what is new about the postmodernist movement and how and to what degree it clashes with what is new and interesting in contemporary social science.

     

    It is testimony to the cachet of postmodernism that this book found a publisher. That it found one in one of the better university presses perhaps testifies, as well, to that abandonment of standards of judgment which the author finds at the core of postmodernism. This may nevertheless be a book postmodernism deserves. The trouble with postmodernist theory lies, even more than in the overheated language of postwar French intellectuality, in its exaggerated claims. Skepticism, after all, is as old as Zeno, or Abraham, or the Buddha–pick your Father–and no doubt older: the Mothers had plenty of reason to be skeptical of the gods of the Fathers and the Father-Gods of even the skeptics. It was Hume who taught that “causality” was a figment of the imagination and the logical positivists who insisted that “truth” lay only in propositions, not in reality. So what is new in postmodernism? What does the movement have to say to the social sciences?

     

    As a radical reaffirmation of traditional skepticism, probably not much. Reminders of the precariousness of our knowledge claims have regularly given way to fresh constructions: nominalism to Baconian inductivism, French skepticism to the Cartesian reduction, Humean skepticism to British empiricism, Kantian analysis to the idealist syntheses. Ultimately, the postmodern reconstruction of inquiry will hold more interest and have more impact than the initial, skeptical extravagances, however sound and however needed. Here too, however, it is not always clear how much the theorists of postmodernism run counter to even mainstream social scientific theory.

     

    In an exchange between Lucien Goldman and Michel Foucault in 1969, Goldman attacked what he saw as a denial that “men make history” and quoted a bit of graffiti left on a blackboard in the Sorbonne by a student during the May 1968 uprising: “Structures do not take to the streets.” Foucault denied that he had ever called himself a structuralist, but another speaker, Jacques Lacan, attacked the aphorism because “if there is one thing demonstrated by the events of May, it is precisely that structures did take to the streets. The fact that those words were written at the very place where people took to the streets proves nothing other than, simply, that very often, even most often, what is internal to what is called action is that it does not know itself.”1

     

    Rosenau thinks this sort of argument captures postmodern thought. “Post-modern social science,” she tells us, would describe a society “without subjects or individuals,” in which structures “overpower the individual,” “beyond the reach of human intervention” (46). How curiously old-fashioned this sounds to a social scientist! Has the “sociological mind” ever been disposed to think otherwise? Lacan’s comment could have come from a scion of any of several lineages of social scientists, from Marx to Durkheim to Weber. Wasn’t it Freud who exploded the bourgeois self as Marx had exploded the bourgeois social order and Durkheim its moral order? American social scientists have no further to go than Robert K. Merton, whose definition of social science as the investigation of the “unintended consequences” of human action justly characterizes the mainstream of social scientific research since the nineteenth century.

     

    Foucault himself seems only to echo Marx and Engels when he declared that every society controls the production of discourse in an attempt to “evade its ponderous, awesome materiality.”2 By the time Foucault was well launched on his project to recover the hidden origins of our discourses about “man,” “madness,” and the criminal, moreover, Berger and Luckmann had published The Social Construction of Reality and Gregory Bateson had generated a good deal of heat, and some little light, with his notion of schizophrenia as a language disorder. It would not be altogether unfair to argue that French postmodernism paralleled developments that were already brewing in the social sciences, when it was not simply playing catch-up.

     

    One area in contemporary social science in which divergence seems to overwhelm convergence, on the other hand, is precisely the question of human agency. What is really new in the social sciences, in political science perhaps above all, is an attempt to think through the implications of a “non-necessitarian” social science, in which the choices (and occasionally the personal skills) of individuals play a crucial role. The attempt to give the voiceless a voice, marked in contemporary feminism but also evident in important recent work in anthropology, history, sociology, and political science, likewise seems to run counter to any postmodern “denial of the subject.” Rosenau quotes a postmodernist feminist, Jane Flax, who finds “post- modernist narratives about subjectivity . . . inadequate” from the point of view of feminist theory (52). But she might equally well have cited work in the “new social history” or the Annales school.3

     

    There are certainly tensions between postmodernist efforts to “decenter” the subject and the return to notions of human agency in contemporary social science. Rosenau plays on these conflicts, however, without really illuminating them, or even giving an adequate account of them. Despite the frequency with which the issue is joined, moreover, I suspect that postmodernists and their critics alike have been beguiled by the rhetoric and that there is a profound consistency in the efforts of Foucault, in particular, to banish the subject from the history of discourse while attempting to discover, in the everyday experience of the intolerable, new grounds for moral action on the part of an individual both constituted by prevailing discourse and free in the uncovering of its oppressive silences. Such possibilities go unglimpsed in Pauline Rosenau’s account, as they do in the moral and scientific positivisms which still dominate much social scientific practice. But they are well represented in recent social science, and they deserve better treatment than that afforded here.

     

    Contemporary social science, moreover, both converges with postmodernism and borrows heavily from the attempts of Foucault, Bourdieu, and others to embed the new skepticism in new approaches to understanding. What characterizes these efforts is 1) a focus on discourse as the material (and thus powerful) vehicle for social understandings and action, and 2) the insistence that such understandings are best uncovered in examination of everyday practices. Behind these affirmations lie a discomfort with the rigidities of the various structuralisms and a rejection of “meta- narratives” like Marxism which attempt to capture the grand motions of history. Before them rages a still important debate on the justification for abandoning all such paradigms–or the possibility of doing so. But some of the best recent social science–like that of James C. Scott on “the arts of resistance,” Donald McCloskey on the rhetoric of economics, or Stephen Gudeman and Alberto Rivera on peasant economic discourse–uncovers the dynamics of concrete practices and bodies of discourse and demonstrates, in doing so, the fruitfulness of postmodern preoccupations. Rosenau’s book seems largely unconscious of this work. More’s the pity, because, as the postmodernists might insist, we will learn far more about postmodernism in the academy from the everyday practices and preoccupations of contemporary social scientists than by surveys of the self-consciously “postmodern.”

     

    Notes

     

    1. Quoted in Didier Eribon, Michel Foucault (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1991), 210-11.

     

    2. “The Discourse on Language,” in Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (New York: Pantheon, 1972), 216.

     

    3. Curiously, Rosenau tells us that postmodernist skeptics “reject history as longue duree . . . because it claims to discover a set of timeless relations existing independent of everything else” (64). Unfortunately, she does not cite the postmodernists she has in mind, nor adequately explain their aversion to a key concept in the work of Fernand Braudel, an ardent supporter of Foucault.

     

  • The Vietnam War, Reascendant Conservatism, White Victims

    Terry Collins

    General College
    University of Minnesota

    <tcollins@gcmail.gen.umn.edu>

     

    Rowe, John Carlos, and Rick Berg, eds. The Vietnam War and American Culture. New York: Columbia UP, 1991.

     

    Jason, Philip K., ed. Fourteen Landing Zones: Approaches to Vietnam War Literature. Iowa City: Iowa UP, 1991.

     

    The Bloom-D’Souza-NEA-NEH silencing of feminist and multiculturalist positions, trivialized in the popular press as tritely inflated rhetorical agonics over who gets control of the English Department budget and reading list, masks the larger struggle for control of ideology in America, for the terms of our history and future. The contested discourse of intellectual authority and privilege extends directly from reinscription of the Vietnam War, and both are central to the conservative reascendance of the Reagan-Bush period.

     

    The willful national amnesia about the U.S. war in/on Vietnam is, in fact, prerequisite to the current domestic war against the intellectual left. Revisionist history of the Vietnam war is transubstantiative to the conservative reascendance from war criminal status to uncontested author of a “New World Order.” The right has asserted and then reaped the fruit of the myth of rectitude planted and nurtured by Reagan’s reinvention of the Vietnam War as a “noble cause.” This re-creation of the war has gone virtually unchallenged. Norman Podhoretz was able to write, in Why We Were in Vietnam (Simon and Schuster, 1982), that the war was an act of “imprudent idealism whose moral soundness has been overwhelmingly vindicated”– with barely a stir of outrage in the popular press voicing opposition to this macabre rewriting. Equally little notice was taken when, phoenix- like, Richard Nixon issued No More Vietnams (Arbor House, 1985), his self-serving apology for genocide. Celebrating the exorcism of the “ghost of Vietnam” under Reagan, Nixon gloats that “Since President Reagan took office in 1981, America’s first international losing streak has been halted.” He writes (and gets away with it), “Of all the myths about the Vietnam War, the most vicious one is the idea that the United States was morally responsible for the atrocities committed after the fall (sic) of Cambodia in 1975,” dismissing the laws of cause and effect as neatly as he does the idea of truth.

     

    The reclamation of the hearts and minds of the American suburban diaspora, relieving the national consciousness of the burden of the “Vietnam syndrome” (a cynical rearticulation of what might have passed, in a reasonable moral climate, for something like depression growing out of deserved collective guilt), was a prerequisite for the conservative reascendance that so enervates the intellectual discourse of our era. Once vindicated and remythologized, the right launched its Education/NEA/NEH-mediated search- and-destroy mission at home, Bloom, Bennett, Hirsch and D’Souza walking point, on radio to Helms and the Onanites, tipping Coors at recon.

     

    It is logical to look to oppositional discourses in the fiction and film of the Vietnam War for relief. But, in fact, the relative absence of a collective public rejection of and response to the revisionist readings of our war in/on Vietnam is problematized by the personal, fictive, and cinematic narratives of grunt-vets, journalist-vets, and medical-vets who write, from oppositional postures, their experiences in the war. Michael Herr, Tim O’Brien, Larry Heinemann, William Eastlake, Oliver Stone, and the other writers featured in the criticism collected in the books reviewed here have (no doubt authentically, no doubt painfully) written large the psychic and ethical dislocation of young men inserted into the survivalist landscape of the free-fire zone. The problem is this: the prose and cinematic fictions fragment and monadize the war, make it a matter of individual(ist) survival–ethically, bodily. It is easy to imagine the origins of such texts. The stunningly horrid collective lies, pandered by government agents in the pressrooms of Vietnam, had to be countered, producing Dispatches. The clean, faceless, stinkless body counts had to be countered by Paco’s Story.

     

    But Hemingway’s dictum–that fiction tells truer truths about war than history–distorts. The memoirs, fictions, and films which recreate the Vietnam War as primarily a matter of the individual ethical and bodily survival of articulate white men, rather than as genocide, simply reconstitute this as a war of blue-eyed victims. And in the struggle for the history of this war, these fictions, most powerfully those intended as narratives of resistance to LBJ-Kissinger-Nixon, stand complicit, by making Vietnam the individual’s story, a war on Vietnamese peasants reconstructed as a war valorizing the white American grunt’s individual ethical and physical pain, however real. In the most powerful of the Vietnam War books and films, it is still a white American war, a white American morality play enacted on a stage built of dead Asians, albeit an individualist drama sometimes brilliantly re-read for the violently sexist and misogynist spectacle that the Vietnam War was/is.

     

    But in fact this was/is a war on the brown-eyed, and no fictional, cinematic, or critical gloss will make it otherwise. In the field of vision in these narratives, the individual white man’s pain obscures our view of American minorities dying and bleeding, all out of proportion to their numbers. Above all, the individual(ist) pain of the white GI, struggling with his soul, blocks whatever light the authors might want to have shined on Vietnamese and Cambodian and Laotian men, women, children burning, being raped, zipped, zapped, poisoned, free-fired, dis-eared, and forgotten against the glow and smell of white phosphorous, the jell of napalm. The best-written of the novels, the best-made of the films, are most disturbing in this failure. Oppositional by intention, they finally effect a conspiracy of eloquence. As textual representations of the war as the cauldron of the individual white American male soul’s struggle, they Tonto-ize the minority experience and overtly replace MyLai-scapes as the national memory, reaffirming the American master narratives of white male individualism and rebirth.

     

    Furthermore, the best Vietnam narratives represent a reading of Vietnam as anomaly. Far from anomaly, the Vietnam War was/is an exceptionally logical outgrowth of U.S. history and policy. Vietnam may have been Manifest Destiny’s most compellingly horrid spectacle, but it was not an aberrant moment. The more painfully eloquent the struggle of individual grunts represented in these narratives, and the more compelling their individual struggles to adjust ethical calibrations to the horror show of the killing field, the more fully obscured is the historical consistency of Vietnam. And the more obscured our vision of the historical consistency of this genocidal strain of American hegemony becomes, the less likely are we to see the same truth embodied in our contemporary American cityscapes, our drug wars, our increasingly brown-eyed urban villes which putrefy under intentional, national neglect. To atomize the Vietnam War’s reality in its textual representation, to portray it as the individual struggle for physical/ethical survival (rather than as a logically constructed episode leading out of expansionist centuries, leading out of Indian genocide, leading out of slavery, and leading into the New World Order) is to deny the centrality of Vietnam and its consistency with American history. To the extent that the Vietnam War is represented as primarily the individual white male’s struggle with his conscience in an aberrant territory, the war becomes peripheral to our understanding of the national epistemology of slash-and-burn, rape-and-control, genocide. Tim O’Brien’s Paul Berlin Going After Cacciato) Larry Heinemann’s Paco Paco’s Story), and their fictive brothers-in-arms may have been conceived in rage, remorse, or celebration of survival, but as atomized agents, they are surely close cousins to John Rambo.

     

    The collections of essays reviewed here move in and out of coherent visions of the central position occupied by the Vietnam War and by its reinvention as part of the rightist national myth. Interestingly, they follow on the heels of John Hellmann’s American Myth and the Legacy of Vietnam (Columbia UP, 1986). Hellmann’s book ends in a call to America to integrate this “nightmare” somehow (via Lucasfilms, he suggests!) into the traditional white American myth of the new world Adam/new world Order. Therefore, the Rowe/Berg and Jason collections are tacitly positioned against Hellmann’s invitation to wishful denial.

     

    The Vietnam War and American Culture grew out of a special issue of Cultural Critique (1986), edited by Rowe and Berg. Of the two collections under review, it is the more consistently aggressive in demanding historical and cultural integrity of the novels, memoirs, and films which attempt to represent the Vietnam War. It is introduced by a long, lucid essay by Noam Chomsky which argues a reading of the Vietnam War as exercise in national slavery to privilege, predicting the reascendant right’s inscription of a canonized discourse of the Vietnam War as erasure of historical consciousness in the service of elites. Divided into sections on “The Vietnam War and History,” “The Vietnam War and Mass Media,” and “The Vietnam War and Popular Media,” the Rowe/Berg collection contains nine strong essays and (as a fitting close to a volume that theorizes the human experience of the war) a sampling of fine concrete poems by W. D. Ehrhart.

     

    Of the essays in Rowe/Berg, three–besides the Chomsky piece–are stunning. The dilemma of the atomized-male- coming-of-age narratives is addressed directly (though in terms quite different from those I use above) by Susan Jeffords. Her essay, “Tattoos, Scars, Diaries, and Writing Masculinity,” re-reads the Vietnam War and the rich lode of male fiction about the War (including oppositional fiction from the left) as misogynist acts and icons. The essay anticipates the extended argument she develops in The Remasculinization of America: Gender and the Vietnam War (Indiana UP, 1989). Rick Berg, in “Losing Vietnam: Covering the War in an Age of Technology,” posits TV and film readings of the war as foundational of the revisionist gestures that would follow: “What is lost and forgotten with each imagined win are those who fought and suffered. It is all well and good to turn Vietnam vets into heroes, but not at the expense of their children and their history. As Brecht’s Mother Courage reminds us, war profiteering has a long, honorable, and expensive history. I wonder if Stallone and his fellow revisionists are willing to pay the price.” And John Carlos Rowe struggles with the conflation of documentary and docudramatic accounts of the war in film as devices which foster a false sympathy with its (white male) victims in “substituting myth for knowledge.”

     

    The essays in Rowe/Berg are consistently clear, expansive, well-documented, and respectful of the historical and human pain their subject embodies.

     

    The essays collected in Philip K. Jason’s Fourteen Landing Zones: Approaches to Vietnam War Literature are self-consciously tentative. Jason positions them as “paths,” not fully realized or conclusive readings. It’s a reasonable humility that takes such a stance before the enormity of this war and its varied literature, it seems. And at their best, the essays test the popular readings of the war, the prevailing ideologies captured in myth, against history or close analysis. At their worst, though, the essays whine, as only the terminally academic can, “Let’s talk about me!” Some of these essays lose sight of the blood and bone.

     

    Lorrie Smith’s “Poetry by Vietnam War Veterans” is less essay than it is prosodic connective among eloquent poetic chunks. Wisely, I think, she mutes her analytic discourse in favor of a type of reading that we used to call “appreciation”–she lets the poetic fragments weave themselves into the eventual essay. Jacqueline E. Lawson’s “She’s a Pretty Woman . . . for a Gook,” like the Jeffords essay in Rowe/Berg, examines the war in view of contemporary theories of misogyny, rape, and media-proliferated degradations of women. Kali Tal’s “Speaking the Language of Pain: Vietnam War Literature in the Context of a Literature of Pain” reads the war and its writing in the company of theorists of the literature of extremity, most usefully Terrence Des Pres’s study of Holocaust literature in The Survivor. Tal gives a smart, but too tentative critique of Hellmann and the other mythic-apologist readings of this literature. These three essays are the strongest in the book, to my mind.

     

    At its worst, the tentative nature of essays in the Jason collection fosters a lapse into a kind of new critical reduction of the literature of the Vietnam War. Stuart Ching’s “‘A Hard Story to Tell’: The Vietnam War in Joan Didion’s Democracy,” for example, seems satisfied to examine the literature as “Literature,” pretending to neither a breathing reader nor a positioned writer.

     

    Understanding the Vietnam War and its literature probably isn’t possible. Conflicted writings-toward such an understanding serve two mutually exclusive functions, are built on internal contradictions. In the one instance, our studies–even the most thoughtful and humanely analytical–must stylize Vietnam, reinscribe it out of the thousands and hundreds of thousands of Vietnams that rattle around in the heads of vets and their families, that scream in the heads of Vietnamese people, that moan from the graves. And thereby, our studies must trivialize the war, its causes, and its consequences. That war existed so many ways, was so many wars, that its fictions will reinvent only fragments, and thereby re-fragment the whole, will situate its atrocities in physical and psychic landscapes, moral landscapes, textual landscapes, that are individual. All such atomized textualizations of atrocities of this scale must themselves be atrocities. In the other instance, we submit to the Nixonian re-inventions, the Reaganesque “noble cause” narrative. The first is the path of choice, quite clearly. Rowe/Berg and Jason move us toward that ambiguous end.

     

    Tonight, as I write, L.A. burns, troops are in our streets, the war is on TV again. Black men are the gooks this time.

     

  • Lesbian Bodies in the Age Of (Post)Mechanical Reproduction

    Cathy Griggers

    Literary and Cultural Theory
    Carnegie Mellon University

     

    What signs mark the presence of a lesbian body?

     

    Writing the lesbian body has become more common of late, making reading it all the more difficult. Less hidden, and so more cryptic than ever, the lesbian body increasingly appears as an actual variability set within the decors of everyday discourses. Signs of her presence appear on the cover of ELLE, for example, or in popular film and paperback detective mysteries as both the sleuth and femme fatale, in texts that range from Mary Wing’s overt lesbian thriller She Came Too Late (1987) to the conflicted, symptomatic lesbian sub-plot in Bob Rafelson’s Black Widow (1986). She appeared disguised as a vampire in Tony Scott’s The Hunger (1983), and masquerading as the latest American outlaw hero in Thelma and Louise (1991). On television, she’s making her appearance on the evening soap L.A. Law, and she virtually made MTV via Madonna’s Justify Your Love music video. When MTV censored the video, she appeared on ABC’s Nightline instead, under the guise of “news.” Elsewhere, in the latest lesbian mail-order video from Femme Fatale–a discursive site where the lesbian imaginary meets the sex industry–you can find her on all fours and dressed in leather or feathers, or leather and feathers, typically wearing a phallic silicone simulacrum. Recently, she’s appeared in the trappings of San Francisco’s lesbian bar culture passing as a collection of art photographs in Della Grace’s Love Bites (1991). Meanwhile, PBS will be broadcasting in the spring of ’92 a BBC production depicting the torrid affair between Violet Treyfusis and Vita Sackville-West into the living rooms of millions of devoted PBS viewers. And Susie Bright, author of Susie Sexpert’s Lesbian Sex World (1990), is making virtual sexual reality with her Virtual Sex World Reader to be published in Spring of 1992 by Cleis Press. Lesbian computer nerds are waiting for Bright to assist in the world’s first lesbian virtual sex program, that is, the first virtual reality program designed by a lesbian. Same-sex sex between women is already a menu option on the popular on-line Virtual Valerie, along with a menu for a variety of sex toy applications. Let’s face it; lesbian bodies in postmodernity are going broadcast, they’re going techno-culture, and they’re going mainstream.

     

    In the process of mainstreaming, in which minoritarian and majority significations intermingle, the lesbian body of signs is exposed as an essentially dis-organ-ized body.1 The lesbian is as fantasmatic a construct as the woman. There are women, and there are lesbian bodies–each body crossed by multiplicitous signifying regimes and by different histories, different technologies of representation and reproduction, and different social experiences of being lesbian determined by ethnicity, class, gender identity and sexual practices. In other words, as lesbian bodies become more visible in mainstream culture, the differences amongst these bodies also become more apparent. There is a freedom and a loss inscribed in this current cultural state of being lesbian. On the one hand, lesbians are given greater exemption from a categorical call that would delimit them from the cultural spaces of the anytime, anywhere. On the other hand, the call of identity politics becomes increasingly problematized.

     

    The problem of identity is always a problem of signification in regard to historically-specific social relations. Various attempts have been made to locate a lesbian identity, most inculcated in the grand nominalizing imperative bequeathed us by the Victorian taxonomies of “sexual” science. Should we define the lesbian by a specific sexual practice, or by the lack thereof? By a history of actual, or virtual, relations? Can she be identified once and for all by the presence of a public, broadcast kiss, by an act of self-proclamation, or by an act of community outing? Should we know her by the absence of the penis, or by the presence of a silicone simulacrum? Surely this material delimitation may go too far–for shouldn’t we wonder whether or not a lesbian text, for all that, can be written across the body of a “man”? I can point to the case of male-to-female transsexuals who cathect toward women, but why should we limit the problematic to its most obvious, symptomatic manifestation?

     

    The question of a lesbian body of signs always takes us back to the notion of identity in the body, of body as identity, a notion complicated in postmodernity by alterations in technologies of reproduction. Benjamin observed in “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” that mechanical reproduction destroyed the aura of the original work of art and, more importantly, provided a circuit to mass mentalities and thus an access code for fascism in the twentieth century.2 We should not forget Hitler’s admission that the electronic reproduction of his voice over the radio allowed him to conquer Germany. For the sake of thinking the future of lesbian bodies in postmodernity, I want to recall Benjamin’s critique of the state’s techno-fetishization of technologies of reproduction in the context of lesbian bodies now–within the cultural regime of simulation. Baudrillard defines post-mechanical reproduction as the precession of simulacra, a post-World War II state of hyperreality in post-industrial, techno-culture reached when cultural reproduction refers first and foremost to the fact that there is no original (Simulations). The cultural reproduction of lesbian bodies in the age of (post)mechanical reproduction, that is, in the culture of simulacra, has more than ever destroyed any aura of an “original” lesbian identity, while exposing the cultural sites through which lesbianism is appropriated by the political economy of postmodernity.

     

    We are at a moment of culture, for example, when phallic body prostheses are being mass produced by the merger of the sex industry with plastics technologies. On Our Backs is not the only photojournal to market artificial penises. Even Playgirl, marketed primarily to straight women, carries pages of advertisements for a huge assortment of phallic simulacra. We’re left to wonder what these women might eventually think to do with a double-ended dildo. But there’s no mistaking that the lesbian assimilation of the sex-toy industry is reterritorializing the culturally constructed aura of the phallic signifier. By appropriating the phallus/penis for themselves, lesbians have turned techno-culture’s semiotic regime of simulation and the political economy of consumer culture back against the naturalization of male hegemony. It’s of course ironic that in mass reproducing the penis itself, the illusion of a natural linkage between the cultural power organized under the sign of the phallus and the penis as biological organ is exposed as artificial. The reproduction of the penis as dildo exposes the male organ as signifier of the phallus, and not vice versa, that is, the dildo exposes the cultural organ of the phallus as a simulacrum. The dildo is an artificial penis, an appropriated phallus, and a material signifier of the imaginary ground for an historically manifest phallic regime of power. The effect on lesbian identities of this merger between the sex industry and plastics technologies is typical of the double-binds characteristic of lesbianism in postmodernity. Ironically, the validity of grounding phallic power and gendered identity in the biological sign of difference in the male body is set up for cultural reinvestigation and reinvestment once the penis itself is reproduced as signifier, that is, in the very process of mass-producing artificial penises as a marketable sign for the consumption of desiring subjects, including subjects desiring counter-hegemonic identities. At the same time, the commodification of the signifier–in this case the penis as signifier of the phallus–obscures the politico-economic reproduction of straight class relations by displacing lesbian desire from the unstable and uncertain register of the Real to the overly stable, imaginary register of the fetish-sign (i.e., the repetitive channeling of desire into the fixed circuit that runs from the penis as phallus to the phallus as penis in an endless loop). In other words, if working-class and middle-class urban lesbians and suburban dykes can’t afford health care and don’t yet have real national political representation, they can nonetheless buy a 10-inch “dinger” and a matching leather harness, and they can, with no guarantees, busy themselves at the task of appropriating for a lesbian identity the signs of masculine power. This situation provides both a possibility for self-reinvention and self-empowerment and an appropriation of lesbian identities–and their labor, their leisure, and their purchasing power–into the commodity logic of techno-culture.

     

    At the same time, new reproductive technologies, including artificial insemination by donor (AID), in-vitro fertilization (IVF), surrogate motherhood, Lavage embryo transfer, and tissue farming as in cross-uterine egg transplants, are both reterritorializing and reifying biological relations to gendered social roles (Corea 1986, Overall 1989). The “body” is breaking up. I’m not talking just about the working body, the confessing body, the sexual body. These are old tropes, as Foucault showed us. In postmodernity, even the organs are separating from the body. That these organs are literal makes them no less organs of power. The womb is disjunct from the breast, for example, the vagina from the mouth that speaks, the ovaries and their production from the womb, etc., etc.. The lesbian body’s relation to these reified technologies is entirely paradigmatic of the contradictions of lesbian subject positions in postmodernity. While new reproductive technologies generally reinforce a repressive straight economy of maternal production, body management and class-privileged division of labor, the technology of cross-uterine egg transplants finally allows one lesbian to bear another’s child, a fact which to date has gone entirely unmentioned by either the medical community or the media.3

     

    The point is that the bodies that are the supposed ground of identity in essentialist arguments–arguments that assert we are who we are because of our bodies–are both internally fragmented in response to the intrusions of bio-technologies and advanced surgical techniques, including transsexual procedures, and externally plied by a variety of technologically determined semiotic registers, such as the sex-toy industry and broadcast representation. As a result, lesbian identities are generating a familiar unfamiliarity of terms which San Francisco’s lesbian sexpert, Susie Bright, has been busily mainstreaming on the Phil Donahue Show–terms as provocative as female penetration, female masculinity, S/M lipstick dykes, and lesbian phallic mothers.

     

    While all social bodies are plied by multiple regimes of signs, as Deleuze and Guattari as well as Foucault have repeatedly shown, lesbian bodies in the age of (post)mechanical reproduction are particularly paradigmatic of a radical semiotic multiplicity. This situation is hardly surprising. That lesbians are not women because women are defined by their straight class relations–a statement Monique Wittig has popularized–doesn’t mean we know exactly what a lesbian is. The “lesbian,” especially the lesbian who resists or slips the always potential sedimentarity in that term, marks a default of identity both twice-removed and exponentially factored. Lesbians in postmodernity are subjects-in-the-making whose body of signs and bodies as sign are up for reappropriation and revision, answering as they do the party line of technology and identity.

     

    This double call of technology and identity complicates our understanding of lesbian bodies as minority bodies–a definition that locates lesbians within the discourse of identity by their differences from the majority bodies of the hetero woman and man. We might want to envision lesbians as runaway slaves with no other side of the Mississippi in sight, perpetual and permanent fugitives, as Wittig argues. But it’s undeniable that lesbians are also, at the same time and sometimes in the same bodies, lesbians bearing arms, lesbians bearing children, lesbians becoming fashion, becoming commodity subjects, becoming Hollywood, becoming the sex industry, or becoming cyborg human-machinic assemblages. And from the alternative point of view, we are also bearing witness to the military becoming lesbian, the mother becoming lesbian, straight women becoming lesbian, fashion and Hollywood and the sex industry becoming lesbian, middle-class women, corporate America, and techno-culture becoming lesbian, etc.. That is, the lesbian body of signs, like all minority bodies, is always becoming majority, in a multiplicity of ways. But at the same time, in a multitude of domains across the general cultural field, majority bodies are busy becoming lesbian.

     

    In the lesbian cultural landscape of postmodernity, essentialist arguments about feminine identity are more defunct than ever, while Wittig’s lesbian materialist analysis of straight culture is more urgent than ever and more problematic. Setting lesbian identity first within the context of postmodern culture suggests two clarifications to Wittig. First, any materialist analysis of a lesbian revolutionary position in relation to straight women as a class has to begin with one irreducible conundrum of postmodernity in regard to lesbian identities. The cultural space for popular lesbian identities to exist–economic freedom from dependence on a man–is a historical outcome of late industrial capitalism’s commodity logic in its total war phase in the first half of the twentieth century. Women, particularly single women, comprised a large proportion of the substitute bodies required by the state to maintain performativity criteria established before each world war or to meet the accelerated industrial needs of total war and reconstruction. This is the undeniable history of women’s entry into the workforce and the professions, including the academy, and of their assimilation into the commodity marketplace beyond the domestic sphere–all of which set up the possibility of the ’70s women’s movement.4 This is also the history of the cultural production of lesbian bodies as we know them today.

     

    In other words, and this is my second clarification to Wittig, lesbians are becoming nomad runaways and becoming state at the same time. And it’s at the various sites where these interminglings of bodies take place that the cultural contradictions will be most apparent and therefore the political stakes greatest. These sites include any becoming majority of the minoritarian as well as the becoming minor of majority regimes of signs, and in each of these sites the political stakes will not be equivalent. This political complication results from the epistemological challenge to materialist analysis presented by the failure of poststructural linguistics to adequately map cultural dialects except as unstable and constant sites of transformation. These kinds of subcultural variance and continuous historical transformation have to be factored in any lesbian materialist modelling system if we are to continue the work Wittig has launched not only toward a lesbian materialist critique of straight class relations, but toward a materialist critique of lesbianism itself.

     

    Lesbian bodies are not essentially counterhegemonic sites of culture as we might like to theorize. The lesbian may not be a woman, as Wittig argues, yet she is not entirely exterior to straight culture. Each lesbian has a faciality touching on some aspect of a majority signifying regime of postmodernity, whether that be masculinity or femininity, motherhood, the sex industry, the commodification of selves, reproductive technologies, or the military under global capitalism. Lesbians are inside and outside, minority and majority, at the same time.

     

    Indeed, the potential power of lesbian identity politics in the current historical moment comes from its situatedness between feminist, gay male, and civil rights activism. Lesbian bodies are a current site of contention in the women’s movement, particularly over the issue of S/M practices and porn, because of their greater affinities with gay males than with straight women. In many ways, the activist politics of ACT-UP in the face of AIDS discrimination represents for lesbians a better strategy of identity politics than the consciousness-raising discourses traditionally authorized by NOW. But in the face of direct losses on the ground gained in the ’70s and ’80s on women’s issues–right to abortions and birth-control information, right to protection from sexual harassment in the workplace, right to have recourse to a just law in the case of rape–the Queer Nation/feminism alliance will be crucial to the future of lesbian cultural politics. In addition, most of the struggle of making feminist-lesbians into feminist-lesbians-of-color lies ahead of us.

     

    Lesbian identities have always presented a challenge to essentialist notions of feminine identity, and never more so than when lesbian bodies are set in the historical context of postmodernity. The cultural period in late-industrial and post-industrial society during World War II and in the fifty years since is their historical heyday. Lesbian bodies came of age under the specter of a Holocaust that could reach finality only by the injection into the global symbolic of a nuclear sublime so horrific as to arrest all prior signification. Their agencies must be agencies that work within the reduced political rights of a worldwide civilian population subjected to a new military regime of global security. They are proffered a variety of prostheses and self-imaging technologies, in fact, a variety of bodies, as long as they meet the performativity criterion of commodity logic. And if they are runaways, they’re running from the very political economy that produced their possibility. This is their double bind. For all these reasons, the immediate challenge facing lesbian bodies in postmodernity is how to make a dis-organ-ized body of signs and identities work for a progressive, or even a radical, politics.

     

    Notes

     

    1. In this case, the majority regimes of masculinity or normative femininity, fashion, porn, mainstream cinema, tv soaps, on-line sex, etc..

     

    2. According to Ong, mechanical production began with the reification of the oral world/word into print.

     

    3. The legal implications of this scenario should be tested immediately in regard to the law recognizing both women as legal parents, particularly in the case of artificial insemination by anonymous donor from a sperm bank.

     

    4. The ’70s women’s movement was also an offshoot of the ’60s African-American civil rights movement, which itself shared some of the same problematic ties to the war machine, particularly through the G.I. Bill.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Baudrillard, Jean. Simulations. Trans. Paul Foss, Paul Patton, Philip Beitchman. NY: Autonomedia, 1983.
    • Benjamin, Walter. Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. NY: Schocken Books, 1978.
    • Corea, Gena. The Mother Machine: Reproductive Technology from Artificial Insemination to Artificial Wombs. NY: Harper and Row, 1986.
    • Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minneapolis P, 1987.
    • Haraway, Donna. Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. NY: Routledge, 1991.
    • Ong, Walter. Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word. NY: Methuen, 1982.
    • Overall, Christine, ed. The Future of Human Reproduction. Ontario: The Women’s Press, 1989.
    • Virilio, Paul. Popular Defense and Ecological Struggles. NY: Autonomedia, 1990.
    • Wittig, Monique. The Straight Mind. Boston: Beacon Press, 1992.

     

  • Postmodern Pleasure and Perversity: Scientism and Sadism

    Paul McCarthy

    Division of Commerce and Administration
    Griffith University, Brisbane, Australia

     

    I.

    Introduction

     

    This study traces the nature and consequences of the circulation of desire in a postmodern order of things (an order implicitly modelled on a repressed archetype of the new physics’ fluid particle flows), and it reveals a complicity between scientism, which underpins the postmodern condition, and the sadism of incessant deconstruction, which heightens the intensity of the pleasure-seeking moment in postmodernism. This complicity raises disturbing questions about the credentials of postmodernism, and it has the dehumanising effect of obscuring the individual and putting an end to praxis. In addition, the unbounded play of difference in this order of things tends to dissolve restraints to sadism and barbarism, giving desire and capital free rein in the fluid play of market signifiers.

     

    The analytical procedures of deconstruction are a key component of postmodern thought: Derrida and Deleuze and Guattari engage structures through breaking them into their component parts. Deconstruction’s notion of the “structurality of structure” is grounded in the history of atomising thought which begins with the relations of Dionysus and Apollo, in which desire is contained by the atomistic concept. Deconstruction sets forth a de-centered and unbounded horizon in Derrida: “Differance is the systematic play of differences, of the traces of differences, of the spacing by which elements are related to each other” (1981: 27). Deleuze and Guattari’s atomistic “multiplicity” is also evident in Derrida’s “irreducible and generative multiplicity” (1981: 45).

     

    The relations of capitalism and atomising thought, particularly as they manifest themselves in science and instrumental reason, are mutually supportive. Horkheimer and Adorno (1972) trace these relations (demonstrated in de Sade’s Juliette) as a pre-condition for the turn of enlightenment thought into barbarism. Adorno’s non-reductive stance refuses to collapse subject and object or “other.” This distinguishes his project from deconstruction and postmodernism generally. From this stand-point, atomising thought engenders the free play of desire, signifiers, and capital which characterises postmodernism.

     

    The complicity of postmodern form and atomising thought in the commodification of culture and intellect is also suggested by Lefebvre’s conditions for the production of space. Lefebvre questions “the multiplicity of these descriptions and sectionings” (1991: 8). The same complicity is also pointed out in Jameson’s definition of postmodernism as “the cultural logic of late capitalism” (1984). Here, the accumulation of capital by multinationals is furthered by the discontinuous forms of postmodern architecture. This problem is illustrated by Liggett’s distress, in stepping around young men asleep on the sidewalk, in transit to the restored Biltmore in Los Angeles for a planning convention. Liggett attributes the circumstances of the homeless to the “theoretical, administrative and economic `space’ of contemporary urban forms which are organised to facilitate global exchange” (1991: 66).

     

    The deconstructing moment of postmodernism molecularises the complex texture of existence into an order conducive to positivist categorisation: culture is rendered into a particle form amenable to numericisation, and, through the device of probability, the random number machine orchestrates difference. The postmodern order of things assumes its own legitimacy, thereby revealing itself as the quasi-transcendental projection of an idealised world view. This view instates a new mysticism and a new form of pleasure-seeking, acted out through the unrestrained dance of capital and desire in the social. The social, in turn, is implicitly conceptualised in terms of atomised, deconstructed elements which constitute a neo-positivist play of particles and desire. The patterns revealed in sketching out these circuits of desire also reveal the turbulent and fateful grounding of a survivalist neo- conservatism which grows within and in reaction to the arbitrariness of the postmodern order of things. Such underpinnings short-circuit the critical force of deconstruction into affirmation.

     

    There is reason for concern when unresolved “antinomies of culture” such as “consciousness and experience” are collapsed (Rose, 1984: 212), let alone when the categories of postmodernism recapitulate those of post-structuralism in “commencing from a starting point outside of human experience” (Harland, 1987: 75). In these circumstances, there is wisdom in Priest’s “dialethism” (1987), a no-reduction logic of dialectic. This perspective is compatible with Rose’s suspension of the history of philosophy and the philosophy of history, each within the other, in order to resist the reduction of the complexities of history to the “unitary and simply progressive” (1984:3). The reduction of experience to a play of signifiers with such characteristics is dehumanising, as is evident in a postmodernism which fulfills Horkheimer and Adorno’s prognosis with the dominance of “the myth of things as they actually are, and finally the identification of intellect and that which is inimical to the spirit” (1972: Xii). Rose (1988) seeks a way beyond this. In contrast to Derrida’s interpretation of the biblical Babel allegory as a triumphal encounter of humanity with God which opens the “endless labyrinth” that is postmodernism, Rose reads Babel as a point of configuration and of learning in the on-going measure and revision of the limits of human potentialities in encounters with absolute power (1988: 386). Recognising the architectural moment of deconstruction here, Rose warns of “a tendency to replace the concept by the sublimity of the sign, which is, equally, to employ an unexamined conceptuality without the labour of the concept” (1988: 368).

     

    This re-opening of the antinomy of consciousness and experience invites evaluation against predecessors. For example, to what extent is Lukacs’ (1971) indictment of modernism as fragmenting and dehumanising carried forward in this project? If it is, then how can the cul-de-sac of his tortured attempts to reconcile the absolute and experience be avoided? Heller rejects the ending of the philosophical discourse of “production and collective morality,” such as concerned Lukacs, in “paradigmatic failure” (1983: 190). Lukacs’ late desire to start anew does not stem from despair or faith, but arises because “the absolute character of the absolute had been called into question” (Heller, 1983: 190). In continuing to seek an ethics, Lukacs embodied “the courage of the critical spirit.” An Adornian stance circumvents some aspects of Lukacs’ impasse in refusing to privilege the proletariat as the bearers of praxis. It also refuses to defer to an absolute, in favour of a contradictory, non-reductive “constellation” of tensions (Jay as cited in Bernstein, 1991: 42). This stance maintains the “unresolved paradox” of reason as simultaneously a vehicle of emancipation and entrapment–a paradox which contributes to the contemporary “rage against reason” (Bernstein, 1991: 40). From this vantage point, Adorno anticipates the escape from reason and the capture of desire in an absolutised postmodern play of difference.

     

    Deleuze and Guattari’s (1987) A Thousand Plateaus, presented as the fully developed form of postmodern thought, will provide a focal point for this discussion; when weighed against the prototypical deconstructionism of de Sade, it is arguably more mimetic than critical. The approach here shapes an immanent critique which distances the reader from compelled immersion in an all-encompassing world of signifiers (Harland, 1987). Specifically, tracing the complicities of desire and concept reveals an ontology of postmodernism and contributes to the broader project of locating postmodernism at the intersections of history, philosophy, science, and global socio-economic and political formations. This process revives the subject of praxis and picks up the threads of radical humanism, admittedly a difficult task in the fragmented theoretical terrain beyond the end of history, structure and Marxism. A non-reductive stance, in the Adornian sense, also provides points of reference for tracing lines of desire and opens perspectives from which to evaluate the “ethical-political” moments (Bernstein, 1991) in a postmodernism which will be regarded as the flux at the cutting edge of modernism, abetting the passage of modernism into culture. In these terms, the quest for incessant innovation points to the mutually supportive dynamics of modernism and postmodernism, as Lyotard observes: “Postmodernism thus understood is not modernism at its end but in the nascent state, and this state is constant” (1984:79). Problems of Particles, Pleasure and Mysticism in Postmodernism

     

    Some postmodern theorists (Baudrillard, 1983; Kroker, 1985; Deleuze and Guattari, 1987; Lyotard, 1988) have recognised the relations between postmodernism and quantum scientism. An explicit recognition of the appropriation of quantum scientism to cultural analysis is given by Kroker (1985), who sees postmodernism as the culmination of the logic of Capital in culture. This appropriation is flanked by Nietzsche’s The Will to Power and by Baudrillard’s “fetishism of the sign” (Kroker, 1985: 69). For Kroker, Baudrillard is “a quantum physicist of the processed world of mass communications,” who reinterprets Marx’s Capital as “the imploded, forward side (the side of nihilism in the value-form of seduction) of Nietzsche’s The Will to Power” (Kroker, 1985: 72, 69). The quantum dance of Capital, power and the desire which characterises postmodernism is fully revealed in Deleuze and Guattari’s (1987) A Thousand Plateaus. Here, the celebration of the libidinal economy of deconstruction takes the form of a quantum logic of particle flows of desire, and is at the apogee of the trajectory of atomising thought.

     

    Another writer who recognises the influence of the quantum form in social analysis is Lyotard. His prescription of the relativistic clash of genres subsuming the subject reveals the longing for an epistemological fluidity which underpins the postmodern science of language. For Lyotard, “in the matter of language, the revolution of relativity and the quantum theory remains to be made” (1988: 137). The focus of the postmodernists is on contradiction and on tracing the play of difference, and it is here that they are most prone to reach into the quantum archetype to shape their explanations. This tendency is also evident in Foucault’s (1972) fluid positivity of the archival field as the principle of the dispersion of statements. In Foucault there are many examples of the seepage of quantum scientism into the epistemological void of postmodern thought. Postmodern reason rides quantum logic into culture; the confluence of Nietzschean desire, Capital, and quantum logic constitute the repressed conceptual field for the postmodern play of signifiers.

     

    An implicit telos of desire is at work within Deleuze and Guattari’s schema, namely the potential of flows of desire to reach the continuous intensities of the “plateau” or “plane of consistency.” While these two writers end totalising thought, one can discern in their work a repetition of ideas concerning the relations of unity and difference which emerged with Heraclitus and which were also evident in ancient Hindu and Taoist mythology (Capra, 1976; Postle, 1976). Also, while Deleuze and Guattari appear to suppress the moment of unity and eschew dialectics, implicit ideas of unity and dialectical relations of unity and difference remain in their work. The telos of their “plateau” carries forward the desire to submerge self in the streams of molecularised existence which characterise the great Eastern religions. In A Thousand Plateaus, rationality turns back on itself, breaking into pure desire as flows and clashes of particles. In a schizoid sense, desire has been split and projected out into the “plateau”– a term drawn from Gregory Bateson’s “continuous regions of intensity constituted in such a way that they do not allow themselves to be interrupted by any external termination, any more than they allow themselves to build towards a climax” (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 158). There is a mystical play of forces implicit in postmodernism generally, and the incantations by the gnostics traversing the plateaus of postmodern pleasure are phrased in a fluid positivism, in the form of a scientology.

     

    Desire has floated free from the material reality of everyday life, and this is what constitutes the ontology of the particle, and tendentially, the form of the signifier: the postmodernist now acts out, intellectually, the yearning which immersed the body in the flows of desire in the 1960s. Contra physical, corporal, or semiotic interpretations, the abstract machine of Deleuze and Guattari is diagrammatic, “is pure matter-function–a diagram independent of the forms and substances, expressions and contents it will distribute” (1987: 141). It is at the threshold of an assemblage that this diagrammatic genetic circuitry is able to calculate the marginal trade-off of pleasure and pain, doing so in terms and directions which could lead to a change of state: “Exchange is only an appearance: each partner or group assesses the value of the last receivable object (limit- object), and the apparent equivalence desires from that . . . ” (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 439). In this manner, the calculus of desirability at the threshold draws upon the pleasure-pain preferences of every element of the group, which, at a given point, may change state.

     

    We must also consider the location of postmodernists, including the post-structuralist writer, within the bureaucratised intelligentsia which is under considerable threat in the conditions of late capitalism. The move to roll back government expenditure on education, and the resurgence of corporate claims to power, contribute to a sense of heightened anxiety. This anxiety underlies the desire to deconstruct, into their component parts, structures which have failed to provide solutions in the conditions of image capitalism. In addition, there is a sadistic pleasure, one which heightens the sensitivity of the organism, to be had from sublimating anxiety into the deconstruction of some object, or code, into its constituent particles. The heightened sensitivity and pleasure gained from this deconstructing molecularisation reveals the perverse and narcissistic underside of the postmodernists’ absorption in the play with the elements of their own deconstructions. They reduce culture and individuality to a pseudo-difference, in fact more a bland consistency of component parts. In so doing, they feed capital with a flow of particle inputs which are more easily reconstituted to suit the infinitely changing tastes of the market. In this sense the postmodernists, rather than orchestrating genuine difference, pre-digest culture, tradition, and structure, reducing it to a form more palatable to capital.

     

    II.

    De Sade’s Legacy: Postmodern Pleasure and Perversity

     

    The postmodern heightening of sensitivities of pleasure through the perversity of molecularisation as code-breaking is grotesquely prefigured by de Sade’s Juliette. Simone de Beauvoir questions “must we burn de Sade? . . . the supreme value of his testimony is that it disturbs us” (cited in de Saint-Yves, 1954: 16). In addition, de Saint-Yves suggests that de Sade reveals the hypocrisy of the social display, a refinery which barely conceals Juliette’s gross machinic organising for pleasure (1954: 16). This hypocrisy is now repeated beneath the attractiveness of the social order signified by the global capitalist imaging of desirable social machines within the information networks of global capitalism. The mating of desire, images, and production is electronically sorted on a global scale. The laws and moral conventions, which are postured by and maintain the content of these social machines, themselves provide the codes through which a pleasure is gained in transgression. The postmodernists, as a part of the new class intelligentsia whose status is enmeshed within the legal and moral status quo, experience a doubling of pleasures: firstly, in the benefits of their position, and secondly, in the heightened sensitivity derived from the perversity of code-breaking within their deconstructing discourses.

     

    The postmodernists are less likely to speak of the sadistic side of their prescriptions. Yet, tracing the epistemological affinity between de Sade’s (1796) Juliette and Deleuze and Guattari’s (1987) A Thousand Plateaus reveals that this inheritance persists. Both are concerned with flows of desire at the molecular level and with heightening intensities. Both parody the social and productive conditions within which they were produced. De Sade’s (1796) Juliette appeared just before Goethe’s (1808) Faust, which Berman’s (1980) All That Is Solid Melts Into Air identifies as embodying the modernist cum- postmodernist spirit. Goethe’s Faust is also a precursor to Nietzsche’s (1887) On the Genealogy of Morals and his (1888) The Will to Power, expressing the strong man as a code-breaker of the weak principles of Christianity and socialism, and as a manipulative developer. We find this trajectory of indefinite cycles of deconstruction and reconstruction continues through postmodernism to culminate in the inversion of Marx’s Capital and Nietzsche’s “abstract power” in Baudrillard (Kroker, 1985).

     

    The postmodern order of things is prefigured in de Sade’s “matrix of maleficent molecules” (1968: 400), in which the propensity to rule-breaking and irregularity is natural. Pleasure-seeking in postmodernism may be seen as pain avoidance which both stems from and drives the cycles of desire in the postmodern condition. This calculus is at the basis of an incipiently postmodern reason which, in de Sade, mirrors natural law: “What is reason? The faculty given to me by nature whereby I may dispose myself in a favourable sense toward such-and-such an object and against some other, depending on the amount of pleasure or pain I desire from these objects” (1968: 34). Heightening Intensities: The Pleasures of Code-Breaking

     

    Juliette’s machinic organising conjoined sadism and code-breaking to raise the level of excitation of the nervous system, so that the experience of pleasure is heightened in intensity: “There is a certain perversity than which no other nourishment is tastier, drawn thither by nature–if reason’s glacial hand waves us back, lusts fingers bear the dish towards us again, and thereafter we can no longer do without the fare” (de Sade, 1968: 11). Thus driven, the unconstrained imagination may wreak havoc and destruction as nature does in pursuing its ends (de Sade, 1968: 12). This opportunism is evident in Lyotard’s (1984) affirmation of what we might see as the polymorphous perversity of the play of Eros, Thanatos, and Capital through the electromagnetic dance of the information society in his Postmodern Condition. Lyotard concludes that “our fear of the system of signs and thus our investment in it, must still be immense if we continue to seek these positions of purity . . . what would be interesting would be to stay where we are, but at the same time to seize every opportunity to function as good conductors of intensities” (1984: 311). However, the focus of Lyotard’s argument represses the pathology of the postmodern subject, who–as de Sade predicted in Juliette–heightens the intensities of pleasure through the sadistic adventures of indefinite deconstruction.

     

    The political claims of deconstruction are repeated when Deleuze and Guattari enlist pleasure-seeking molecularisation to “[overcome] the imperialism of language” (1987: 65). Deleuze and Guattari’s logic has its precursor in Juliette, in the form of Debene’s exhortation to a “voluptuousness which can tolerate no inhibitions”: this voluptuousness “attains its zenith only by shattering them all” (de Sade, 1968: 53). The zenith is the excitement of transgressing laws, which, for Juliette, “has a strong impact upon the nervous system.” Deleuze and Guattari’s molecularising thought crystallises de Sade’s deconstructionist lubricity in the intellectual sphere: their social machine is not cast in terms of the Marxist preoccupation with the production of goods, but rather in terms of the “state of the intermingling of bodies in society, including all the attractions and repulsions, sympathies, and antipathies, alterations, amalgamations, penetrations and expansions that affect the bodies of all kinds in their relations” (1987: 89). One consequence of this is the relativising of moral-ethical concerns, since “good and bad are only products of temporary selection which must be renewed” (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 10).

     

    Deleuze and Guattari propose the withdrawal to the “Body without Organs” as their pleasure dome–“a tantric egg,” a condition in which all the attachments of organs to stratified social space have been cut off. It is a matter of pushing desire through to point of its origins in the body, by intensifying the behaviour to which desire is attached, whether masochistic, sadistic, or paranoid: “Where psychoanalysis says ‘stop find yourself again,’ we should say instead, ‘lets go further still we haven’t found our BwO yet, we haven’t sufficiently dismantled ourselves’” (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 151). The desire to achieve the intensity of the experience of pure desire in the body without organs is evident in Deleuze and Guattari’s masochist, who closes off organs:

     

    The masochist body: it is poorly understood in terms of pain; it is fundamentally a question of the BwO. It has its sadist or whore sew it up; the eyes, anus, urethra, breasts, and nose are sewn shut. It has itself strung up to stop the organs from working, flayed, as if the organs clung to the skin; sodomized, smothered, to make sure everything is sealed tight. (1987: 150)

     

    This scene might have been drawn from one of the many instances of sado-masochism in Juliette. It is from such a point that Deleuze and Guattari’s masochist must break through to the pleasures of the body without organs, not by exercising caution or holding onto self, but through further experimentation and “dismantling of self” (1987: 151). This pleasure-seeking is unconstrained by remorse, carrying forward Clairwil’s prescription that guilt must be overcome by breaking any restraining rules–in fact, by “destroying everything it rests upon” (de Sade, 1968: 396).

     

    It is de Sade who kills the God that Nietzsche declares to be dead: de Sade declares that “the impediment presented by religion is the first that ought to be liquidated” (1968: 341). De Sade’s transgression of moral codes as a natural outcome of human striving is also a precursor to Goethe’s Faust. In this work, Gretchen’s virtue is violated in natural cycles of desire, deconstruction and development, cycles which are carried forward in Nietzsche’s The Will to Power. For Kroker, Nietzsche stands at the beginning and end of Capital, in a trajectory which spans the thought of Deleuze, Lyotard and the early Barthes: “In this account, Capital is disclosed to be a vivid, almost clinical study of the inner workings of modern nihilism” (Kroker, 1985: 69). However, it is in de Sade that we find the prototypical pleasure and perversity of a deconstructing desire acted out in a complicity with capital in the mass culture of postmodernism. Juliette’s desire for pleasure, luxury, property and income are furthered by “the most terrible orgies,” and her sadistic pleasure-plays are financed in a manner in which capital itself becomes both object and instrument of pleasure-seeking.

     

    It is only recurrent cycles of sadistic deconstruction which break Juliette out of the intoxication resulting from “giving in to every irregularity” of her senses. Here Juliette’s strategies are prototypes for the image-making and image-breaking binges of the postmodern accumulators, who produce models for emulation by everyman. Juliette’s Gods carry forward the coupling of Dionysiac materiality, eroticism, and spatial intellectualisation in a manner which prefigures the eroticism invested in the figural delineation of postmodern commodity signifiers. One must go through pleasure to experience the nature of things:

     

    Pleasure is an affection of a person or a subject; it is the only way for persons to find themselves. But the question is precisely whether it is necessary to find oneself . . . It is a question of making a body without organs upon which intensities pass, self and other--not in the name of a higher level of generality or a broader extension, but by virtue of singularities that can no longer be said to be personal, and intensities that can no longer be said to be extensive. (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 156)

     

    In Juliette, also, pleasure is the pathway to the life principle: “a consuming and delicious conflagration will glide into your nerves, it will make boil the electrically charged liquor in which your life principle has its seat” (de Sade, 1968: 19). The play of irregularity and pleasure is the natural order of things: “As soon as you have discovered the way to seize nature, insatiable in her demands upon you she will lead you step by step from irregularity to irregularity” (de Sade, 1968: 19). This allure of the immersion in irregularity re-surfaces in Foucault’s (1972) archaeology, Derrida’s (1973) difference, Lyotard’s (1984) agonistics, and in Deleuze and Guattari’s (1987) plateau. Postmodern Sadism

     

    There is a long trajectory of that desire which circulates through sadistic activities, a manipulation of the Fates in the interest of group survival and pleasurable existence. This trajectory is observable in Dionysus and in Juliette. It also manifests itself in postmodernism, but is concealed beneath the pleasures of the pursuit of difference. The channels through which desire flows into sadism, and the mutually supportive relations of this desire with anality, require some examination as a moment in the understanding of the pleasures and perversities of postmodernism. De Sade’s legacy may be discerned in the writing of Deleuze and Guattari (1987), and in postmodernism generally.

     

    Juliette is a precursor to Nietzsche’s Superman. In Juliette, the heightening of the intensities of the perversity and pleasure arising from the mimesis of nature’s propensity to self-destruction is rampant. However, a problem which is a source of sadistic pleasure in de Sade, and which is glossed over in postmodernism, is that the adverse consequences of unrestrained pleasure-seeking fall more heavily on the weaker sections of the society. This is of particular concern in the coupling of postmodernism and neo-conservatism:

     

    The stronger . . . by despoiling the weaker, that is to say by enjoying all the rights which he has received from nature, by giving himself every possible license, enjoys himself more or less in proportion to that license. The more atrocious the harm he does the weaker, the more voluptuous the thrill he gives himself. (de Sade, 1968: 119)

     

    The problem with the mimesis of natural strength is that it, of necessity, is cast in terms of an unconstrained destructiveness. Likewise, the postmodern desire to deconstruct sublimates the anxiety of existence into strong solutions which carry forward both Faust’s and Juliette’s sadistic pleasure-seeking at the expense of the weak. With respect to tendencies to neo-conservatism within postmodernism, we might consider the pleasures inherent in policies of deregulation and restructuring: there is a perverse thrill, legitimated by nature, to be gained from tough solutions which sadistically degrade conditions of the poorer sections of society. In postmodernism, as in de Sade, there is little concern for the cruelty or terror inflicted upon particular individuals or groups: “When the law of nature requires an upheaval, does nature fret over what will be undone in its course?” (de Sade, 1968: 121).

     

    Juliette‘s natural order anticipates the free flowing, unbounded play of assemblages later found in Deleuze and Guattari:

     

    The perpetual movement of matter explains everything: The universe is an assemblage of unlike entities which act and react mutually and successively with and against each other; I discern no start, no finish no fixed boundaries, this universe I see only as an incessant passing from one state into another, and within it only particular beings which forever change shape and form. (de Sade, 1968: 43)

     

    This indefinite atomism is carried forward into both Foucault’s and Derrida’s difference, and it culminates in Deleuze and Guattari’s rhizomic multiplicities:

     

    A multiplicity is neither subject or object, only determinations, magnitudes and dimensions that cannot increase in number without the multiplicity changing in state . . . An assemblage is precisely this increase in the dimensions of a multiplicity that necessarily changes in nature as it expands its connections. (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 8)

     

    It is into these flows of a natural order of difference that both de Sade’s and Deleuze and Guattari’s subject dissolves itself. In both cases, it is a mimesis which seeks satisfaction at the cost of losing the memories, desires, and the mind of the subject, which–collectively with other subjects–could contain the propensity to sadism.

     

    The sadisms which may be unleashed in Deleuze and Guattari’s (1987) unrestrained flight to pleasure lie repressed in the crevices beneath their plateaus. It is into their black holes that is consigned the repressed anality of the polymorphously perverse stage, which, I have argued, is latent in the desire for deconstructing play with the objects of postmodern existence. In their schizo-analytical re-interpretation of Freud’s wolf-man, Deleuze and Guattari argue against phallocentrism, the father, and castration as key analytical criteria. They interpret the wolf-man by projecting anality into multiplicity delineated as the quantum dynamics of swarming particles and black holes. “Who could ever believe that the anal machine bears no relation to the wolf machine . . . a field of anuses just like a pack of wolves . . . lines of flight or deterritorialisation, becoming-inhuman, deterritorialised intensities: that is what multiplicity is . . . a wolf is a hole, they are both particles of the unconscious” (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 32).

     

    The relations of anality, pleasure, and sadism might be better grasped by recovering the subject-object dialectics of the polymorphously perverse stage within capitalism: however, the implications of this anality remain unexamined when Deleuze and Guattari escape the pain of everyday postmodern existence by projecting it out onto the heights of the continuous pleasure of the plateau. Thereupon, the dissolution of self into the neo-Platonism of the perfect form of the pure multiplicity of particles is completed. This is the essence of molecularising thought, and it is driven by sublimating a latent anality which relentlessly and sadistically renders wholes into their molecular elements as objects of play. The Platonism of this process in molecularising thought carries forward the “vision of the human body as excremental” (Brown, 1977: 295). It is through this moment of atomising thought that we may uncover the suppressed anality of the postmodern character, the precursor to which is Freud’s 1908 essay, “Character and Anal Erotism.” The traits of the anal character of orderliness, parsimony, and obstinacy are sublimated into desires to control as the delineations of postmodern signification. The movement is both controlling and pleasure-seeking, and the postmodern desire to immerse self in the play of images acts out the desire to play in the objects one has created. This latent anality at the individual level is in mutually reinforcing relations with a disorganised capitalism, within which the phallus still dominates social expression. Hocquenghem (1987:24) says of this that “the anus is over invested individually because its investment is withdrawn socially.”

     

    While in Deleuze and Guattari anality is projected into the pleasure and covert sadism of the plane of consistency, in de Sade it is unmasked and brought into direct experience as an aperture through which self may be sado- masochistically dissolved into the natural pleasures of the incessant transgression of the order of things. Saint- Frond’s instruction of Juliette in the pleasures of sadistic code-breaking are legitimatised by nature’s own processes. There is an on-going play of anal pleasure and sadism in Juliette: Juliette relates that he “kissed me and ran his hand down my behind, into which he promptly popped a finger” (de Sade, 1968: 235). Commonly, the intensity of the pleasures of Juliette’s orgies is heightened by the acting out of sadistic anality (de Sade, 1968: 266). Juliette’s deconstruction of sexual codes knows no bounds: her unconstrained lust abases more noble concerns and is demanding and militant in its tyrannical perversion of beauty, virtue, innocence, candour and misfortune (de Sade, 1968: 270). Postmodernism’s own polymorphous perversity is acted out by playing in the mess of deconstruction, but the memory of how the subject was drawn into this mess remains repressed. Postmodernism: Pleasure and Perversity for Everyman

     

    Bourdieu finds that the impetus for code-breaking has devolved to a growing petite bourgeoisie who further the processes of accumulation, dealing in information in a manner which was once reserved for privileged groups:

     

    In the name of the fight against "taboos" and the liquidation of "complexes" they adopt the most external and easily borrowed aspects of the intellectual life style, liberated manners, cosmetic or sartorial outrages, emancipated poses and postures and systematically apply the cultivated disposition to not yet legitimate culture (cinema, strip cartoons, the underground, to every day life (street art), the personal sphere (sexuality, cosmetics, child-rearing, leisure) and the existential (the relation to nature, love and death). (Bourdieu, 1984: 370)

     

    These cycles of code-breaking are driven by a desire to emulate higher status groups. The style and opinion leaders of the new petite bourgeoisie perpetuate the play of difference inherent in commodity signs, deconstructing tradition and high culture into everyday life and increasing the possibilities for the attachment of capital and desire. From beneath the veneer of an attractive style, sadism is projected out elsewhere. For example, it is projected into the Third World as life-threatening methods of production, as the disruption of communities, and as the practice of using torture to maintain the system of power and control. It is also projected into the psyches of the postmodern worker and consumer, wherein the anxieties of maintaining position in the play of commodity signifiers, and in the hierarchies of symbolic accumulation, are aggravated.

     

    The pleasurable and terroristic nature of postmodern consumer society can be discerned as two sides of the same coin. Firstly, the writing of lifestyle ideals in consumer consciousness terrorises the masses into appropriate consumption and productive behaviours. Secondly, as Baudrillard has argued, the immersion of the masses in symbolic exchange sets in train a terroristic reaction to the simulacra which will lead the system of simulations to collapse in on itself:

     

    The system's own logic turns into the best weapon against it. The only strategy of opposition to a hyperrealist system is pata-physical, a "science of imaginary solutions" in other words a science fiction about the system returning to destroy itself at the extreme limit of simulation, a reversible simulation in a hyperlogic of destruction and death. (Baudrillard, 1984: 58-9)

     

    Postmodernism promises the masses a veritable orgy of code-breaking in the play of signifiers. It completes the devolution of the pleasures of code-breaking through de Sade’s aristocracy to the elites of Marx and Weber, and to Bourdieu’s higher status groups, intellectuals and the new petite bourgeoisie to everyman. The postmodern allure is that everyman may experience the pleasure and sadism of code-breaking, at the level of bodily molecular excitation, by dissolving self in the play of commodity signifiers. Beyond Justice: Everyman a Deconstructionist

     

    One consequence of postmodernism associated with the dissolution of self into the pleasures and perversities of an unfettered play of difference is the end of meaningful discourse concerning justice and human agency. Justice is relativised in the language games of postmodernism. For example, Lyotard argues that we must arrive at an idea of justice that is not linked to that of consensus (1984: 66). In postmodernism, desire wells up in the sphere of language and is the exotic force driving the play of difference: “a move can be made for the sheer pleasure of its invention” (Lyotard: 1984: 10). De Sade prefigures this abasement of justice to desire, pointing to the universal motion of justice evident in nature by arguing that justice is relative and it is natural to heighten the intensity of pleasure by breaking its codes.

     

    This relativising of justice de-sublimates the modernists’ desire for equality, liberty, and happiness for all into contingencies subject to the play of market fates. The consequence is an abdication of any containing ethical discourse in favor of the play of difference among signifiers: this means that anything is possible as the molecularities of desire and production pursue one another in a dance which tramples the less powerful, less involved bystanders. The Faustian cycles of eternal deconstruction and reconstruction work their way through Nietzsche into a postmodern will to signify, a will which carries the developer’s ethic into cultural and intellectual processes. De Sade provides an earlier illustration of the relations of desire fixated in deconstruction, an illustration which is also repeated in Nietzsche’s incipient postmodernism. De Sade reveals the hypocritical and pitiless side of this complex, characteristics further revealed in the complicity of postmodernism and neo-conservatism. There is nothing to constrain the terrorisation, or elimination, of those who stand in the way of a natural flow of desires into cycles of indefinite change:

     

    One of the basic laws of nature is that nothing superfluous subsists in the world. You may be sure of it, not only does the shiftless beggar, always a nuisance, consume part of what the industrious man produces, which is already a serious matter, but will quickly become dangerous the moment you suspend your dole to him. My desire is that instead of bestowing a groat upon these misfortunates we concentrate our efforts upon wiping them out. (de Sade, 1968: 726)

     

    De Sade prefigures the contemporary conflation of desire, rationality and market naturalism, which I have argued become mutually supportive within postmodern logic. This is acted out when everyman may have the pleasure of Faustian deconstruction and development in postmodernism. Again, de Sade expresses in advance the naturalism which is to surface in postmodernism as a rejection of the idea of generalised rules: “No man has the right to repress in him what Nature put there . . . A universal glaive of justice is of no purpose” (1968: 732). De Sade’s prototypical natural order of difference carries forward that of Heraclitus and its ideal type is realised in Derrida’s epistemology of difference. This epistemology instates the clash of signifiers as the self-driving force of language:

     

    In a language, in the system of language these are only differences . . . what is written as difference, then, will be the playing movement that "produces"--by means of something that is not simply an activity--these differences, these effects of difference. (Derrida, 1982: 11)

     

    Derrida’s naturalism here opens language to a Darwinism in which there is nothing to contain the slide into de Sade’s “perpetual outpouring of conflict, injury and aggression” (1968: 733). For Lyotard also, “to speak is to fight, in the sense of playing, and speech acts fall within the domains of a general agonistics” (1984: 10). The postmodern hope is that unconstrained difference will break through to a liberalist ethics of equal opportunity for participation in language games. The corresponding promise is that this equality of participation will alleviate the condition of those who are victimised by the social structure: Lyotard’s agonistic language games protect against “piracy” by breaking the rules (1984: 7). For postmodernism, the act of deconstructing the law and social codes is held to undermine the propensity to despotism (1968: 735); however, there is nothing to constrain the slide into terrorism. De Sade’s unconstrained anarchism is the precursor to this play of postmodern difference, and reveals its propensity to turn into terror against the weaker sections of society. For de Sade, “give us anarchy and we will have these victims the less” (1968: 733).

     

    The neurology of de Sade’s propensity to the heightened intensity of law breaking prefigures Deleuze and Guattari’s analysis of desire at the molecular level: “Foreign objects act in a forceful manner upon our organs, if they penetrate them violently, if they stir into brisk motion the neural fluid particles which circulate in the hollow of our nerves, then our sensibility is such as to dispose us to vice” (de Sade, 1968: 278). It is in atrocity that the highest intensity from this code-breaking is achieved. Within de Sade’s technics of heightening the intensity of pleasure, doing good is useless. De Sade’s language is carried forward in Deleuze and Guattari’s studies of the particle flows of intensities; here, by implication, arguments concerning the good are dissolved in particle flows. Heightened intensity is achieved to the extent that particles of desire can crash through striated (coded) space to the libertinage of the plateau (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 507). However, the consignment of justice to a space beyond the subjective and collective relations of concern for others leaves a state of lawlessness in which no individual or sub-group is safe.

     

    III.

    Particle Thought and the End of the Subject

     

     

    The trajectory of social thought which reduces the complex texture of existence to molecules, or to particles, reaches its fully developed form in Deleuze and Guattari’s writing. Their concepts reveal that the epistemology of difference, which underpins postmodernism, rests on a cultural scientism. Furthermore, Lyotard proposes modelling social relations in terms of quantum theory, since “research centred on singularities and “incommensurables” is applicable to the pragmatics of most everyday problems” (1984: 60). These models provide prospects for Lyotard to realise the quantum revolution within language. Lyotard would then be able to explain the logic of the clashes and discontinuities, in his study of the agonistics of discourse, in terms of the probabilistic positivism applicable to this model. There is a problem for the subject in this view, since the subject is overawed by, and precariously existing in, an unfathomable cosmic flux of energies. I propose to trace the trajectory of this view and to evaluate it by directing Simone Weil’s critique of quantum theory at the manifestation of this form within postmodernism.

     

    The trajectory of probabilistic positivism begins with Heraclitus, and continues through Nietzsche’s universe as a “monster of energies without beginning, without end–a play of forces a wave of forces” (1968: 550). It is the base matter of classical scientism, revitalised in a fluid positivism by the quantum theorists, and emerging as the repressed archetype for the postmodern play of difference as a quantum scientism of signifiers. We find that this trajectory culminates in Deleuze and Guattari’s A Thousand Plateaus which imports quantum modelling of particle movement into social theory. This importation tends to gloss over problems in relation to knowledge which remain to be resolved.

     

    Simone Weil’s (1968) Reflections on Quantum Theory is instructive in revealing the manner in which quantum theory furthers an epistemology of particle plays which ends human concerns. We might reasonably depict these concerns as those that derive from the modernist catch cry of equality, liberty and fraternity. Weil’s critique usefully informs this evaluation of the form of postmodern thought. Weil perceives a crisis in twentieth-century physics which we may also discern in the social physics of postmodernism in general, and in Deleuze and Guattari’s work in particular. Weil argues that scientism must not eliminate the concerns of “human destiny” and “human truth” from culture or intellectual pursuits (1968: vii). She criticises the ending of human truth in the seeking of scientific truth: “utility at once takes its place . . . utility becomes something which the intelligence is no longer entitled to define or judge, but only to serve” (Weil, 1968: ix).

     

    In Deleuze and Guattari (1987) we find that there is a utility of particle flows to understanding, but that it is a utility which deconstructs ideas of “human destiny” into a dynamic atomism. It is a dead atomism devoid of a humanising moment. Their world of particles recapitulates the trajectory of the ancient Greek atomism, through to the atoms of modern physics, from which Cornforth (1912) claims that the concerns of human life had passed. Deleuze and Guattari reduce a humanised utility and pleasure-seeking, from activities subject to human thought and wisdom, to a universal and autonomous pleasure-seeking which is diagrammatically programmed into a universal field of particle flows.

     

    Quantum theory reflected the re-emergence of an over- riding concern with the discontinuous in science. Weil (1968: 5) criticises this tendency stating that “the human mind cannot make do with number alone or with continuity alone; it oscillates between the two.” The potential to think in terms of both number and space is instated as a necessary a priori of comprehension. In this sense Weil carries forward the paraconsistent logic of Heraclitean unity and difference. It is the loss of the sense of spatial unity in the reduction to the discontinuity of atoms and quanta that has led to a loss of meaning. Here, Weil expresses a similar observation to that of Cornforth (1912), who claims that the atomism of physics carries forward the spatial rationalisation entailed in the naming of the Olympian Gods. However, with the vanishing of the Gods from Mount Olympus and the diminution of their influence in everyday life, a space opened in which the secularised, dead particles of physics were constructed. The concerns of human life, which had maintained their vitality through projection into the Olympian Gods, now pass out of the conceptualisation of the nature of things, leaving the dead matter of atomism.

     

    Weil argues that scientists between the Renaissance and the end of the nineteenth century carried on their experiments within the context of a broader attempt to establish the relations of people and the universe. Their anthropo-mytho-materio framework for this was Promethean. People had been cursed to act out desires through work. Causality was grasped in terms of “intermediate stages analogous to those traversed by a man executing a simple manual labour” (Weil, 1968: 6). These relations of work were further reduced to the universal formulae of energy, effectively dehumanising relations of distance and force (or mass and velocity), relations which hitherto had been grasped in terms of the human work required to move weight. Furthermore, the experience of the consequences of directional time was added in terms of the concept of entropy, expressed algebraically.

     

    Coupled with necessity, these ideas reduced human nature (including relations of desires hopes, fears, becoming and the good) to something determined within the constellation of energies and atoms of the universe. The cost is a world deprived of human meanings: “It tries to read behind all appearances that inexorable necessity which makes the world a place in which we do not count, a place of work, a place indifferent to desire, to aspirations and the good” (Weil, 1968: 10). In these terms, classical science contained a vital flaw which would lead to its demise, namely the gap between human thought (including wisdom) and an infinitely accumulating array of facts. Human beings are more than particles of matter condemned to work. They are able to imagine, construct becomings, and experience the good and the beautiful. The reduction of language to scientism ends this aspect of human existence, one which “can, perhaps, only be expressed in the language of myth, poetry and image, the images consisting not only in words but also in objects and actions” (Weil, 1968: 13).

     

    The spatio-temporal relations of desire and action are also dehumanised in the transition from Greek to modern science in a manner which we shall see has been carried into postmodern cultural scientism. Weil sees in ancient Greek science the foundations of classical science. Classical science is cast in terms of a tendency to equilibrium, an equilibrium which encompasses the relations of injustice and justice, and ideas of beauty such as expressed in Greek art (Weil, 1968: 15). However, these humanising relations are lost in classical science. The desire of Greek science is “to contemplate in sensible phenomena an image of the good” (Weil, 1968: 21). Classical science takes as its model for representing the world the relation between a desire and the conditions for its fulfillment. However, it suppresses the first term of the relation (Weil, 1968: 15). The linear motion of classical science encapsulates desire as an acting out of “desires to go somewhere” (Weil, 1968: 26).

     

    One might also discern an early expression of this travelling motion in Homer: Odysseus’ restless adventuring now continues its trajectory through modern physics to culminate in the spatial explorations of the postmodernists. The postmodern reduction of distance, space and desire into the image as commodity signifier reproduces Odysseus’ adventuring through mass travel–in a manner which involves an unending hopping from one simulation of culture and history to the next–and one in which desire goes nowhere really positive but around in a circle to return repression to itself. Horkheimer and Adorno’s (1972) reading of Odysseus as an archetypal bourgeois character fits with Weil’s modernist (1968: 16). Both act out desires “to go somewhere, for example, or to seize or hit something or somebody, and upon distance which is a condition inherent in every desire of a creature subjected to time.” This incessant journeying prefigures the postmodernists’ spatial traversing and subdividing of the activities of everyday life into a kaleidoscopic symbolic field. However, aesthetical and ethical considerations are suppressed in this acting out of classical scientific perceptions. It is in Weil’s reference to an earlier image of the Manichaeans that the tendency to fragmentation now carried forward by the postmodernists is most visible.

     

    Weil’s Manichaeans saw the fragmentation of the spirit through its attachment to the necessities of time and space. We may also recall the crises of Odysseus’ adventuring in these terms. Both Odysseus’ experiences and those seen by the Manichaeans prefigure the postmodern condition as one in which character is fragmented in spatial delineation driven by the temporality of a play of difference. Weil is prescient to the postmodern split, conceiving of character as split between desires and aspiration. Any sense of having found oneself is continually undermined as the past is lost. The feelings arising therefrom are repeated in postmodern nihilism.

     

    What he is at any single moment is nothing; what he has been and what he will be do not exist; and the extended world is made up of everything that escapes him, since he is confined to one point, like a chained prisoner, and cannot be anywhere except at the price of time and effort and of abandoning the point he started from. Pleasure rivets him to his place of confinement and to the present moment, which nevertheless he cannot detain; desire attaches him to the coming moment and makes the whole world vanish for the sake of a single object; and pain is always for him the sense of his being torn and scattered through the succession of moments and places. (Weil, 1968: 16,17)

     

    This splitting of the psychic space of the subject is also expressed by Lacan in that the signifier is the death of the subject.

     

    Hence the division of the subject--when the subject appears somewhere as meaning, he is manifested elsewhere as "fading," as disappearance. There is, then, one might say a matter of life and death between the unary signifier and the subject, qua binary signifier, cause of his disappearance. (Lacan, 1968: 218)

     

    These terms are also applicable to the source of the anxiety of postmodern existence which arises from the dissolution of self into the world of signifiers. The context of postmodern existence is given its dynamic ontological structure by the new physics. The new physics is the atomism of classical science dissolved into transitory particles which emanate from underlying fields. This form provides a natural scientific legitimation for a postmodern existence remarkable for its fragmentary and transitory nature. In addition, it stylistically underpins the electrodynamics of the global image making systems which channel postmodern desire. This is the context for the pain of postmodern existence manifested by the postmodern split. The splitting or play of difference within character acts in sympathy with a play of difference in an everyday life. What is remarkable here is the predominant preoccupation with the pursuit of difference as distinction, measured in terms of signifying fashions.

     

    In this on-going deconstruction and reconstruction of self, elements are continually shed and replaced with new signifiers. However, something is gained only at the expense of something lost, and as repeated failures of satisfaction are experienced, the feeling of the tragedy of deconstruction grows. In its psychotic mode, the postmodern split manifests a masochistic self-deconstruction, on the one hand, and a sadistic rending of culture into its elemental particles, on the other. This postmodern desire to reduce things to their elemental particles carries the quantum hypothesis into culture as a stylistic legitimating form, and we shall see that it also imports a loss of the connection of humanity and materiality.

     

    The dehumanising loss in the quantum hypotheses is the loss of “analogy between the laws of nature and the conditions of work” (Weil, 1968: 22). The work of the human being to move a weight over distance is represented in terms of the mechanical devices of classical science (mechanical man). In contrast, quantum conceptions (for example, Planck’s) subsume discontinuous mechano-humanism under the continuity of formulae which express the product of number and a constant (Weil, 1968: 23). Weil’s conception of the spatial continuity implied by such formulae belies the apparent discontinuity of quantum particles. This spatial continuity is the underlying unity of the field. In an equivalent form, Foucault’s (1972) “archive” functions as a field which emanates difference. In Deleuze and Guattari’s social physics, this is the same unity as the suppressed term of the relations of pure discontinuity, and in postmodernism generally it is the suppressed unity of spatial continuity which underlies the plays of difference.

     

    The postmodern idea of infinite difference rests on an unbounded continuity of space within which there is no limit to figural divisions. Deleuze and Guattari’s (1987) idealisation or telic destiny of this is the “plateau” or “plane of consistency.” However, such a schema dissolves humanity itself, and with it, human meaning. On the social plane, Deleuze and Guattari repeat the formulations of physics which move outside human thought into pure algebra. The problem, to Weil, is that algebra is “a language with this peculiarity, it means nothing” (Weil, 1968: 24). In this manner, the conditions of human existence are reduced to the algebraic relations of dead atoms out of which the concerns of human life have passed, thus realising the condition foreseen by Cornforth (1912). The idea of human agency is lost in the traversing of continuous space which mindlessly emanates difference.

     

    The discontinuities of quantum physics are grasped at the micro level through the linking of atomism, chance, and probability. Weil warns that the idea of chance at the micro level does not end spatio-temporal necessity, since the same macro-structures, for example, the distribution of thousands of throws of a dice, are carried forward–by necessity (1968: 24). The same argument may be used to question the postmodernists, in general, and Deleuze and Guattari’s ending of concern with totalities. From this perspective, we may question Deleuze and Guattari’s social physics in respect of its concern with plays of difference at the particle level. The characteristic postmodern indulgence in chance ends structural necessity in favour of the idea of a random number machine which authorises infinite spatial multiplicity.

     

    In problematising this, consider the manner in which modern physics reduced the concerns of energy, particles, entropy, and continuity to the discontinuous numbers of probability. The algebraic formulae of probability functions overrode paradoxical concerns of human thought: Einstein’s paradoxes as expressed in terms of a “velocity which is both infinite and measurable, a time which is assimilated to a fourth dimension of space” (Weil, 1968: 29). Weil proposes investigating ways in which probability can be conceived without reduction to the discontinuity of numbers–for example, through generalised numbers. It is clear that atomising thought is an artifice which suppresses the potential of the human mind to conceive continuity, and with it conceptions of destiny and the good. These are suppressed in favour of the measuring convenience of numbering in science, or its equivalent, signifiers as the cultural atomism of postmodernism.

     

    The same problem exists in the Deleuze and Guattari’s conception of atomistic particle thought. They assign the idea of continuity to the utopian, transcendental space of the “plateau” or “plane of consistency,” thus projecting the continuous and the good to Olympian heights above the conditions of human existence. Their flows of particles are a mathesis and their molecularising thought is one to which human experience is not reducible. Weil remarks that “Physics is essentially the application of mathematics to nature at the price of an infinite error” (1968: 34). And Deleuze and Guattari’s social physics carries forward the same error–the discontinuous particle experience is not the universal experience. It is a product of individual human minds, a product which is shared, not a producer of human minds. In addition, Lyotard also carries forward this error in his dehumanising relativism. He discusses “genres of discourse” as “strategies . . . of no-one.” He also characterises conflict as autonomous, “not between humans or between any other entities,” but rather the as product of “phrases” (Lyotard, 1988: 137).

     

    Deleuze and Guattari’s conceptualisations are perhaps best grasped as an attempt by the postmodern mind to locate itself in a changing terrain, but a terrain which instates the hypotheses of quantum physics in culture as a repressed absolute governing human existence. However, it is apparent that this view raises problems for cultural analysis, problems which remain to be examined. Both the human potential to imagine the Olympian Gods and the form of the existence of the particle contain the infinite error of assuming the pre-eminence of these products of imagination over the conditions of human existence:

     

    The grace which permits wretched mortals to think and imagine and effectively apply geometry, and to conceive at the same time that God is a perpetual geometer, the grace which goes with the stars and with dances, play and work is a marvelous thing; but it is not more marvelous than the very existence of man, for it is a condition of it. (Weil, 1968: 41)

     

    The infinite error carried forward in postmodern thought is that of regarding the play of difference as a universal and a valid resolution of the twentieth century’s contradictions: the discontinuities of difference with the continuities of infinite space, time and desire. This error arises from the belief in interminable deconstruction and its counterpart in capitalising the unending possibilities of attaching desires to an infinite array of consumption images. It does not end the modernist project but updates it by substituting the more dynamic particle plays of quantum physics for nineteenth-century atomism. The instating of the principles of quantum physics in social thought provides a more reactive reagent for the furthering of modernist concerns:

     

    The nineteenth century, that century which believed in unlimited progress, and believed that men would grow richer and richer, and that constantly renovated techniques would enable them to get more and more pleasure while working less and less, and that education would make them more and more rational and that public moral in all countries would grow more and more democratic, believed that his domain of physics was the whole universe. The goods to which the nineteenth century attached were precious, but not supreme; they were subordinate values but it thought it saw infinity in them. (Weil 1968: 42)

     

    This prognosis of the nineteenth century is applicable to our so-called postmodern era. We observe postmodern thought investing human hopes and desires into a universe which is an infinity of signified differences at the level of culture and consumption. However, the idea, implicit in postmodernism, that desire can be infinitely attached to the play of signifiers, is neither supreme nor sublime. Postmodern Neo-Positivism, or the Signifier as Number

     

    The culmination of the logic of the postmodern world of signifiers is in the neo-positivism of Deleuze and Guattari’s “numbering” within “nomad space.” “Nomad space” is conceived as numerical space and is contrasted with the linear space of primitive society and the territorial striations of State society. While the State numericises its striations, it is in nomad space that the “autonomous arithmetic organisation” of the “numbering number” comes to function: “The number is no longer a means of counting or measuring but of moving: it is the number itself which moves through smooth space” (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 389).

     

    To reveal the numerics at the underside of the signifier, first let’s recapitulate the tendency to fragmentation in postmodern thought. The fully developed form of this is in Deleuze and Guattari’s reduction to the particle. This adds a new fluidity to culture and provides more opportunities for desire to attach to capital. Under these circumstances, postmodernism gives modernism entree to culture. In this sense, Kroker has recognised postmodernism as the culmination of the logic of capital in a culture which is driven by a Nietzschean will to power. We might regard Deleuze and Guattari’s reduction of the complex texture of individual and social relations to an essential constitution of rampant particles of desire as a Nietzschean desire for power through deconstruction. In postmodernism, this will to power draws on the fluid epistemology of the quanta of modern physics and uses it to fragment social spaces and structures. The play of particles so formed is one of a cultural positivism, in which the signifier behaves probabilistically in the form of the number. It is at this point of the rendering of culture into its elemental quantum numerics that the social field is most permeable to the passage of capital.

     

    Furthermore, within the sense of a dialectical view of history, I have previously argued that the moment of deconstruction or fragmentation is often misconstrued as a permanent condition, unjustifiably freezing dialectic at this point. This fixation on the moment of difference is central to postmodern reason and lies at the confluence of the trajectories of a number of historical tendencies. These trajectories are mutually attractive and intersect to create the space of postmodern reason. They include the global capitalism of the information society, which heightens the intensities of the relations of fear, anxiety, and the pleasure and perversity of infinite deconstruction by abetting their investment in the flux of commodity signifiers.

     

    Postmodern reason facilitates the fluidity of these relations by conjoining the propensity to think atomistically with the notion of the random number machine and probability. In effect, it dissolves culture into a quantum epistemology. Here, the fluid, probabilistic, and rapidly appearing and disappearing number, as the concealed form of the signifier–for example in the mathematical coordinates which blueprint the electronic image–becomes the epistemological currency of postmodern thought. This is the order of things driving the postmodern cutting edge of modernism, a postmodern neo-positivism which breaks up culture into the form of a probabilistic mathesis.

     

    It is the random number machine of postmodern reason that is the hidden orchestrator of the production of infinite difference as pure multiplicity, in which the signifier is reduced to the form of the self-moving number. The random number machine is revealed at the seat of that quasi-transcendental force which is self-referential in terms of Deleuze and Guattari’s “numbering number” and sets forth its own probabilistic order of things. Desire and capital pursue one another through patterns issuing from the random number machine as it arbitrarily pours forth an infinite array of profiles of the possible relations of desire and commodity signifiers. The random number machine also sets forth lines of escape from the hegemony of State and market relations–for example, into the probabilities that reactive numbers will coalesce in reaction against the dominant order. Deleuze and Guattari’s “numbering numbers” escape from their State organisation into “autonomous arithmetic” (1987: 389). In the death knell of praxis and the subject, “the number is no longer a means of counting or of moving: it is the number itself which moves through smooth space” (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 389). The culmination of the logic of postmodernism, then, is in the play of signifiers, the essential constitution of which is a play of numbers: in other words, the fluid neo-positivism of signifiers is a play of difference among “numbering numbers.”

     

    The desire to systematise the play of difference into a fluid positivism is also apparent in the positivity of Foucault’s (1972) statement. In addition, Lacan (1968) attempts to geometricise post-structural desire, and one also senses that Lyotard (1984) desires a mathesis as the basis of his agonistic discourse-games. Deleuze and Guattari’s reduction of social quanta to particle flows realises the telos of postmodern thought, reducing cultural complexity to signifiers in the form of number-signs. This is also the designation of the subject in postmodernism, an order which abets the depiction of everyday life in terms of the concealed numerical coordinates which make up the electronic flashes of the image machines. A self-perficient and determining neo- positivism thus overtakes human reason.

     

    This order of things is the end of reason–an electronic mating of capital with a Faustian cum-Nietzschean will to deconstruction. The reality of Deleuze and Guattari’s escaping social quanta within late capitalism is that they are fearful and greedy multiplicities of desire which do not break free of capital but ride it into the fantasy of pure difference, seeking the pleasure of the “plateau.” The will to signify steers and provides the legitimating rationale for the passage of the turbulent leading edge of modernist capital into culture: atomising postmodern thought breaks up culture into exceedingly fine particles, creating a cosmic soup through which capitalism may re-nourish itself, unconstrained by structure. The particle flows of pleasure-seeking capital and fearful desire mutually attract and interpenetrate, and out of this mutual attraction arises an interminable metamorphosis that is the postmodern condition. While I contend that the reduction of the individual and social space to “numbering numbers” leaves no containing ethico-politico structure to constrain the propensity for terror, Deleuze and Guattari are at pains to disagree: “Horror for horror the numerical organisation of people is no crueler than linear or state organisation” (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987: 390). However, the individual, with an inherent potential for ethical and political praxis, can say no to the madness of the crowd in its elemental form of a swarming numerics of particles of desire.

     

    To place this discussion within the broader project of locating postmodernism historically, something has been lost in our focus on the luminescent trajectory of postmodernism since Paris in May, 1968: we have lost sight of the function of postmodernism as that which carries the modernist ethos into culture. This has seriously weakened the critical credentials of postmodernism. However, as this trajectory burns out (Los Angeles in May, 1992, is arguably postmodernism’s memorial monument), a re-orientation is called for. Opening up the reductiveness of the signifier to an understanding of the complicities of desire and concept is a step to relocating the individual, as the subject of ethico-politico praxis, within the mutually supportive dynamics of modernity and postmodernity. If the pleasures of deconstruction have perverted the modernist spirit of equality, liberty and fraternity into degrading conditions of existence for the weaker sections of society, then reversing this process entails an awareness of the subject’s dissolution, by stages, into signifier, difference, particle-quanta, and finally into that autonomous mathesis of number concealed beneath postmodern figural play.

     

    Works Cited

     

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    • Weil, S. On Science, Necessity and Love of God. Trans. and ed. Richard Rees. London: Oxford UP, 1968.

     

  • Mainlining Postmodernism: Jenny Holzer, Barbara Kruger, and the Art of Intervention

    Walter Kalaidjian

    Dept. of English
    St. Cloud State University

    <wkalaidj@TIGGER.STCLOUD.MSUS.EDU>

     

    Midway through the Reagan era, the crossing of the Great Depression’s communal aesthetics and the contemporary avant-gardes was theorized from the conservative right as a stigma of neo-Stalinism. In “Turning Back the Clock: Art and Politics in 1984,” Hilton Kramer, the ideologue of painterly formalism, sought to discredit a number of gallery exhibitions mounted in resistance to the rapid gentrification of the New York art market. Not coincidentally, these oppositional shows culminated in a year charged with the political subtext of George Orwell’s 1984. Reviving Orwell’s critique of the totalitarian state, the New Museum of Contemporary Art launched two exhibitions entitled “The End of the World: Contemporary Visions of Apocalypse” and “Art and Ideology.” Meanwhile, the Edith C. Blum Art Institute of Bard College hosted a similar show whose theme, “Art as Social Conscience,” reinforced the New Museum initiatives. In addition to showings on the themes of “Women and Politics” at the Intar Latin American Gallery and “Dreams and Nightmares: Utopian Visions in Modern Art” at the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington, D.C., both the Graduate Center of the City of University of New York and a network of private galleries affiliated with “Artists Call Against US Intervention in Central America” featured works that reflected on American imperialism in the Third World.

     

    Reacting against these progressive showings, Kramer appealed to ideal canons of aesthetic “quality” in order to malign the politicized representations of “Artists Call.” Kramer’s thesis held that art had somehow evolved, in the Age of Reagan, beyond ideology: that any explicit political allusion marked a work as a throwback to a now outdated cultural moment. But not satisfied with simply dismissing these shows as a mere recycling of some harmless and nostalgic version of 1960s leftism, Kramer tried to revive a more menacing specter that had expired three decades earlier with the scandal of McCarthyism, Red-Baiting, and Cold War paranoia that reigned over the 1950s. Tying the emergent socioaesthetic critique of the 1980s to the “radicalism” of the 1930s, Kramer anathematized “social consciousness” as serving a “Stalinist ethos.”1 Through this historical framing, Kramer sought to reinstate the repression of Depression era populism during the 1940s and 1950s: a period which, in his reading, “marked a great turning point not only in the history of American art but in the life of the American imagination” (72).

     

    Like his formalist mentor Clement Greenberg, Kramer sought to displace partisan art works under the guise of disciplinary purity: that as Greenberg claimed “the essence of Modernism lies, as I see it, in the use of the characteristic methods of a discipline to criticize the discipline itself–not in order to subvert it, but to entrench it more firmly in its area of competence.”2 Tellingly, in Kramer’s heavy-handed, ad hominem assaults on such critics and curators as Benjamin H. D. Buchloch and Donald Kuspit, the campaign for a “neutral zone” of artistic purity–wrapped as it is in the neo-Kantian mantle of disinterested aesthetic judgment–proved a reactionary ideological program: one that, in the name of intrinsic formalism, aimed to repress social representation tout court. Lodged against the postmodern recovery of interbellum populism, Kramer’s appeal to the seemingly “apolitical” zone of modernist experimentation–to an ideal canon of formal innovation–“turned back the clock” to the eve of the Cold War: rehearsing, in a reductive version, Clement Greenberg’s 1939 campaign for aesthetic autonomy as a counter to American kitsch culture and Soviet socialist realism.3

     

    The contempt with which Greenberg greeted popular culture and its mass audience reflected symptomatically his historical situation–which, in 1939, he anxiously viewed as imperiled by the triple threat of Nazism, Stalinism, and Americanism. The epochal shifts in technological reproduction, and collective systems of design, packaging, and distribution that now delivered art to the masses–that made every reader a virtual writer, every viewer a potential auteur, and every audiophile a nascent composer–threatened, in Greenberg’s reading, all semblance of hierarchy, distinction, and taste without which it was impossible to salvage canonicity. Moreover he regarded the democratization of cultural expression as a volatile formula for social unrest: “Everyman, from the Tammany alderman to the Austrian house-painter,” Greenberg warned, “finds that he is entitled to his opinion. . . . Here revolvers and torches begin to be mentioned in the same breath as culture. In the name of godliness or the blood’s health, in the name of simple ways and solid virtues, the statue-smashing commences.”4

     

    Not coincidentally, Walter Benjamin had theorized the same symptoms of mass participation in the shaping of cultural modernism. Unlike Greenberg, however, Benjamin articulated them to new aesthetic tendencies that–divorced from the cult of individual genius, the canon, disciplinary autonomy, aesthetic purity, and so on–nevertheless did not reduce cultural production to the vulgar display of monumental socialist realism, fascist agitprop, or kitsch consumerism.5 While Greenberg eschewed the spectacle of mass communication, Benjamin proposed a materialist intervention into consumer culture by reversing art’s traditional social function, which “instead of being based on ritual . . . begins to be based on another practice– politics” (WMP, 224). Against fascism’s “introduction of aesthetics into political life” (241)–its auraticization of politics, nationalism, and mass spectacle–he campaigned for a counter-strategy of “politicizing art” as critique. Revolutionary art must not only pursue progressive tendencies in form and content, Benjamin insisted, but should effect what Brecht theorized as a broader “functional transformation” (Umfunktionierung) of the institutional limits, sites, and modes of production that shape cultural practices in the expanded social field.6

     

    Benjamin’s intervention in the reception of the avant- gardes, while surpassing the cloistral elitism of Greenberg’s retreat from popular culture, nevertheless comes up against its own historical limits, particularly so in its allegiance to the classist and productivist ideologies of the 1930s. Benjamin’s proletcult credo–that “the author as producer discovers . . . his solidarity with the proletariat” (AP, 230)–is marked by the coupure severing the modern from postmodern epochs. The myth of an imminent proletarian revolution, that energized a range of utopian aesthetic projects throughout the interbellum decades, remains one of the definitive hallmarks of modernist culture. The unfolding of postwar history through the present has increasingly discredited the orthodox marxist faith in the working class as the front line in the collective appropriation of capital’s new industrial and technological forces of production. Instead, the instrumental rationality shaping the productive apparatus intensified the labor process at once to the benefit of management and the detriment of labor. The new wave of computerization, containerization, and robotics in the 1960s did not so much ease as intensify the labor process. Such high tech advances, for the most part, stepped up the proletarianization and deskilling of workers, displacing them from lucrative, unionized jobs in the steel, automobile, and transportation industries into non-unionized and often temporary service positions.7

     

    Throughout the 1950s, as Ernest Mandel and more recently Fredric Jameson have observed, the sudden reserve of technological innovation in electronics, communication, and systems analysis and management–conceived during the war years and then coupled with accumulated resources of surplus wealth–allowed capital to penetrate new markets through a constant turnover not only of new services and commodity forms but of hitherto undreamt of sources of fabricated consumer needs and desires. This transition from a pre- to postwar economy challenged capital at once to deterritorialize its modern limits in the industrial workplace and to reterritorialize the entire fabric of everyday life for consumption.8 One symptom of this paradigm shift was the fragmentation of the working class community that–dwelling in the political and phenomenological spaces of extended social solidarity (the union hall, the local factory tavern, fraternal clubs, and so on)–was radically decentered and dispersed along the new superhighways out into the netherworld of suburban America.

     

    In the post-Depression era, traditionally urban, ethnic, and working class neighborhoods–like those, say, of the ante-Fort Apache decades of the South Bronx–fell victim to the new generation of such metropolitan planners as Robert Moses.9 The tremendous drive to accommodate the ever more expansive and mobile traffic in consumer goods and services cut through the heart of the ‘hood, leaving behind, in Marshall Berman’s telling impressions of the Long Island Expressway, “monoliths of steel and cement, devoid of vision or nuance or play, sealed off from the surrounding city by great moats of stark empty space, stamped on the landscape with a ferocious contempt for all natural and human life.”10 Along these clotted arteries and by-passes, American workers were fleeing the decaying precincts of the modern city, seduced by the new suburban vision whose prototype mushroomed from a 1,500-acre Long Island potato farm bought-out by William J. Levitt in 1949. The first community to apply the logic of Fordism to home construction, Levittown overnight threw up some 17,500 virtually identical prefabricated four-room houses, followed by centrally designed plans for Levittown II an eight square mile suburb on the Delaware River.11

     

    Ever more cloistered and privatized within such serial neighborhoods of single family track houses, working class America succumbed little by little to the postmodern regime of the commodity form. No longer limited to accumulating surplus value from its modern settings of industrial production–the factory, textile mill, powerplant, construction site, or agribusiness combine–capital now seized on the frontier markets of consumption: the mall, the road strip, the nuclear household, the body, the unconscious–with ever new generations of consumer items, electrical appliances, gadgetry of all kinds, prepackaged foods, gas and restaurant franchises, accelerating rhythms of style, fashion, and popular trends in music, teen culture, and suburban living. Here, the cement and steel hardscapes of the older urban environment were supplanted by the high-end, chi-chi-frou-frou softscapes of such mushrooming “edge cities” as Schaumburg, Illinois; Atlanta’s Perimeter Center; California’s Silicon Valley and Orange County; and the Washington D.C. beltway.12

     

    As Henri Lefebvre, Guy Debord, and the Situationists had argued, the ideology of consumerism–now reproduced throughout the omnipresent spectacle of advertising, selling, and purchasing of new goods, services, products, and cultural styles–came to dominate the total makeup of everyday life, eroding the older working class values of industrious productivity, active creativity, and proletarian solidarity–replacing them with the ideals of consumption, possessive individualism, and upward class mobility. One symptom of this shift into the postmodern register of spectacular consumerism was what Lefebvre described as “the enormous amount of signifiers liberated or insufficiently connected to their corresponding signifieds (words, gestures, images and signs), and thus made available to advertising and propaganda.”13 Suddenly the world’s entire semiotic fabric, from the sprawling lay-out of the suburban town to a commercial’s most intimate proxemic code, was now readable (and thus susceptible to reinscription) in ways that articulated everyday life to the discourse of advertising, publicity, and spectacular display. Yet within what Lefebvre described as the “bureaucratic society of controlled consumption” it was capital that exploited the powers of textual representation to maintain a constant obsolescence of needs as such, paradoxically, within a fixed framework of institutional durability. The task was to balance the necessity for a fast-paced turnover of cultural forms and trends in the consumer market in contradiction with the class strategy of preserving permanence, stability, and hierarchy amidst rapid cultural change. It is this double strategy that, for Lefebvre, underwrites and constantly renegotiates consumer society’s spectacular promotion.

     

    Supplementing Lefebvre, Baudrillard has, of course, more radically deconstructed marxism’s traditional margin that separates commodity and sign, theorizing both as mutually traversed by a “homological structure” of exchange.14 In Baudrillard’s descriptive account of postmodern simulation, the McLuhanesque slogan that the “medium is the message” reaches an estranging, postmodern limit where the medium of telecommunication infiltrates, mimics, mutates, and finally exterminates the Real like a virus or genetic code, in what Baudrillard describes as a global, “satellization of the real.”15 Not insignificantly, with the death of the referent, the social contract and political institutions conceived out of the universalist ideals the Enlightenment are likewise thrown into jeopardy. Against the orthodoxy of the Old Left, the spectacle of postmodernism, for Baudrillard, positions mass society not so much as a valorized political agent but more as a passive medium or conductor for the cultural simulation of every representable social need, libidinal desire, political interest, or popular opinion.16

     

    Relentlessly polled, solicited, and instructed by the print, television, and video media–whose corporate advertising budgets dwarf those of public and private education–the masses, in Baudrillard’s descriptive account, are absorbed into a wholly commodified habitus. The revenge of mass society, however, is expressed, for Baudrillard, as the sheer inertia of its silent majority: its tendency to consume in excess any message, code, or sign that is broadcast its way. No longer the figure for the proletarian class, a people, a citizenry, or any stable political constituency, the masses now mark the abysmal site of the radical equivalence of all value–a density that simply implodes, in one of Baudrillard’s astrophysical metaphors, like a collapsing star, drawing into itself “all radiation from the outlying constellations of State, History, Culture, Meaning.”17 When simulation has overrun the political sphere, tactics of stepping up the exchange and consumption of goods, services, information flows, and new technologies–the whole hyperreal economy of postmodern potlatch–serve to debunk any vestiges of use value, rationality, or authenticity legitimating affirmative bourgeois culture.

     

    More politically engaged, perhaps, than this rather pessimistic take on postmodern simulation is the kind of specific tactics of aesthetic resistance, critique, and intervention that, given his totalizing account, Baudrillard is driven to reject as hopelessly utopian. Beyond the scant attention that Baudrillard has devoted to subcultural resistance, theorists such as Michel de Certeau, Stuart Hall, Rosalind Brunt, Dick Hebdige, and the New Times collective have offered more nuanced studies of micropolitical praxes of subversion.18 Such theoretical approaches to a postmodern politics of consumption have considered the multiple ways in which particular groups and individuals not merely consume but rearticulate to their own political agendas dominant signs taken, say, from the discourses of advertising, fashion, television, contemporary music, and pop culture in general.

     

    Beyond content analyses, explications, or close readings of various textual praxes, a more productive approach to the micropolitics of postmodern resistance examines what audiences, viewers, readers, and shoppers produce with the texts, artifacts, and commodity forms they consume.19 What looks like a spectacle of passive consumerism actually yields a multiplicity of “tactics,” options, and occasions for actively negotiating what Michel Foucault would describe as a “microphysics of power.” Advancing Foucault’s theory of disciplinary and institutional surveillance, de Certeau draws a cogent distinction between the established hegemonic regimes (or strategies) of power and the marginal and subaltern tactics of oppositional contestation and subversion that traverse them.20 The reproduction of consumerism, of course, relies on certain well-established strategies of representation that map the social field into a coded space of commodity exchange. The discourse of advertising, in particular–with its notorious manipulation of image and text–stands out as a ripe medium for the tactical subversion of dominant slogans and stereotypes.

     

    Throughout the 1970s and 1980s one specific site for exposing and interrupting the popular media’s reproduction of consumer society has been its sexist inscription of gender. Responding to the spectacle of postmodernism, critical artists like Barbara Kruger, Jenny Holzer, and Hans Haacke have adopted tactics of quotation, citation, and appropriation that were pioneered some five decades earlier in Benjamin’s examination of international Dada and the Russian futurists in such essays as “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” and “The Artist as Producer.”21 The challenge that Benjamin laid down was for every author to become a producer, every artist a theorist, in the general remapping of generic boundaries, aesthetic traditions, and cultural conventions that the age demanded. Not incidentally, in photography this political requisite entailed a subversion of “the barrier between writing and image. What we require of the photographer,” Benjamin insisted, “is the ability to give his picture the caption that wrenches it from modish commerce and gives it a revolutionary useful value” (AP 230). In thus linking photographic activity to language and signification, Benjamin’s critique of photographic mimesis looks forward to Roland Barthes’ postwar argument that “the conventions of photography . . . are themselves replete with signs.”22 In the age of mass communication, as Barthes would go on to argue in the 1960s, every pictorial form is always already a linguistic text.23

     

    Barthes’ sophisticated, textual analysis of the photographic image, tied as it is to Benjamin’s avant-garde concern for art’s functional transformation of its enabling cultural apparatus, provides a theoretical vantage point for reading contemporary feminist interventions in the contemporary media, such as those, say, of Barbara Kruger. A one-time designer for Conde Nast during the 1970s, Kruger was thoroughly disciplined in the craft of commercial media design, whose graphic techniques, discursive codes, and semiotic protocols she appropriated in the 1980s for tactical reinscriptions of sexist, racist, and classist representations in the popular media. While her plates and posters have the look and feel of slick ads, the politics they inscribe cut across the grain of consumerist ideology. Indeed, her images often allude to the general violence, oppression, and humiliation entailed in the cultural logic of unequal exchange fostered under advanced capitalism. But equally important, her collages are frequently articulated to various micropolitical agendas as in her participation in exhibitions like the Disarming Images: Art for Nuclear Disarmament (1984-86) show sponsored by Bread and Roses, the cultural organ of the National Union of Hospital and Health Care Employees, AFL-CIO. She also collaborates in any number of direct political actions, such as, say, her poster “Your Body is a Battleground” advertising the 1989 March on Washington in support of Roe v. Wade.

     

    Shaping such street level praxes, Kruger’s formal tactic is to open up the precoded space of the advertising sign–what de Certeau would call its strategy–to unreadable gaps, contradictions, accusations, and dire judgments that interrupt our conventional responses and habits of consumption. The dominant coding of gender in the mass media–its repertoire of body language, facial expressions, styles of dress, and so on–positions the sexes differentially to reproduce a semiotics of patriarchal privilege, expertise, and authority, on the one hand, and feminine passivity, sexual ingratiation, and infantilization, on the other. Such commercial photographs, as Erving Goffman’s seminal study Gender Advertisements (1979) has argued, broadcast a posed “hyper-ritualization” of social situations, whose images are, more often than not, calculated to oppress women in subordinate roles to equally idealized male counterparts.24 Much of Kruger’s photographic appropriation of ad imagery and media slogans undermines and repudiates the sexist, semiotic economy of capitalist patriarchy. For example, the deployment of personal pronouns, typically used to solicit the reader’s investment in ad texts, serves in Kruger’s hands to heighten sexual antagonisms, as in “We won’t play nature to your culture.” Here Kruger repudiates the dead letter of patriarchal stereotyping that, as Simone de Beauvoir theorized, reduces women’s place to that of passive “Other”: projected outside male civil order as nature, the unconscious, the exotic, what is either forbidden or taboo.25

     

    Appropriating the glossy look of postmodern advertising–whose specular, imaginary form solicits from the viewer a certain narcissism, a certain scopophilia– Kruger rebuffs the valorized male reader, anathematizing this subject position with uncompromising, feminist refusals and such arresting judgments as:

     

    You thrive on mistaken identity.
    Your devotion has the look of a lunatic sport.
    You molest from afar.
    You destroy what you think is difference.
    I am your reservoir of poses.
    I am your immaculate conception.
    I will not become what I mean to you.
    We won't play nature to your culture.
    We refuse to be your favorite embarrassments.
    Keep us at a distance.

     

    While advertising exploits such “shifters” to ease consumption, Kruger’s slogans maintain an urgent tension that throws into crisis any “normal” positioning of gendered pronouns. Her uncanny fusion of text and image, her impeccable craft, and her estranging wit resist any easy or complacent didacticism, however.

     

    More politically undecidable, perhaps, than Kruger’s feminist subversions of advertising discourse are Jenny Holzer’s critical interventions within the electronic apparatus of the postmodern spectacle, particularly her appropriation of light emitting diode (L.E.D.) boards. As an art student at the Rhode Island School of Design in the mid-1970s, Holzer came to New York via the Whitney Museum’s Independent Study Program in 1976-77. After collaborating with a number of performance artists at the Whitney, she jettisoned her pursuit of painterly values and in 1977 began to compose gnomic aphorisms that she collected in a series of “Truisms” formatted onto posters, stickers, handbills, hats, T-shirts, and other paraphernalia. Not unlike Daniel Buren’s deconstruction of the gallery’s conventional exhibition space, Holzer took her placards to the streets of Soho and later throughout Manhattan. This aesthetic gambit not only allowed her to solicit a populist audience but gave her work a certain shock value in its estrangement of everyday life. “From the beginning,” she has said, “my work has been designed to be stumbled across when someone is just walking along, not thinking about anything in particular, and then finds these unusual statements either on a poster or on a sign.”26

     

    The verbal character of the “Truisms” themselves relies on the familiar slogans and one-liners common to tabloid journalism, the Reader’s Digest headline, the TV evangelist pitch-line, campaign rhetoric, rap and hip-hop lyrics, bumper sticker and T-shirt displays, and countless other kitsch forms. In some ways the plainspoken vernacular of her midwest Ohio roots is, as Holzer admits, naturally suited to such cliched formats. What might redeem this risky project, possibly, is her avant-garde tactic of investing such predictable messages, and their all-too-familiar modes of mass distribution (posters, stickers, handbills, plaques, hats, T-shirts, and so on) with conflicted, schizophrenic, and at times politicized content. Her messages traverse the full spectrum of everyday life ranging from the reactionary complacency implied, say, in “AN ELITE IS INEVITABLE,” or “ENJOY YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU CAN’T CHANGE ANYTHING ANYWAY,” to the feminist essentialism of “A MAN CAN’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A MOTHER,” to the populist credo that “GRASS ROOTS AGITATION IS THE ONLY HOPE,” to the postmarxist position that “CLASS STRUCTURE IS AS ARTIFICIAL AS PLASTIC.” Foregrounding popular truisms as cliched slogans, she playfully deconstructs the humanist rhetoric of evangelism (“AWFUL PUNISHMENT AWAITS REALLY BAD PEOPLE”); pop psychoanalysis (“SOMETIMES YOUR UNCONSCIOUS IS TRUER THAN YOUR CONSCIOUS MIND”); advice columns and self-help manuals (“EXPRESSING ANGER IS NECESSARY”); as well as the usual saws, platitudes, and hackneyed bromides that are with us everywhere:

     

    A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE CAN GO A LONG WAY.
    A LOT OF OFFICIALS ARE CRACKPOTS.
    DON'T RUN PEOPLE'S LIVES FOR THEM.
    GOOD DEEDS EVENTUALLY ARE REWARDED.
    EVERY ACHIEVEMENT REQUIRES A SACRIFICE.
    A SOLID HOME BASE BUILDS A SENSE OF SELF.

     

    While the political intent of some of her truisms is undecidably voiced–“GOVERNMENT IS A BURDEN ON THE PEOPLE,” for example, is as serviceable to the reactionary right as the utopian left–others are more perversely drained of any meaning at all: “EVERYTHING THAT’S INTERESTING IS NEW.”

     

    Nonsensical, parodic, and ideologically loaded, such clashing platitudes, mottos, and non-sequiturs quickly caught on and won Holzer a popular audience, as evidenced not only in the traces of dialogic graffito left on her street posters, but in her window installations and exhibitions at Franklin Furnace (1978) and Fashion Moda in the South Bronx the following year. At this time Holzer undertook joint ventures such as the “Manifesto Show” that she helped organize with Colen Fitzgibbon and the Collaborative Projects group. Later, she would turn toward distinctively feminist collaborations with the female graffiti artists Lady Pink and Ilona Granet. Supplementing the poster art of “Truisms,” Holzer in her 1980 “Living” series branched out into other materials, inscribing her aphorisms in more monumental formats such as the kind of bronze plaques, commemorative markers, and commercial signs that everywhere bestow a kind of kitsch authority on offices, banks, government buildings, galleries, museums, and so on.

     

    One symptom of her work’s emerging power was the resistance it met from patrons such as the Marine Midland Bank on Broadway that responding to one of her truisms– “IT’S NOT GOOD TO LIVE ON CREDIT”–dismantled her window installation, consigning it to a broomcloset. Not unlike Hans Haacke’s celebrated expulsion from the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, such censorship testified to her work’s site-specific shock value. In the mid-1980s, Holzer intensified her art’s political content in her more militant “Survival” series and, at the same time, undertook a bolder appropriation of a uniquely authoritative and spectacular medium: the light emitting diode (L.E.D.) boards installed worldwide in stock exchanges, urban squares, airports, stadiums, sports arenas, and other mass locales. The formal elements of this new high tech medium–its expanded memory of over 15,000 characters coupled with a built-in capacity for special visual effects and dynamic motion–advanced Holzer’s poster aesthetics into the linguistic registers of poetics and textual performance art.

     

    However Holzer’s work “naturalizes” the impersonal displays of her computerized texts, it shares in the Derridean, antihumanist deconstruction of the rhetorical presuppositions underwriting transcendental signified meaning, foundational thought, common sense–all ideal “truisms.” The L.E.D. board’s electronic mimicry of rhythm, inflection, and the play of visual emphasis allows Holzer’s mass art to solicit the humanist division between orality and inscription, logos and text, speech and writing so as to put into an uncanny, deconstructive play the margin of differance that normally separates the intimacy and immediacy of a voiced presence from the authoritative textual screens which function as the official media for postmodernism’s high tech information society.27 “A great feature of the signs,” she has said, “is their capacity to move, which I love because it’s so much like the spoken word: you can emphasize things; you can roll and pause which is the kinetic equivalent to inflection in voice” (LG 67).

     

    Yet as “an official or commercial format normally used for advertising or public service announcements” the L.E.D. signboard, Holzer maintains, is also the medium par excellence of contemporary information society.28 They are singularly positioned to reproduce the dominant, ideological signs that naturalize the reign of the commodity form. “The big signs,” she has said, “made things seem official”; appropriating this public medium “was like having the voice of authority say something different from what it would normally say.”29 Such interventions are pragmatically suasive, however, only if they hold in contradiction the dominant forms of the mass media and estranged, or radically ironic messages. In 1982, under the auspices of the Public Art Fund, Holzer went to the heart of America’s mass spectacle, choosing selections from among her most succinct and powerful “Truisms” for public broadcast on New York’s mammoth Times Square Spectacolor Board. Commenting on the scandal-ridden political milieu of the Reagan era, slogans such as ABUSE OF POWER COMES AS NO SURPRISE were circulating suddenly at the very crossroads of American consumer society. Negotiating the official spaces of New York advertising demanded a reconsideration of the artwork beyond the limits of intrinsic form.

     

    The formal composition of Holzer’s spectacolor boards is mediated by site specific forces in an expanded public field of legal, commercial, and political interests. For example, in mounting her own media blitz on Las Vegas–the American mecca of glitzy signage and neon kitsch–Holzer’s choice of message, L.E.D. formats, and installation locales had to be adjudicated through a network of businesspeople, university managers, and political officials. Through these negotiations, and supported in part by the Nevada Institute of Contemporary Art, Holzer gained access to L.E.D. signs and poster installation sites in two shopping centers, the University of Nevada’s sports center, the baggage claim areas of the Las Vegas airport, and the massive spectacolor publicity board outside Caesar’s Palace. Infiltrating Vegas’ neon aura, Holzer’s telling message, displayed on the Dectronic Starburst double-sided electronic signboard of Caesar’s Palace–

     

    PROTECT ME
    FROM WHAT
    I WANT

     

    –laid bare the contradictory wager of consumerism at the heart of the postmodern spectacle.

     

    Throughout the 1980s, Holzer mounted similar installations on Alcoa Corporation’s giant L.E.D. sign outside Pittsburgh, on mobile truck signs in New York, and other sites nationwide. Moreover, as an intern for a television station in Hartford, Holzer began to purchase commercial time to broadcast her messages in 30-second commercial slots throughout the Northeast to a potential audience of millions. Here Holzer’s textual praxis is guided by the same strategy of defamiliarization: mainlining the dominant arteries and electronic organs of the mass communications apparatus with postmodern ironies and heady, linguistic estrangements. “Again, the draw for me,” she says, “is that the unsuspecting audience will see very different content from what they’re used to seeing in this everyday medium. It’s the same principle that’s at work with the signs in a public place” (LG 68). Whether Holzer’s art remains oppositional to, rather than incorporated by, the postmodern spectacle has become a more pressing question, given her rising star status in the late 1980s and 1990s.

     

    As a valorized figure in the world art market, Holzer enjoys regular gallery exhibitions in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Paris, Cologne, and other major art centers. In 1990 alone she not only undertook shows in the prestigious Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum and DIA Art Foundation, but served as the official U.S. representative to the Venice Biennale. When she made the jump from street agitation to international stardom in the late 1980s, Holzer adjusted her presentation, paradoxically, to the more intimate and privatized nuances of commercial exhibition space. Installed in such settings as the Barbara Gladstone Gallery, the Grand Lobby of the Brooklyn Museum, the Rhona Hoffman Gallery, the Guggenheim, and the DIA Art Foundation, her new “Under a Rock” and “Laments” series inscribed her earlier truisms in granite and marble benches and sarcophagi quarried in Vermont near her summer residence in Hoosick, New York. Casting her truisms in stonework summoned an uncanny fusion of the monumental and the popular, at once glossing the medium of tombstones, anonymous war memorials, commemorative benches, and the kind of kitsch, public furniture found, say, in any bank lobby or shopping plaza.

     

    Departing from the spectacular spaces of Times Square and the Las Vegas strip, “Under a Rock” invoked the hushed atmosphere of a chapel by displaying files of stone benches, each illuminated by an overhead spotlight and arranged before a color L.E.D. display. Such a sparse and shadowy layout–in its simulacral citation of church pews and stained glass iconography–employed a postmodern medium, paradoxically, to invoke a ritual aura of mourning, confession, and moral self-examination that would complement the work’s verbal content of unspeakable acts of torture, mutilation, and humiliation. While her terse, indeterminate narratives are not tied to any specific public agenda, they often adopt a feminist critique of male violence, misogyny, and machismo. Although many of her “laments” are lyrical– “I KEEP MY BRAIN ON SO I DO NOT FALL INTO NOTHING IF HIS CLAWS HURT ME”–others more broadly rely on the kind of fetishized coding of militarism, torture, and political assassination that, say, Leon Golub finds everywhere displayed in the contemporary media: “PEOPLE GO TO THE RIVER WHERE IT IS / LUSH AND MUDDY TO SHOOT CAPTIVES, / TO FLOAT OR SINK THEM. SHOTS KILL / MEN WHO ALWAYS WANT. SOMEONE / IMAGINED OR SAW THEM LEAPING TO / SAVAGE THE GOVERNMENT. NOW BODIES / DIVE AND GLIDE IN THE WATER. SCARING / FRIENDS OR MAKING THEM FURIOUS.” The spare and plainspoken language of “Under a Rock” is designed neither to shock the reader nor to subvert the linguistic medium, as in much of so-called Language writing. Rather, her work exposes how the representation of such barbarism has moved to the center of the postmodern scene, whose routine horror is the daily stuff of the tabloid, the morning edition, and nightly update.

     

    More subversive, perhaps, is the juxtaposition of linguistic elements and the arrangement of physical space that her installations exploit. In her DIA Foundation “Laments,” for example, Holzer staked out the exhibition space with thirteen sarcophagi–variously carved in green and red marble, onyx, and black granite–illuminated with postmodern LED display boards that radiate vertically arrayed messages into the hushed and sepulchral air. Yet the effect of such a bizarre mix of antique caskets and high tech light grids is undecidable. Is it calculated to disrupt conventional oppositions between ancient artifacts and today’s telecommunication medium, or to re-auraticize the L.E.D. medium as an object of contemporary veneration? Are the sarcophagi exposed as exhibition fetishes or simply updated in an aestheticized homage to the postmodern objet d’art? Undeniable, in any case, is the manic structure of feeling you experience sitting on one of Holzer’s granite benches bombarded by an electronic frieze of visually intense messages.

     

    However deconstructive of traditional gallery values, the political status of Holzer’s recent installations– marked at once as objects of ritual “lament” and art market souvenirs–is debatable. On the one hand, new works such as Child Text–conceived for her 1990 Venice Biennial installation–productively negotiate between a personal phenomenology of mothering (as in “I AM SULLEN AND THEN FRANTIC WHEN I CANNOT BE WHOLLY WITHIN / THE ZONE OF MY INFANT. I AM NOT CONSUMED BY HER. I AM AN / ANIMAL WHO DOES ALL SHE SHOULD. I AM SURPRISED THAT I / CARE WHAT HAPPENS TO HER. I WAS PAST FEELING MUCH / BECAUSE I WAS TIRED OF MYSELF BUT I WANT HER TO LIVE”) and a social critique of what Adrienne Rich has theorized as motherhood’s institutional place under patriarchy. On the other hand, however, such displays are themselves commodity forms within the gallery exchange market, fetching up to $40,000 per L.E.D. sign, $30,000 per granite bench, and $50,000 per sarcophagus. It is not Holzer’s purpose, of course, to deny or repress her work’s commodity status but rather to exploit it in de-auraticizing gallery art’s remove from its commercial base. Holzer’s truisms have always been up for sale but at the more populist rates of $15 per cap or T-shirt and $250 per set of 21 posters. When she markets a granite slab, however, for the price of a luxury car, her earlier truism– PRIVATE PROPERTY CREATED CRIME–must necessarily return with a vengeance. Indeed, Holzer does not flinch from such self- recrimination but pushes the difficult paradox of aesthetic critique and recuperation to its vexed limits: “selling my work to wealthy people,” she admits, “can be like giving little thrills to the people I’m sometimes criticizing.”30 For all its honesty, such a frank acknowledgement of commodification, nonetheless, is a chilling echo of her onetime truism “AN ELITE IS INEVITABLE,” leaving Holzer susceptible to the critique of what Donald Kuspit has indicted as “Gallery Leftism”: an aesthetic politics “calculated to make a certain impact, occupy a certain position, in the art world, whose unconscious ultimate desire is to produce museum art however much it consciously sees itself as having socio-political effect in the world.”31

     

    Part of what is at stake here is the difference between merely rehearsing the avant-garde critique of the museum– now itself a thoroughly stylized and recuperated gesture of protest–and committing art to social change. To her credit, Holzer’s key precedent has unhinged the fixed status of today’s communication apparatus, leaving it susceptible to more adventurous, more politicized interventions. Nevertheless, the overtly commercialized status of Holzer’s “truisms” lends itself to gallery recuperation in a way that the more politicized and collaborative projects of, say, Artmakers, or Political Art Distribution/Documentation (PADD) is calculated to deny. Since the mid-’80s, the graphic resources pioneered by such visual/text artists as Hans Haacke, Holzer, and Kruger have been appropriated from the New York art market and articulated, at street level, as in, say, Greenpeace’s critique of advanced capitalism’s environmental settlement, or Act Up’s agitation on behalf of people with AIDS.

     

    Responding to the Reagan/Bush era’s attempts to “greenwash” devastating environmental policies through slick public relations campaigns, Greenpeace has had to respond precisely at the level of the media image to rearticulate such ideologically-loaded spectacles to its own progressive agenda. “Greenpeace believes,” says Steve Loper, the Action Director for Greenpeace, U.S.A, “that an image is an all-important thing. The direct actions call attention to the issues we’re involved in. We put a different point of view out that usually ends up on the front page of the paper . . . If we just did research and lobbying and came out with a report it would probably be on the 50th page of the paper.”32

     

    The creation of compelling images, however, is a rigorously site specific process and–although articulated to politicized positions on, say, nuclear arms escalation, deforestation, or toxic dumping–each intervention is radically contingent on the particular, conjunctural forces and pragmatic demands of a given moment. One of Greenpeace’s tactics is to seize on popular news stories such as the scandalous New York City garbage barge that, in the absence of a dump site, sailed up and down the eastern seaboard throughout 1987. Appropriating this object of sustained public embarrassment, Greenpeace rearticulated it to the theme of conservation through unfurling a giant banner across the length of the vessel reading: “NEXT TIME . . . TRY RECYCLING.” Greenpeace’s better known gambit is to go to the heart of America’s monumental icons of national heritage such as, say, South Dakota’s Mount Rushmore or New York’s Statue of Liberty to recode their spectacular meanings to its own agenda. Such was Greenpeace’s strategy in its 1987 attempt to place a giant surgical mask over the mouth of Rushmore’s George Washington reading “WE THE PEOPLE SAY NO TO ACID RAIN” and its 1984 antinuclear banner, hung like a giant stripped-in caption on the Statue of Liberty in commemoration of the US atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki: “Give Me Liberty From Nuclear Weapons, Stop Testing.”

     

    On the vanguard of such postmodern agitational work, guerilla collectives like Gran Fury, Little Elvis, and Wave Three of ACT UP have mastered the fine art of interventionist critique. In 1989, for example, Gran Fury borrowed from the appropriation of advertising discourse, popularized by Hans Haacke in the 1970s, to refocus public attention on corporate profiteering from the AIDS crisis. The collective’s formal tactic followed Haacke’s uncanny fusions of slick advertising visuals set in contradiction with texts exposing the often brutal work settings and ruthless industrial practices such imagery normally deflects. But unlike Haacke’s point of subversion, positioned as it is within museum culture, Gran Fury’s mode of distribution targeted a potentially much wider audience: the readership of The New York Times. In “New York Crimes,” Gran Fury produced a meticulous four-page simulacrum of the print layout and masthead design of the Times which documented the Koch administration’s cuts to hospital facilities servicing AIDS, its failure to address the housing needs of New York’s homeless People with AIDS (PWAs), its cutbacks to city drug treatment programs by effectively shifting them to shrinking state budgets, and the latter’s withholding of condoms and medical support to the 25% of state prison inmates tested positive for HIV infection. On the morning of ACT UP’s March 28, 1989 mass demonstration on City Hall, Gran Fury opened New York Times vending boxes and wrapped the paper in their own “NY Crimes” jacket. For those who would simply ignore the stories, Gran Fury also included a slick clash of text and image that articulated the visual iconography of painstaking antiviral research to outrageous corporate greed summed up in an unguarded quote from Patrick Gage of Hoffman-La Roche, Inc.. “One million [people with AIDS],” Gage mused, “isn’t a market that’s exciting. Sure it’s growing, but it’s not asthma.” Such callous disregard for life is played off Gran Fury’s polemical caption that plainly lays out its discursive counter-strategy: “This is to Enrage You.”

     

    Perhaps the image that has best stood the test of time, however, is Gran Fury’s Read My Lips lithograph produced for a Spring 1988 AIDS Action Kiss-in to protest against gay bashing. Read My Lips employs a camp image of two forties-style sailors in a loving embrace, thereby articulating the identity politics of gender to a bold, homoerotic sexuality. But beyond this obvious agenda, the work’s clever textual layout cites Barbara Kruger’s interventionist aesthetic to signify on George Bush’s 1988 campaign vow to slash tax supports for domestic social programs. Such sophisticated metasimulations of the advertising sign’s formal inmixing of image and text recode today’s largely homophobic world outlook to make us think twice about what Adrienne Rich has defined as compulsory heterosexuality.33 As we pass beyond the twentieth- century scene into the new millennium, it will surely be in the collaborative aesthetic praxes of such new social movements–articulated as they are to class, environmental, racial, feminist, gay rights, and public health issues–that America’s avant-garde legacy of cultural intervention will live on: its political edge cutting through the semiosis of everyday life, going to the heart of the postmodern spectacle.

     

    Notes

     

    1. Hilton Kramer, “Turning Back the Clock,” The New Criterion (April 1984), 72.

     

    2. Clement Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” The New Art, ed. Gregory Battock (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1973), 101 (hereafter cited in the text as MP).

     

    3. While Greenberg is often set up as the strawman for contesting art’s ontological remove from history, his actual idealization of high modernism rests (as does Adorno’s) not on an ontic difference but a relational reaction to the spreading reign of kitsch. On this point see Rosalind Krauss, The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1985), 1; Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 57; Thomas Crow, “Modernism and Mass Culture,” in Benjamin H.D. Buchloch, Serge Guilbaut and David Solkin, eds. Modernism and Modernity (Halifax: Press of Nova Scotia College of Art and Design, 1983), 215-264; and T.J. Clark, “Clement Greenberg’s Theory of Art,” The Politics of Interpretation, ed. W.J.T. Mitchell (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983), 203-220.

     

    4. Clement Greenberg, “Avant-Garde and Kitsch,” Partisan Review 6 (Fall 1939), 34-49, rpt. in Mass Culture, ed. Bernard Rosenberg and David Manning White (Chicago: The Free Press, 1957), 107 (hereafter cited in the text as AK).

     

    5. The traffic in contemporary spectacle, for Benjamin, did not yet constitute a one-way flow, noting that “the newsreel offers everyone the opportunity to rise from passer-by to movie extra. In this way any man might even find himself part of a work of art.” Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Illuminations, tr. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 1985), 231 (hereafter cited in the text as WMP).

     

    6. In this vein, Benjamin cited Dadaism’s experiments with the new techniques of mechanical reproduction which not only led to their playful reframings of “masterpiece” art and other cultural icons, but also the appropriation of objects collaged from everyday life. While such tactics achieved only localized, provisional effects in the West, the Russian avant-gardes mounted a broader strategy of sociocultural renovation in the early years of the Soviet Union. The example of the worker-correspondent drawn from Soviet journalism served, for Benjamin, to deconstruct the oppositional roles that–propped up as they are by the bourgeois cult of specialization–separates writer and reader, expert and layman, poet and critic, scholar and performer. Unlike the capitalist press, which reproduces dominant bourgeois class interests, newspaper publication in Russia, Benjamin argued, offered a “theater of literary confusion” that nevertheless broadcast the political concerns of the writer as producer, and more widely, “the man on the sidelines who believes he has a right to see his own interests expressed.” Walter Benjamin, “The Artist as Producer,” Reflections, tr. Edmund Jephcott (New York: Schocken Books, 1986), 300 (hereafter cited in the text as AP).

     

    7. Consider the dehumanizing regime, say, of a McDonald’s kitchen. In this postmodern sweatshop, employees are trained by video disks to perform the tedious, predesigned regimens for twenty-odd work stations that when meshed together make each franchise a highly efficient fastfood production machine. Each of the twenty-four burgers one cooks in any given batch is part of a completely Taylorized process: from the premeasured beef patties to the computerized timers for heating each bun, to the automatic catsup, mustard, and special sauce dispensers, to the formulas for the exact measurements of onion bits, pickles, and lettuce each Big Mac receives. Far from possessing even the autonomy of a short order cook, one serves here purely as a cog in a ninety second burger assembly-line. Moreover, from the monitored soft-drink spigots to the fully automated registers, from the computerized formulas for hiring, scheduling, and organizing workers to the centrally administered accounting systems, every aspect of a McDonald’s franchise is organized and scrutinized in minute detail by the panoptic Hamburger Central in Oak Brook, Illinois. A thoroughly postmodern institution, McDonald’s presides at any given time over a temporary workforce of some 500,000 teenagers; by the mid-1980s 7% or nearly 8 million Americans had earned their living under the sign of the Golden Arches. See John F. Love, McDonald’s Behind the Golden Arches (New York: Bantam, 1986) and Barbara Garson, The Electronic Sweatshop (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1988), 19.

     

    8. For a discussion of de- and reterritorialization, see Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, tr. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1988).

     

    9. As New York State and City Parks Commissioner, Moses, of course, had commandeered the productivist ethos of the interbellum decades to forge a huge “public authority” bureaucracy of federal, state, and private interests that backed the renovation of Central Park, Long Island’s Jones Beach, Flushing Meadow fairgrounds–the site of the 1939-40 New York World’s Fair–and 1700 recreational facilities, as well as the construction of such mammoth highway, bridge, and parkway systems as the West Side Highway, the Belt Parkway, and the Triborough Project. While labor was recruited to build these giant thoroughfares and spectacular, recreational spaces, it could not control the irresistible momentum of social modernization that burst through the seams of the older metropolitan cityscape.

     

    10. Marshall Berman, All That is Solid Melts in Air: The Experience of Modernity (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1982), 308.

     

    11. Levittown II, in William Manchester’s description, comprised “schools, churches, baseball diamonds, a town hall, factory sidings, parking lots, offices for doctors and dentists, a reservoir, a shopping center, a railroad station, newspaper presses, garden clubs–enough, in short, to support a densely populated city of 70,000, the tenth largest in Pennsylvania.” William Manchester, The Glory and the Dream, A Narrative History of America, 1932-1972 (New York: Bantam Books, 1980), 432.

     

    12. “Edge cities,” writes Joel Garreau, “represent the third wave of our lives pushing into new frontiers in this half century. First we moved our homes out past the traditional idea of what constituted a city. This was the suburbanization of America, especially after World War II. Then we wearied of returning downtown for the necessities of life, so we moved our marketplaces out to where we lived. This was the malling of America, especially in the 1960s and 1970s. Today, we have moved our means of creating wealth, the essence of urbanism–our jobs–out to where most of us have lived and shopped for two generations. That has led to the rise of Edge City.” Edge City: Life on the New Frontier (New York: Doubleday, 1991), 4.

     

    13. Henri Lefebvre, Everyday Life in the Modern World, tr. Sacha Rabinovitch (New York: Harper and Row, 1971), 56 (hereafter cited in the text as EL).

     

    14. “[T]oday consumption . . . defines precisely the stage where the commodity is immediately produced as a sign, as sign value, and where signs (culture) are produced as commodities.” Jean Baudrillard, For a Critique of the Political Economy of the Sign, tr. Charles Levin (St. Louis: Telos Press, 1981), 147 (hereafter cited in the text as PES).

     

    15. “We must think of the media,” he advises, “as if they were, in outer orbit, a sort of genetic code which controls the mutation of the real into the hyperreal, just as the other molecular code controls the passage of the signal from a representative sphere of meaning to the genetic sphere of the programmed signal.” Jean Baudrillard, Simulations, tr. Paul Foss, Paul Patton, and Philip Beitchman (New York: Semiotext(e), 1983), 55 (hereafter cited in the text as S). Within the horizon of the hyperreal, the instant precession of every conceivable interpretive model and representation around and within any historical “fact” constitutes an indeterminate, virtually “magnetic field of events” (S 32), where the difference between the signified event and its simulacrum implodes now in a global circulation/ventilation of contradictory signals, mutating codes, and mixed messages.

     

    16. The presumption to speak now on behalf of the proletariat in some wholly unmediated fashion seems theoretically naive after the pressing debates of postmodernity. During the 1985 Institute of Contemporary Arts forum on postmodernism, for example, Jean-Francois Lyotard argued cogently against Terry Eagleton’s orthodox nostalgia for the proletariat as the privileged agent for social change in the Third World. Following Kant, Lyotard pointed out that in contradistinction to designating specific laborers in culturally diversified communities, the term proletariat, nominating as it does a more properly universal “subject to be emancipated,” is an ahistorical abstraction–a “pure Idea of Reason” having little purchase today on the actual politics of everyday life. Indeed, some of the greatest atrocities, he cautioned, have been perpetuated under this very category error of pursuing a “politics of the sublime”: “That is to say, to make the terrible mistake of trying to represent in political practice an Idea of Reason. To be able to say, ‘We are the proletariat’ or ‘We are the incarnation of free humanity.’” Jean-Francois Lyotard, “Defining the Postmodern, etc.,” tr. G. Bennington, in Postmodernism (London: ICA Documents 4 & 5, 1986), 11 (hereafter cited as ICA).

     

    17. Jean Baudrillard, In the Shadow of the Silent Majorities, tr. Paul Foss, Paul Patton, and Philip Beitchman (New York: Semiotext(e), 1983), 2 (hereafter cited in the text as SSM).

     

    18. See New Times: The Changing Face of Politics in the 1990s, ed. Stuart Hall and Martin Jacques (London: Lawrence & Wishart in association with Marxism Today, 1989).

     

    19. “Thus, once the images broadcast by television and the time spent in front of the TV set have been analyzed,” writes de Certeau, “it remains to be asked what the consumer makes of these images and during these hours.” Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, tr. Steven Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 31 (hereafter cited in the text as PEL).

     

    20. Strategies, as de Certeau defines them, mark “a triumph of place over time” (PEL 36)–through transforming the unreadable contingencies of history into a legible, panoptic space. Tactics, in contrast, cut across, raid, and out-maneuver the logic, rules, and laws that govern such institutional and disciplinary sites of power. As the gambit of a weak force, a tactic relies on cunning, trickery, wit, finesse–what the Greeks described under the rubric of metis, or “ways of knowing” (PEL xix).

     

    21. In particular, feminist critiques of the chauvinist media representations perpetuated under capitalist patriarchy have benefitted from Benjamin’s earlier class-based analysis of aesthetic tactics that in the interbellum decades effected a functional transformation –a Brechtian Umfunktionierung–of the then emerging apparatus of the bourgeois culture industry. It was the influence of Sergei Tretyakov and the postsynthetic cubist collaborations of the Russian suprematists, constructivists, and Laboratory Period figures that guided Benjamin’s thinking on the avant-garde turn (brought about by photography, film, and other mechanically reproducible media) away from the modernist paradigm of aesthetic representation–its cult of artistic genius and the aura of the unique work of art. By taking into account an artwork’s material conditions of exhibition, distribution, and audience reception, as part of its productive apparatus, the Russian constructivists decisively challenged the abstract and self-reflexive values of modern formalism in favor of the more critical representations of documentary photomontage and photocollage. The new cultural logic of mechanical reproduction, occasioned by photography and film, not only unsettled the traditional divide between high and low aesthetics but deconstructed conventional oppositions separating art from advertising, agitation, and propaganda. No longer invested with the aura of a ritual object, the artwork as such was opened to the vital dialectic between intrinsic form and the politics of mass persuasion.

     

    22. Roland Barthes, Mythologies, tr. Annette Lavers (London: Jonathan Cape, 1972), 92 (hereafter cited in the text as M). Photographic codes and the cultural messages they broadcast, serve, in their signifying elements and discursive objects, what Barthes theorized as the secondary, metalinguistic operations of myth and ideological representation.

     

    23. “Today, at the level of mass communications, it appears that the linguistic message is indeed present in every image: as title, caption, accompanying press article, film dialogue, comic strip balloon.” Roland Barthes, Image/Music/Text, tr. Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 38 (hereafter cited in the text as IMT).

     

    24. See Erving Goffman, Gender Advertisements (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979).

     

    25. See Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, tr. H. M. Parshley (New York: Knopf, 1957), 132.

     

    26. Jenny Holzer, “Jenny Holzer’s Language Games,” interview with J. Siegel, Arts Magazine 60 (December 1985), 67 (hereafter cited in the text as LG).

     

    27. “If, by hypothesis,” Derrida writes, “we maintain that the opposition of speech to language is absolutely rigorous, then differance would be not only the play of differences within language but also the relation of speech to language, the detour through which I must pass in order to speak, the silent promise I must make; and this schemata, of message to code, etc..” Jacques Derrida, “Differance,” Margins of Philosophy, tr. Alan Bass (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 15.

     

    28. Jenny Holzer, “Wordsmith, An Interview with Jenny Holzer,” with Bruce Ferguson, Art in America 74 (December 1986), 113.

     

    29. Paul Taylor, “We are the Word: Jenny Holzer Sees Aphorism as Art,” Vogue 178 (November 1988), 390.

     

    30. Quoted in Colin Westerbeck, “Jenny Holzer, Rhona Hoffman Gallery,” Artforum 25 (May 1987), 155.

     

    31. Donald Kuspit, “Gallery Leftism,” Vanguard 12 (November 1983), 24 (hereafter cited in the text as GL).

     

    32. December 1987 interview quoted in Steve Durland, “Witness: The Guerrilla Theater of Greenpeace,” Art In the Public Interest, ed. Arlene Raven (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1989), 35.

     

    33. See Adrienne Rich, “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence,” in Blood, Bread, and Poetry (New York: W.W. Norton, 1986), 23-75.

     

  • Beyond The Orality/Literacy Dichotomy: James Joyce and the Pre-history of Cyberspace

    Donald F. Theall

    University Professor
    Trent University

    <dtheall@trentu.ca>

     

    The Gutenberg Galaxy, a book which redirected the way that artists, critics, scholars and communicators viewed the role of technological mediation in communication and expression, had its origin in Marshall McLuhan’s desire to write a book called “The Road to Finnegans Wake.” It has not been widely recognized just how important James Joyce’s major writings were to McLuhan, or to other major figures (such as Jorge Luis Borges, John Cage, Jacques Derrida, Umberto Eco, and Jacques Lacan) who have written about aspects of communication involving technological mediation, speech, writing, and electronics. While all of these connections should be explored, the most enthusiastic Joycean of them all, McLuhan, provides the most specific bridge linking the work of Joyce and his modernist contemporaries to the development of electric communication and to the prehistory of cyberspace and virtual reality. McLuhan’s scouting of “the Road to Finnegans Wake” established him as the first major disseminator of those Joycean insights which have become the unacknowledged basis for our thinking about technoculture, just as the pervasive McLuhanesque vocabulary has become a part, often an unconscious one, of our verbal heritage.

     

    In the mid-80s, William Gibson first identified the emergence of cyberspace as the most recent moment in the development of electromechanical communications, telematics and virtual reality. Cyberspace, as Gibson saw it, is the simultaneous experience of time, space, and the flow of multi-dimensional, pan-sensory data:

     

    All the data in the world stacked up like one big neon city, so you could cruise around and have a kind of grip on it, visually anyway, because if you didn't, it was too complicated, trying to find your way to the particular piece of data you needed. Iconics, Gentry called that.1

     

    This “consensual hallucination” produced by “data abstracted from the banks of every computer in the human system” creates an “unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights receding.”2 Almost a decade earlier, McLuhan’s remarks about computers (dating from the late 70s) display some striking similarities:3

     

    It steps up the velocity of logical sequential calculations to the speed of light reducing numbers to body count by touch . . . . It brings back the Pythagorean occult embodied in the idea that "numbers are all"; and at the same time it dissolves hierarchy in favor of decentralization. When applied to new forms of electronic-messaging such as teletext and videotext, it quickly converts sequential alphanumeric texts into multi-level signs and aphorisms, encouraging ideographic summation, like hieroglyphs.4

     

    McLuhan’s hieroglyphs certainly more than anticipate Gibson’s iconicsand McLuhan’s particular use of hieroglyph or iconology, like that of mosaic, primarily derives from Joyce and Giambattista Vico.

     

    It is not surprising then that McLuhan’s works, side by side with those of Gibson, have been avidly read by early researchers in MIT’s Media Lab5, for these researchers also conceive of a VR composed, like the tribal and collective “global village,” of “tactile, haptic, proprioceptive and acoustic spaces and involvements.”6 The experiments of the artistic avant-garde movements (such as the Dadaists, the Bauhaus and the Surrealists) and of individuals (such as Marcel Duchamp, Paul Klee, Sergei Eisenstein or Luis Bunuel) generated the exploration of the semiotics and technical effects of such spaces and involvements. Duchamp, for example, became an early leading figure in splitting apart the presumed generic boundaries of painting and sculpture to explore arts of motion, light, movement, gesture, and concept, exemplified in his Large Glass7 and the serial publication of his accompanying notes from The Box of 1914 through The Green Box to A l’infinitif. His interest in the notes as part of the total work echo Joyce’s own interest in the publication of Work in Progress and commentaries he organized upon it (e.g., Our Exagmination Round his Factification for Incamination of Work in Progress). Joyce also explores similar aspects of motion, light, movement, gesture and concept. So the road to VR and MIT’s Media Lab begins with poetic and artistic experimentation in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century; later, as Stuart Brand notes, many of the Media Lab researchers of the 60s and 70s placed great importance on collaboration with artists involved in exploring the nature and art of motion and in investigating new relationships between sight, hearing, and the other senses.8

     

    Understanding the social and cultural implications of VR and cyberspace requires a radical reassessment of the inter-relationships between Gibson’s now commonplace description of cyberspace, McLuhan’s modernist-influenced vision of the development of electric media, and the particular impact that Joyce had both on McLuhan’s writings about electrically mediated communication and on the views of Borges, Cage, Derrida, Eco and Lacan regarding problems of mediation and communication. Such a reassessment requires that two central issues be discussed: (i) the crucial nature of VR’s challenge to the privileging of language through the orality/literacy dichotomization used by many theorists of language and communication; (ii) the idea of VR’s presence as the super-medium that encompasses and transcends all media. The cluster of critics who have addressed orality and literacy, following the lead of Walter Ong, H.A. Innis and Eric Havelock, have–like them–failed to comprehend the fact that McLuhan was disseminating a Joycean view which grounded communication in tactility, gesture and CNS processes, rather than promulgating the emergence of a new oral/aural age, a secondary orality. This emphasis on the tactile, the gestural and the play of the CNS in communication is a key to Joyce’s literary exploration of a theme he shared with his radical modernist colleagues in other arts who envisioned the eventual development of a coenaesthetic medium9 that would integrate and harmonize the effects of sensory and neurological information in currently existing and newly emerging art forms.

     

    Joyce’s work should be recognized as pioneering the artistic exploration of two sets of differences– orality/literacy and print/[tele-]electric media–that have since become dominant themes in the discussion of these questions. Finnegans Wake is one of the first major poetic encounters with the challenge that electronic media present to the traditionally accepted relationships between speech, script and print. Ulysses also involves such an encounter, but at an earlier stage in the historic development of mediated communication.) Imagine Joyce around 1930 asking the question: what is the role of the book in a culture which has discovered photography, phonography, radio, film, television, telegraph, cable, and telephone and has developed newspapers, magazines, advertising, Hollywood, and sales promotion? What people once read, they will now go to see in film and on television; everyday life will appear in greater detail and more up-to-date fashion in the press, on radio and in television; oral poetry will be reanimated by the potentialities of sound recording.10

     

    The “counter-poetic,” Finnegans Wake, provides one of the key texts regarding the problem presented by the dichotomization of the oral and the written and by its frequent corollary, a privileging of either speech or language. This enigmatic work is not only a polysemic, encyclopedic book designed to be read with the simultaneous involvement of ear and eye: it is also a self-reflexive book about the role of the book in the electro-machinic world of the new technology.11 The Wake is the most comprehensive exploration, prior to the 1960s or 70s, of the ways in which these new modes created a dramatic crisis for the arts of language and the privileged position of the printed book. The Wake dramatizes the necessary deconstruction and reconstruction of language in a world where multi-semic grammars and rhetorics, combined with entirely new modes for organizing and transmitting information and knowledge, eventually would impose a variety of new, highly specialized roles on speech, print and writing. Joyce’s selection of Vico’s New Science12 as the structural scaffolding for the Wake–the equivalent of Homer’s Odyssey in Ulysses–underscores how his interest in the contemporary transformation of the book requires grounding the evolution of civilization in the poetics of communication, especially gesture and language and the “prophetic” role of the poetic in shaping the future.

     

    As the world awakens to the full potentialities for the construction of artifacts and processes of communication in the new electric cosmos, Joyce foresees the transformation (not the death) of the book–going beyond the book as it had historically evolved. Confronted with this situation, Joyce seeks to develop a poetic language which will resituate the book within this new communicative cosmos, while simultaneously recognizing the drive toward the development of a theoretically all-inclusive, all-encompassing medium, “virtual reality.” Since the action takes place in a dreamworld, Joyce can produce an impressively prophetic imaginary prototype for the virtual worlds of the future. His dreamworld envelops the reader within an aural sphere, accompanied by kinetic and gestural components that arise from effects of rhythm and intonation realized through the visual act of reading; but it also reproduces imaginarily the most complex multi-media forms and envisions how they will utilize his present, which will have become the past, to transform the future.13

     

    The hero(ine)14 in the Wake, “Here Comes Everybody,” is a communicating machine, “This harmonic condenser enginium (the Mole)” (310.1), an electric transmission-receiver system, an ear, the human sensorium, a presence “eclectrically filtered for all irish earths and ohmes.” Joyce envisions the person as embodied within an electro-machinopolis (an electric, pan-global, machinic environment), which becomes an extension of the human body, an interior presence, indicated by a stress on the playfulness of the whole person and on tactility as calling attention to the interplay of sensory information within the electro-chemical neurological system. This medley of elements and concerns, focussed on questioning the place of oral and written language in an electro-mechanical technoculture that engenders more and more comprehensive modes of communication biased towards the dramatic, marks Joyce as a key figure in the pre-history of virtual reality.

     

    Acutely sensitive to the inseparable involvement of speech, script, and print with the visual, the auditory, the kinesthetic and other modes of expression, Joyce roots all communication in gesture: “In the beginning was the gest he jousstly says” (468.5-6). Here the originary nature of gesture (gest, F. geste = gesture)15 is linked with the mechanics of humor (i.e., jest) and to telling a tale (gest as a feat and a tale or romance). Gestures, like signals and flashing lights that provide elementary mechanical systems for communications, are “words of silent power” (345.19). A traffic crossing sign, “Belisha beacon, beckon bright” (267.12), exemplifies such situations “Where flash becomes word and silents selfloud.” Since gestures, and ultimately all acts of communication, are generated from the body, the “gest” as “flesh without word” (468.5-6) is “a flash” that becomes word and “communicake[s] with the original sinse” [originary sense + the temporal, “since” + original sin (239.1)]. “Communicake” parallels eating to speaking, and speaking is linked in turn to the act of communion as participation in, and consumption of, the Word–an observation adumbrated in the title of one of Marcel Jousse’s groundbreaking books on gesture as the origin of language, La Manducation de la Parole (“The Mastication of the Word”). By treating the “gest” as a bit (a bite), orality and the written word as projections of gesture can be seen to spring from the body as a communicating machine.16 The historical processes that contribute to the development of cyberspace augment the growing emphasis, in theories such as Kenneth Burke’s, on the idea that the goal of the symbolic action called communication is secular, paramodern communion.17

     

    The Wake provides a self-reflexive explanation of the communicative process of encoding and decoding required to interpret an encoded text, which itself is characteristically mechanical:

     

    The prouts who will invent a writing there ultimately is the poeta, still more learned, who discovered the raiding there originally. That's the point of eschatology our book of kills reaches for now in soandso many counterpoint words. What can't be coded can be decorded if an ear aye seize what no eye ere grieved for. Now, the doctrine obtains, we have occasioning cause causing effects and affects occasionally recausing altereffects. Or I will let me take it upon myself to suggest to twist the penman's tale posterwise. The gist is the gist of Shaum but the hand is the hand of Sameas. (482.31-483.4)

     

    The dreamer as a poet, a Hermetic thief, an “outlex” (169.3)–i.e., an outlaw, lawless, beyond the word and, therefore, the law, “invents” the writing by originally discovering the reading of the book and does so by “raiding” [i.e., “plundering” (reading + raiding)].18 This reading encompasses both the idealistic “eschatology” and the excrementitious-materialistic (pun on scatology) within the designing of this “book of kills” (deaths, deletions, drinking sessions, flows of water–a counterpoint of continuity and discontinuity),19 a book as carefully crafted or machined as the illuminations of the Book of Kells are. Seeing and hearing are intricately involved in this process, so the reader of this night-book also becomes a “raider” of the original “reading-writing” through the machinery of writing. It is a production “in soandso many counterpoint words” that can be read only through the machinery of decoding, for “What can’t be coded can be decorded, if an ear aye seize what no eye ere grieved for” (482.34). The tale that the pen writes is transmitted by the post, and the whole process of communication and its interpretation is an extension of the hand and of bodily gesture-language: “The gist is the gist of Shaum but the hand is the hand of Sameas” (483.3-4).

     

    Orality, particularly song, is grounded in the machinery of the body’s organs: “Singalingalying. Storiella as she is syung. Whence followeup with endspeaking nots for yestures” (267.7-9).20 The link is rhythm, for “Soonjemmijohns will cudgel some a rhythmatick or other over Browne and Nolan’s divisional tables” (268.7-9). Gesture, with its affiliation with all of the neuro-muscular movements of the body, is a natural script or originary writing, for the word “has been reconstricted out of oral style into verbal for all time with ritual rhythmics” (36.8-9). Since the oral is “reconstricted” (reconstructed + constricted or limited) into the verbal, words also are crafted in relation to sound, a natural development of which is “wordcraft”: for example, hieroglyphs and primitive script based on drawings or mnemonic devices.21 Runes and ogham are literally “woodwordings,” so pre- or proto-writing (i.e., syllabic writing) is already “a mechanization of the word,” which is itself implicit in the body’s use of gesture.

     

    Joyce’s practice and his theoretical orientation imply that as the road to cyberspace unfolds, the very nature of the word, the image, and the icon also changes. Under the impact of electric communication, it is once again clear that the concept of the word must embrace artifacts and events as well.22 Writing and speech are subsumed into entirely new relationships with non-phonemic sound, image, gesture, movement, rhythm, and all modes of sensory input, especially the tactile. To continue to speak about a dichotomy of orality versus literacy is a misleading over-simplification of the role that electric media play in this transformation, a role best comprehended through historical knowledge of the earliest stages of human communication where objects, gestures and movements apparently intermingled with verbal and non-verbal sounds. Marschak’s study of early cultural artifacts, the Aschers’ discussion of the quipu, and Levi-Strauss’s discussions of the kinship system demonstrate the relative complexity of some ancient, non-linguistic systems of communication.23 Adapting Vico’s speculation that human communication begins with the gestures and material symbols of the “mute,” Joyce early in the Wake presents an encounter between two characters whose names deliberately echo Mutt and Jeff of comic strip fame. Mutt (until recently a mute) and Jute (a nomadic invader) “excheck a few strong verbs weak oach eather” (16.8-9).

     

    Beginning with gesture, hieroglyph and rune, Joyce traces human communication through its complex, labyrinthine development, right down to the TV and what it bodes for the future. For example, an entire episode of the Wake (I,5)24 is devoted to the technology of manuscripts and the theory of their interpretation–textual hermeneutics–in which the Wake as a book is interpreted as if it were a manuscript, “the proteiform graph is a polyhedron of all scripture” (107.8). At each stage, Joyce recognizes how the machinery of codification is implicit in the history of communication, for discussing this manuscript, he observes that

     

    on holding the verso against a lit rush this new book of Morses responded most remarkably to the silent query of our world's oldest light and its recto let out the piquant fact that it was but pierced but not punctured (in the university sense of the term) by numerous stabs and foliated gashes made by a pronged instrument. . . . (123.34-124.3)

     

    This illustrates how the beginning of electric media (the telegraph) is a transformation of the potentialities of the early manuscript, just as any manuscript is a transformation of the “wordcraft” of “woodwordings.” “Morse code” is indicative of the mechanics of codification, for while code is essential to all communication (thus prior to the moment when the mechanical is electrified), the role of codification is radically transformed by mechanization.

     

    The appearance of the printing press demonstrates the effect of this radical transformation:

     

    Gutenmorg with his cromagnon charter, tintingfast and great primer must once for omniboss step rubrickredd out of the wordpress else is there no virtue more in alcohoran. For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr is meed of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints. Till ye finally (though not yet endlike) meet with the acquaintance of Mister Typus, Mistress Tope and all the little typtopies. Fillstup. So you need hardly spell me how every word will be bound over to carry three score and ten toptypsical readings throughout the book of Doublends Jined . . . . (20.7-16)

     

    As “Gutenmorg with his cromagnon charter, tintingfast and great primer” steps “rubrickredd out of the wordpress,” the dream reminds us that “papyr is meed of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints.” Topics (L. topos) and types (L. typus) as figures, forms, images, topics and commonplaces, the elemental bits of writing and rhetoric, are now realized through typesetting. Implicit in the technology of print is the complex intertextuality of verbal ambivalence, for “every word will be bound over to carry three score and ten toptypsical readings throughout the book of Doublends Jined.” Printing sets in place the “root language” (424.17) residing in the types and topes of the world and potentially eliminates a multitude of alternate codes such as actual sounds, visual images, real objects, movements, and gestures that will re-emerge with the electromechanical march towards VR and cyberspace.

     

    By the 1930s, in a pub scene in the Wake, Joyce playfully anticipated how central sporting events or political debates would be for television when he described the TV projection of a fight being viewed by the pub’s “regulars” (possibly the first fictional TV bar room scene in literary history). Joyce’s presentation of this image of the battle of Butt and Taff, which is peppered with complex puns involving terminology associated with the technical details of TV transmission, has its own metamorphic quality, underscored by the “viseversion” (vice versa imaging) of Butt and Taff’s images on “the bairdboard bombardment screen” (“bairdboard” because John Logie Baird developed TV in 1925). Joyce explains how “the bairdboard bombardment screen,” the TV as receiver, receives the composite video signal “in scynopanc pulses” (the synchronization pulses that form part of the composite video signal), that come down the “photoslope” on the “carnier walve” (i.e., the carrier wave which carries the composite video signal) “with the bitts bugtwug their teffs.” Joyce imagines this receiver to be a “light barricade” against which the charge of the light brigade (the video signal) is directed, reproducing the “bitts.” Although (at least to my knowledge) bit was not used as a technical term in communication technology at the time, Joyce is still able, on analogy with the telegraph, to think of the electrons or photons as bits of information creating the TV picture.

     

    Speech, print and writing are interwoven with electromechanical technologies of communication throughout the Wake. References to the manufacture of books, newspapers and other products of the printing press abound. Machineries and technological organizations accompany this development: reporters, editors, interviewers, newsboys, ad men who produce “Abortisements” (181.33). Since complex communication technology is characteristic of the later stages, in addition to newspapers, radio, “dupenny” magazines, comics (contemporary cave drawing), there is “a phantom city phaked by philm pholk,” by those who would “roll away the reel world.” Telecommunications materialize again and again throughout the night of the Wake, where “television kills telephony.”

     

    The “tele-” prefix, betraying an element of futurology in the dream, appears in well over a dozen words including in addition to the familiar forms terms such as “teleframe,” “telekinesis,” “telesmell,” “telesphorously,” “televisible,” “televox,” or “telewisher,” while familiar forms also appear in a variety of transformed “messes of mottage,” such as “velivision” and “dullaphone.” This complex verbal play all hinges on the inter-translatability of the emerging forms of technologically mediated communication. In the opening episode of the second part, the “Feenicht’s Playhouse,” an imaginary play produced by HCE’s children in their nursery is “wordloosed over seven seas crowdblast in cellelleneteutoslavzendlatinsoundscript. In four tubbloids” (219.28-9). Like the cinema, “wordloosed” (wirelessed but also let loose) transglobally, all such media are engaged in a “crowdblast” of existing languages and cultures, producing an interplay between local cultures and a pan-international hyperculture.

     

    In the concluding moments of the Wake, Joyce generalizes his pre-cybernetic vision in one long intricate performance that not only concerns the book itself, but also anticipates by twenty years some major discussions of culture, communication, and technology. A brief scene setting: this is the moment in the closing episode just as the HCE is awakening. In the background he hears noises from the machines in the laundry next door. It is breakfast time and there are sounds of food being prepared; eggs are being cooked and will be eaten, so there is anticipation of the process of digestion that is about to take place.25 At this moment a key passage, inviting interminable interpretation, presents in very abstract language a generalized model of production and consumption, which is also the recorso of the schema of this nocturnal poem, that consumes and produces, just as the digestive system itself digests and produces new cells and excrement–how else could one be a poet of “litters” as well as letters and be “litterery” (114.17; 422.35) as well as literary?

     

    The passage begins by speaking about “our wholemole millwheeling vicociclometer, a tetradomational gazebocroticon,” which may be the book, a letter to be written, the digestive system assimilating the eggs, the sexual process, the mechanical “mannormillor clipperclappers” (614.13) of the nearby Mannor Millor laundry, the temporal movement of history, or a theory of engineering, for essentially it relates the production of cultural artifacts or the consumption of matter (like reading a book, seeing a film or eating eggs; the text mentions a “farmer, his son and their homely codes, known as eggburst, eggblend, eggburial, and hatch-as-hatch-can” (614.28)). The passage concludes, “as sure as herself pits hen to paper and there’s scribings scrawled on eggs” (615.9-10). Here the frequent pairing of speaking (writing) with eating is brought to a climax in which it is related to all the abstract machines which shape the life of nature, decomposing into “bits” and recombining.

     

    These bits, described as “the dialytically [dialectic + dialysis] separated elements of precedent decomposition,” may be eggs, or other “homely codes” such as the “heroticisms, catastrophes and ec-centricities” (the stuff of history or the dreamers stuttering speech or his staggering movements) transmitted elementally, “type by tope, letter from litter, word at ward, sendence of sundance . . .” (614.33-615.2). All of these bits–matter, eggs, words, TV signals, concepts, what you will–are “anastomosically assimilated and preteri-dentified paraidiotically,” producing “the sameold gamebold adomic structure . . . as highly charged with electrons as hophazards can effective it” (615.5-8). In anticipation of the contemporary electronic definition of the “bit,” Joyce associates the structure of communication (ranging from TV and telegraphic signals to morphophonemic information and kinesthesia) with bits of signals, “data” and information. He presents it as essentially an assemblage of multiplicities, different from a synthesizing or totalizing moment, for it occurs by the crossing of pluralistic branches of differing motifs, through a process of transmission involving flows, particularly the flowing of blood, water and speech, and breaks such as the discontinuous charges of electrical energy, telegraphy, and punctuation–those “endspeaking nots for yestures” (267.8).

     

    Here Joyce’s entire prophetic, schizoid vision of cyberspace seems somewhat Deleuzian. It is an ambivalent and critical vision, for the “ambiviolence” of the “langdwage” throughout the Wake implies critique as it unfolds this history, since Joyce still situates parody within satire. He does not free it from socio-political reference, as a free-floating “postmodernist” play with the surface of signifiers would. This can be noted in the way that Joyce first probes what came to be one of the keystones of McLuhanism. Joyce plays throughout the work with spheres and circles, some of which parody one of the mystical definitions of God frequently attributed to Alan of Lille (Alanus de Insulis), but sometimes referred to as Pascal’s sphere. Speaking of a daughter-goddess figure, he says:

     

    our Frivulteeny Sexuagesima to expense herselfs as sphere as possible, paradismic perimutter, in all directions on the bend of the unbridalled, the infinisissimalls of her facets becoming manier and manier as the calicolum of her umdescribables (one has thoughts of that eternal Rome) . . . . (298.27-33)

     

    Here a sphere is imagined whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere, since it is infinitesimal and undescribable (though apparently the paradigmic perimeter is sexual), as the paradisal mother communicates herself without apparent limit. This is both an embodied and a disembodied sphere, polarizing and decentering the image so as to impede any closure. The same spherical principle is applied more widely to the presentation of the sense of hearing. The reception of messages by the hero/ine of the Wake, “(Hear! Calls! Everywhair!)” (108.23), is accomplished by “bawling the whowle hamshack and wobble down in an eliminium sounds pound so as to serve him up a melegoturny marygoraumd” (309.22-4), a sphere for it requires “a gain control of circumcentric megacycles” (310.7-8). It can truly be said of HCE, “Ear! Ear! Weakear! An allness eversides!” (568.26),26 precisely because he is “human, erring and condonable”(58.19), yet “humile, commune and ensectuous” (29.30), suffering many deprivations his “hardest crux ever” (623.33) [italics mine]. Though “humbly to fall and cheaply to rise, [this] exposition of failures” (589.17) living with “Heinz cans everywhere”(581.5), still protests his fate “making use of sacrilegious languages to the defect that he would challenge their hemosphores to exterminate them” (81.25) by decentering or dislocating any attempts to enclose him.

     

    This discussion of sphere and hearing critically anticipates what McLuhan later called “acoustic space”–a fundamental cyberspatial conception with its creation of multi-dimensional environments, a spherical environment within which aural information is received by the CNS–that also embodies a transformation of the hermetic poetic insight that “the universe (or nature) [or in earlier versions, God] is an infinite sphere, the center of which is everywhere, the circumference nowhere.”27 Today, VR, as Borges’ treatment of Pascal’s sphere seems to imply, is coming to be our contemporary pre-millennial epitome of this symbol, a place where each participant (rather than the deity), as microcosm, is potentially the enigmatic center. People englobed within virtual worlds find themselves interacting within complex, transverse, intertextual multimedia forms that are interlinked globally through complex, rhizomic (root-like) networks.

     

    All of this must necessarily relate back to the way Joyce treats the subject of and produces the artifact that is the book. While, beginning with Mallarme, the themes of the book and the death of literature resound through modernism, Joyce’s transformation of the book filtered through the “mcluhanitic” reaction to “mcluhanism” becomes, in the usual interpretation of McLuhan, the annunciation of the death of the book, not its transformation, as with Joyce. Joyce is important, for following Marcel Jousse and Vico,28 he situates speech and writing as modes of communication within a far richer and more complex bodily and gestural theory of communication than that represented by the reductive dichotomy of the oral and the literate. As the predominance of print declines, the Wake explores the history of communication by comically assimilating the method of Vico’s The New Science–which, as one of the first systematic and empirical studies of the place of poetic action in the history of how people develop systems of signs and symbols, attributes people’s ability for constructing their society to the poetic function.

     

    Joyce avoids that facile over-simplification of the complexities of print, arising from the orality/literacy dichotomy, which attributes a privileged role to language as verbal–a privilege based on theological and metaphysical claims. The same dichotomy creates problems in discussing technological and other non-verbal forms of mediated communication, including VR and TV. At one point in the Wake “Television kills telephony in brothers’ broil. Our eyes demand their turn. Let them be seen!” (52.18-9), for TV also comprehends the visual and the kinesthetic. Yet most McLuhanites who have opted for the orality/literacy split still call it an oral medium in opposition to print. The same problem occurs when mime, with its dependence on gesture and rhythm, is analyzed as an oral medium. As the Wake jocularly observes:

     

    seein as ow his thoughts consisted chiefly of the cheerio, he aptly sketched for our soontobe second parents . . . the touching seene. The solence of that stilling! Here one might a fin fell. Boomster rombombonant! It scenes like a landescape from Wildu Picturescu or some seem on some dimb Arras, dumb as Mum's mutyness, this mimage . . . is odable to os across the wineless Ere no dor nor mere eerie nor liss potent of suggestion than in the tales of the tingmount. (52.34-53.6)

     

    The mime plays with silence, sight, touch and movement seeming like a landscape or a movie.

     

    Facile over-simplification also overlooks that long before the beginnings of the trend towards cyberspace, print had not been strictly oriented towards linearity and writing, for the print medium was supplemented by its encyclopedic, multi-media nature, absorbing other media such as illustrations, charts, graphs, maps, diagrams, and tables, not all aspects of which are precisely linear. While writing may have had a predominantly linear tendency, its history is far more complex, as Elizabeth Eisenstein has established.29 The orality/literacy distinction does not provide an adequately rich concept for dealing with print, any more than it does for the most complex and comprehensive images of virtual reality and participatory hyperspace (e.g., sophisticated extensions of the datagloves or the Aspen map), which, to adapt a Joycean phrase, directly transmit “feelful thinkamalinks.” Since VR should enable a person to feel the bodily set of another person or place, while simultaneously receiving multiple intersensory messages, understanding the role of the body in communication is crucial for understanding VR. When McLuhan and Edward Carpenter first spoke about their concept of orality (linked to aurality, mouth to ear, as line of print to eye scan), it entailed recognizing the priority and primacy of tactility and inter-sensory activity in communication, for “In the beginning there was the gest.”

     

    As Kenneth Burke realized in the 30s, Joyce’s grounding communication and language in gesture is distinctly different from an approach which privileges language, for it involves a complete embodying of communication. While the oral only embodies the speech organs, the entire CNS is necessarily involved in all communication, including speech. As John Bishop has shown in Joyce’s Book of the Dark, the sleeper primarily receives sensations with his ear, but these are tranformed within the body into the world of signs that permeate the dream and which constitute the Wake.30 Joyce views language as “gest,” as an imaginary means of embodying intellectual-emotional complexes, his “feelful thinkamalinks.” From this perspective, the semic units of the Wake (integrated complexes constructed from the interaction of speech and print involving, rhythm, orthography as sign and gesture and visual image) assume the role of dialogue with other modes of mediated communication, exploiting their limitations and differences. Joyce crafts a new lingua for a world where the poetic book will deal with those aspects of the imaginary that cannot be encompassed within technologically mediated communication. Simultaneously, he recognizes that a trend towards virtual reality is characteristic of the electro-mechanically or technologically mediated modes of communication. This process posits a continuous dialogue in which Ulysses and the Wake were designed to play key roles.

     

    As Joyce–who quipped that “some of the means I use are trivial–and some are quadrivial”31–was aware, ancient rhetorical theory (which he parodied both in the Aeolus episode of Ulysses and in the “Triv and Quad” section (II, 2) of the Wake) also included those interactive contexts where the body was an intrinsic part of communication. Delivery involved controlling the body, and the context within which it was presented, as well as the voice. The actual rhetorical action (particularly in judicial oratory) also frequently involved demonstration and witnesses. This analysis, closer to the pre-literate, recognized the way actual communication integrated oral, visual, rhythmical, gestural and kinesthetic components. Recent research into the classical and medieval “arts of memory,” inspired by Frances Yates,32 have demonstrated that memory involves the body, a sense of the dramatic and theatrical, visual icons and movement, as well as the associative power of the oral itself. Joyce playfully invokes this memory system familiar to him from his Jesuit education: “After sound, light and heat, memory, will and understanding. Here (the memories framed from walls are minding) till wranglers for wringwrowdy wready are . . .” (266.18-22). A classical world, which recognized such features of the communicative process, could readily speak about the poem as a “speaking picture” and the painting as “silent poetry.” Here, there is an inclusiveness of the means available rather than a dependency on a single channel of communication.

     

    Joyce was so intrigued by the potentials of the new culture of time and space for reconstructing and revolutionizing the book that he claimed himself to be “the greatest engineer,” as well as a Renaissance man, who was also a “musicmaker, a philosophist and heaps of other things.”33 The mosaic of the Wake contributes to understanding the nature of cyberspace by grasping the radical constitution of the electronic cosmos that Joyce called “the chaosmos of Alle” (118.21). In this “chaosmos,” engineered by a sense of interactive mnemotechnics, he intuits the relation between a nearly infinite quantity of cultural information and the mechanical yet rhizomic organization of a network, “the matrix,” which underlies the construction of imaginary and virtual worlds. One crucial reason for raising the historic image of Joyce in a discussion of cyberspace is that he carries out one of the most comprehensive contemporary discussions of virtual recollection (a concept first articulated by Henri Bergson as virtual memory).34 In counterpoint to the emerging technological capability to create the “virtual reality” of cyberspace, Joyce turned to dream and hallucination for the creation of virtual worlds within natural language.

     

    That tactile, gestural-based dreamworld has built-in mnemonic systems:

     

    A scene at sight. Or dreamoneire. Which they shall memorise. By her freewritten. Hopely for ear that annalykeses if scares for eye that sumns. Is it in the now woodwordings of our sweet plantation where the branchings then will singingsing tomorrows gone and yesters outcome . . . . (280.01-07)

     

    Joyce’s virtual worlds began with the recognition of “everybody” as a poet (each person is co-producer; he quips, “his producers are they not his consumers?”). All culture becomes the panorama of his dream; the purpose of poetic writing in a post-electric world is the painting of that interior (which is not the psychoanalytic, but the social unconscious) and the providing of new language appropriate to perceiving the complexities of the new world of technologically reproducible media:

     

    What has gone? How it ends?
    Begin to forget it. It will remember itself from every sides, with all gestures, in each our word. Today's truth, tomorrow's trend. (614.19-21)

     

    Joyce’s text is embodied in gesture, enclosed in words, enmeshed in time, and engaged in foretelling “Today’s truth. Tomorrow’s trend.” The poet reproducing his producers is the divining prophet.

     

    If speaking of Joyce and cyberspace seems to imply a kind of futurology, the whole of McLuhan’s project was frequently treated as prophesying the emergence of a new tribalized global society–the global village, itself anticipated by Joyce’s “international” language of multilingual puns. In fact, in War and Peace in the Global Village, McLuhan uses Wakese (mostly from Joyce, freely associated) as marginalia. McLuhan flourished in his role as an international guru by casting himself in the role of “the prime prophet” announcing the coming of a new era of communication35 (now talked about as virtual reality or cyberspace, though he never actually used that word). The prime source of his “prophecies,” which he never concealed, is to be found in Joyce and Vico.36 The entire Joycean dream is prophetic or divinatory in part, for the anticipated awakening (Vico’s fourth age of ricorso following birth, marriage, and death) is “providential divining”:

     

    Ere we are! Signifying, if tungs may tolkan, that, primeval conditions having gradually receded but nevertheless the emplacement of solid and fluid having to a great extent persisted through intermittences of sullemn fulminance, sollemn nuptialism, sallemn sepulture and providential divining, making possible and even inevitable, after his a time has a tense haves and havenots hesitency, at the place and period under consideration a socially organic entity of a millenary military maritory monetary morphological circumformation in a more or less settled state of equonomic ecolube equalobe equilab equilibbrium. (599.8-18)

     

    Earlier, it is said of the dreamer that “He caun ne’er be bothered but maun e’er be waked. If there is a future in every past that is present . . .” (496.34-497.1). Joyce, from whom McLuhan derived the idea, is playing with the medieval concept of natural prophecy, making it a fundamental feature of the epistemology of his dream world, in which the “give and take” of the “mind factory,” an “antithesis of ambidual anticipation,” generates auspices, auguries, and divination–for “DIVINITY NOT DEITY [is] THE UNCERTAINTY JUSTIFIED BY OUR CERTITUDE” (282.R7-R13).

     

    Natural prophecy, the medieval way of thinking about futurology with which Joyce and McLuhan were naturally familiar from scholasticism and Thomism, occurs through a reading of history and its relation to that virtual, momentary social text (the present), which is dynamic and always undergoing change. Joyce appears to blend this medieval concept with classical sociological ideas–of prophecy as an “intermediation”–quite consistent with his concepts of communication as involving aspects of participation and communion. It is only through some such reading that the future existent in history can be known and come to be. McLuhan’s reading, adapted from Joyce, of the collision of history and the present moment led him to foresee a world emerging where communication would be tactile, post-verbal, fully participatory and pan-sensory.37

     

    Why ought communication history and theory take account of Joyce’s poetic project? First, because he designed a new language (later disseminated by McLuhan, Eco, and Derrida) to carry out an in-depth interpretation of complex socio-historical phenomenon, namely new modes of semiotic production. Two brief examples: Hollywood “wordloosing celluloid soundscript over seven seas,” or the products of the Hollywood dream factory itself as “a rolling away of the reel world,” reveal media’s potential international domination as well as the problems film form raises for the mutual claims of the imaginary and the real. For example, the term “abortisements” (advertisements) suggests the manipulation of fetishized femininity with its submerged relation of advertisement to butchering–the segmentation of the body as object into an assemblage of parts.

     

    Second, Joyce’s work is a critique of communication’s historical role in the production of culture, and it constitutes one of the earliest recognitions of the importance of Vico to a contemporary history of communication and culture.38 Third, his work is itself the first “in-depth” contemporary exploration of the complexities of reading, writing, rewriting, speaking, aurality, and orality. Fourth, developing Vico’s earlier insights and anticipating Kenneth Burke, he sees the importance of the “poetic” as a concept in communication, for the poetic is the means of generating new communicative potentials between medium and message. This provides the poetic, the arts, and other modes of cultural production with a crucial role in a semiotic ecology of communication, an ecology of sense, and making sense. Fifth, in the creative project of this practice, Joyce develops one of the most complex discussions of the contemporary transformation of our media of communication. And finally, his own work is itself an exemplum of the socio-ecological role of the poetic in human communication.

     

    VR or cyberspace, as an assemblage of a multiplicity of existing and new media, dramatizes the relativity of our classifications of media and their effects. The newly evolving global metropolis arising in the age of cyberspace is a site where people are intellectual nomads: differentiation, difference, and decentering characterize its structure. Joyce and the arts of high modernism and postmodernism provide a solid appreciation of how people constantly reconstruct or remake reality through the traversing of the multi-sensory fragments of a “virtual world” and of the tremendous powers with which electricity and the analysis of mechanization would endow the paramedia that would eventually emerge.

     

    Notes

     

    1. William Gibson, Mona Lisa Overdrive (NY: Bantam Paperback, 1989), 16.

     

    2. William Gibson, Neuromancer (NY: Ace, 1984), 51.

     

    3. This quotation is taken from the posthumously published Marshall McLuhan and Bruce R. Powers, The Global Village: Transformations in World Life and Media in the 21st Century, (NY: Oxford UP, 1989). It was edited and rewritten from McLuhan’s working notes, which had to date from the late 70s, since he died in 1981. McLuhan’s words were written more than a decade before their posthumous publication in 1989.

     

    4. McLuhan (1989), 103.

     

    5. Stuart Brand, The Media Lab: Inventing the Future at MIT (NY: Viking, 1987).

     

    6. Marshall McLuhan, The Letters of Marshall McLuhan, ed. Matie Molinaro, Corinne McLuhan and William Toye (Toronto: Oxford UP, 1987), 385.

     

    7. Craig E. Adcock, Marcel Duchamp’s Notes from the Large Glass: An N-Dimensional Analysis (Ann Arbor, Michigan: UMI, 1983), 28: “The Large Glass is an illuminated manuscript consisting of 476 documents; the illumination consists of almost every work that Duchamp did.”

     

    8. Stuart Brand (1987).

     

    9. A further paper needs to be written on the way in which synaesthesia as well as coenesthesia participate in the pre-history of cyberspace. The unfolding history of poets and artists confronting electromechanical technoculture, which begins in the 1850s, reveals a growing interest in synesthesia and coenesthesia and parallels a gradually accelerating yearning for artistic works which are syntheses or orchestrations of the arts. By 1857 Charles Baudelaire intuited the future transformational power of the coming of electro-communication when he established his concept of synaesthesia and the trend toward a synthesis of all the arts as central aspects of symbolisme. The transformational matrices involved in synaesthesia and the synthesis of the arts unconsciously respond to that digitalization implicit in Morse code and telegraphy, anticipating how one of the major characteristics of cyberspace will be the capability of all modes of expression to be transformed into minimal discrete contrastive units– bits.

     

    This assertion concerning Baudelaire’s use of synesthesia is developed from Benjamin’s discussions of Baudelaire. The role of shock in Baudelaire’s poetry, which links the “Correspondances” with “La Vie Anterieur,” also reflects how the modern fragmentation involved in “Le Crepuscle du Soir” and “Le Crepuscle du Matin” is reassembled poetically through the verbal transformation of sensorial modes. This is the beginning of a period in which the strategy of using shock to deal with fragmentation is transformed into seeing the multiplicity of codifications of municipal (or urban) reality. So when the metamorphic sensory effects of nature’s temple are applied to the splenetic here and now, in the background is the emergence of the new codifications of reality, such as the photography which so preoccupied Baudelaire, and telegraphy, which had an important impact in his lifetime.

     

    10. See D.F. Theall, “The Hieroglyphs of Engined Egypsians: Machines, Media and Modes of Communication in Finnegans Wake,” Joyce Studies Annual 1991, ed. Thomas F. Staley (Austin: Texas UP, 1991), 129-52. This publication provides major source material for the present article.

     

    11. “Machinic” is used here very deliberately as distinct from mechanical. See Gilles Deleuze, Dialogues, trans. Hugh Tomlinson & Barbara Haberjam (NY: Columbia UP, 1987), 70-1, where he discusses the difference between the machine and the ‘machinic’ in contradistinction to the mechanical.

     

    12. Giambattista Vico, The New Science, ed. T.G. Bergen and M. Fisch (Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1948).

     

    13. For fuller discussion of Joyce and these themes see Donald Theall, “James Joyce: Literary Engineer,” in Literature and Ethics: Essays Presented to A.E. Malloch, ed. Gary Wihl & David Williams (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s UP, 1988), 111-27; Donald and Joan Theall, “James Joyce and Marshall McLuhan,” Canadian Journal of Communication, 14:4/5 (Fall 1989), 60-1; and Donald Theall (1991), 129-152. A number of subsequent passages are adapted with minor modifications from parts of the last article, which is a fairly comprehensive coverage of Joyce and technology.

     

    14. While in one sense the dreamer is identified as the male HCE, the book opens and closes with the feminine voice of ALP. It is her dream of his dreaming, or his dream of her dreaming? Essentially, it is androgynous, with a mingling of male and female voices throughout. For another treatment of the male-female theme in the Wake, see Suzette Henke, James Joyce and the Politics of Desire (NY: RKP, 1989).

     

    15. “Jousstly” refers to Marcel Jousse’s important work on communication and the semiotics of gesture, with which Joyce was familiar. See especially Lorraine Weir, “The Choreography of Gesture: Marcel Jousse and Finnegans Wake,” James Joyce Quarterly, 14:3 (Spring 1977), 313-25.

     

    16. This motif will be developed further below. It relates to Joyce’s interest in Lewis Carroll. Gilles Deleuze comments extensively on manducation in The Logic of Sense, trans. Mark Lester with Charles Stivale, ed. Constantin V. Boundas (NY: Columbia UP, 1990).

     

    17. See Dewey, Art As Experience (NY: G.P. Putnam, 1958) and Kenneth Burke, Permanence and Change: An Anatomy of Purpose (Indianapolis, IN: Bobbs-Merrill, 1965).

     

    18. Cf. T.S. Eliot, Selected Essays (NY: Harcourt, Brace, 1932), 182: “One of the surest of tests is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal . . . “; see also “Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,” (“East Coker,” Four Quartets, l. 5). Joyce’s use of “outlex” relates to Jim the Penman, for Joyce analyzing Shem in the Wake is aware of how the traditions of the artist as liar, counterfeiter, con man, and thief could all coalesce about the role of the artist as an outlaw.

     

    19. “Kills” in the sense of “to kill a bottle”; “kills” also as a stream or channel of water.

     

    20. See Walter Ong’s remarks about Marcel Jousse in The Presence of the Word (New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 1967), 146-7, and Lorraine Weir’s more extensive development of the theme in (1977), 313-325, and in Writing Joyce: A Semiotics of the Joyce System (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana UP, 1989).

     

    21. I.J. Gelb, A Study of Writing (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1963).

     

    22. Cf. McLuhan (1989), 182.

     

    23. Alexander Marschak, The Roots of Civilization (NY: McGraw-Hill, 1982); Marcia Ascher and Robert Ascher, Code of the Quipu: A Study in Media, mathematics and Culture (Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 1981); Claude Levi-Strauss, The Elementary Structures of Kinship, trans. James Harle Bell and John Richard von Sturmer, ed. Rodney Needham (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969).

     

    24. The usual way to indicate sections of the Wake is by part and episode. Hence I,v is Part I episode 5. There are four parts, the first consisting of eight episodes, the second and the third of four episodes each and the fourth of a single episode.

     

    25. Danis Rose and John O’Hanlon, Understanding Finnegans Wake (NY: Garland Publishing, 1982), 308-09.

     

    26. For detailed discussion of the treatment of the ear and hearing in Finnegans Wake, see John Bishop, Joyce’s book of the Dark: Finnegans Wake (Madison, WI: U of Wisconsin P, 1986), Chapter 9 “Earwickerwork,” 264-304.

     

    27. Jorge Luis Borges, Other Inquisitions: 1937-1952, trans. Ruth R. Sims (NY: Simon and Schuster, 1968), 6-9.

     

    28. Lorraine Weir (1989).

     

    29. Elizabeth Eisenstein, The Printing Revolution in Early Modern Europe (NY: Cambridge UP, 1983).

     

    30. Bishop (1986), 264-304.

     

    31. Eugene Jolas, “My Friend James Joyce,” in James Joyce: two decades of criticism, ed. Seon Givens (NY: Vanguard, 1948), 24.

     

    32. E.g., in Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1966).

     

    33. James Joyce to Harriet Shaw Weaver, Letters, ed. Stuart Gilbert (NY: Viking, 1957), 251 [Postcard, 16 April 1927].

     

    34. For a discussion of this see Gilles Deleuze, Bergsonism (NY: Zone, 1988), Chapter 3, “Memory as Virtual Co-existence,” 51-72.

     

    35. Speaking of the all-embracing aspects of VR and cyberspace, the work which Baudrillard has made of “simulation” and “the ecstasy of communication” should be noted. This issue is too complex to engage within an essay specifically focused on Joyce. In approaching it, however, it is important to realize the degree of similarity that Baudrillard’s treatment of communication shares with McLuhan’s. In many ways, I believe it could be established that what Baudrillard critiques as the “ecstasy of communication” is his understanding of McLuhan’s vision of communication divorced from its historical roots in the literature and arts of symbolisme, high modernism, and particularly James Joyce.

     

    36. This is a major theme of McLuhan and McLuhan’s The Laws of Media (Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1988).

     

    37. See Donald F. Theall, The Medium is the Rear View Mirror; Understanding McLuhan (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s UP, 1971).

     

    38. John O’Neill credits Vico with a “wild sociology” in which the philologist is a wild sociologist in Making Sense Together: An Introduction to Wild Sociology (NY: Harper & Row, 1974), 28-38. The significance of Vico’s emphasis on the body is developed in John O’Neill, Five Bodies: The Human Sense of Society (Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1985).

     

  • “Drum and Whistle” And “Black Stems,” Two Poems from luca: Discourse on Life & Death

    Rochelle Owens

    Dept. of English
    University of Oklahoma at Norman

    Drum And Whistle

     

    into the vast heat of spirals because
    your whitish bones

     

    beating drum and whistle

     

    morning sun multiplying her fingers
    loosened her braids her long slow

     

    searching encased skull neck body
    skull neck body around roots yellow skin
    floating like props looking

     

    I heard crows their claws searching

     

    their veins and tendons scattered
    as leaves sweeten clay silt ash
    your long gray hands cutting

     

    measuring skull scalp parchment

     

    her forearm tightens spreads over
    blankets infected with plague seeding
    spirals of heat loosens her braids

     

    black urine runs through silt ash clay
    shadowed on the walls spilling
    walls spilling sand and gravel

     

    a lira here a lira there

     

    sutured through her ruptured flesh

     

    tightens cords in Leo n a rdo’s fingers
    elbow shoulder hip
    And in heel of cadavre smoke invades

     

    one for squirrel one for crow

     

    And if you shake leaves feverish master
    skin paint surgical scar riddled
    bright-red stems freezing paint

     

    freezing urine blood segmented cell
    segmented cell by cell prototypes
    saturated he then looked at a circular

     

    looked at a circular house walls
    sand gravel beating drum and whistle
    deep-pink plague as autumn winter
    rubs black clay

     

    silence walls in remorseless then
    she looked at a circular house
    when you looked your veins multiplying
    splashes black urine

     

    they stare down on horseback pursing
    their lips measuring ransacking
    fingers crusted fibrous entrails

     

    invades cadavre aluminum walls in

     

    your neck to side

     

    you read parts of the manuscript wrong
    suppose

     

    she reveals peculiar forms
    them vivifying cording everyday
    ash and blood whole aluminum pits

     

    groups of the first Spaniards in America

     

    On a second voyage to Guatemala
    moves hydrogen helium

     

    Lenny’s blanket wrapped around parts
    of the dissection suppose red wild corn
    smoke from a burning log

     

    the wiry brat ejaculates
    every foot-print of Flora multiplying
    your long gray hands stretched your

     

    gray hands stretched deer skin

     

    Mona made rings gloves crowns masks
    the outlines of a new country

     

    Leo n a rdo seized the wrist of
    the brat squeezed his throat blood
    behind his teeth

     

    placed the infected blankets one by one
    stomach and bones crusted
    for here leave sign of our fate

     

    then he looked at a circular house

     

    an old Osage woman crushing seeds
    her iron-gray braids she gouged clay
    quickly she pulls from fire

     

    her saliva pools behind her teeth
    she pulls from fire a pot spilling
    morsels of beef half-kneeling Salia’s
    mouth measures walls

     

    then quickly he will fill canvas
    image of a paysanne flinging
    a paysanne flinging kernels

     

    unwinding her smock crows their claws
    dark-green stained windows of a
    stained windows of a cathedral

     

    exposed a new country lip-synced Sigmund

     

    you wrap a blanket around your waist
    folds and gathers cross and recross

     

    stakes with forked ends into ground
    deep-pink crust ash spirals of heat
    I arch my back stretching it is
    a paysanne bending

     

    gracile her brow diagonal lines
    skull neck you traced a scaffold
    a forked tree

     

    and close upon one of the horses
    tendons & muscles glowing I saw Salia
    beating drum and whistle

     

    your palms crushing seeds showing
    lines cross recross circular pulse
    groups moist soil of names Quicxic
    bloody wing Quicrixcac bloody claw

     

    faults she gouged clay I murmured
    into Lenny’s ear

     

    groups of the first Spaniards in America
    written on the stomach and bones
    fragment shovels gravel sand clay

     

    my doubt remains widening circles
    circles slowly Leo n a rdo fingers
    he rouges his nipples the brat stares
    down from a scaffold arches his back
    stretches his neck

     

    riders cutting out entrails their lips
    intone pulsate behind ice walls gouged
    with names crossed recrossed tribes
    on horseback

     

    winding her iron-gray braids quickly
    she fills canvas stretching roots
    disgorges ancient corn plants

     

    extracting one light amber stone

     

    idol when gravel sand blown on wind
    walls in flames of stone divided
    roots

     

    a black rain fell then silence and slow
    soaking crust ash flames swerving
    deep-pink plague a forked tree
    slicing their flesh

     

    resin sap sweetens moonlit vines
    Sigmund mused fascinated the Lords of
    Xibalba horse and rider in darkness

     

    searching Guatemala still plastic tubes
    glistening stared down in the Aztec inferno
    in the evening light worshiped sticks
    worshiped sticks of fat pine

     

    I made rings gloves crowns masks
    riddled with decay digging out a stone
    leaving a stone

     

    one for the cutworm one for the crow

     

    lips whisper counting blankets infected

     

    counting blankets infected with plague

     

    one by one

     

    They planted four acres wandering
    east to west

     

    from center smoke concentrated stems
    burnt leaf white hearts of incense
    palms arched pierced bleed names

     

    Quicxic bloody aluminum faults behind
    ice walls density of scalp crusted
    bark a forked tree shadowed upside
    down stems of moonlit vines you
    mused

     

    resin sap as leaves sweeten clay moss
    of Florida through which blood jets

     

    behind their teeth saliva red wild corn
    multiplying ancient writing gouged in

     

    gouged in the gourd seized a little man
    Mona stares down following diagonal lines
    surgical scar trusts her fibrous
    skins dressing and stretching

     

    measuring skull scalp parchment her
    feast day

     

    dark ridge of lava to north parched
    halves of skulls placed one by one

     

    one for the squirrel one for the crow

     

    groups of the first Spaniards in America

     

    they stare down on horseback

     

    ride up close looking at fragments
    slowly they circle you urge horse
    and rider course toward in this
    course toward in this direction tribes
    crossed recrossed gouged signs

     

    from armpit to stomach your pale
    stomach your pale & gasping son loosens
    his braids his throat pulsates saliva
    pools behind his teeth scrotal sac
    slit

     

    groups of the first Spaniards in America

     

    carcass stripped of its skin
    bearing two halves there a scalp
    two halves there a scalp sutured

     

    crossed behind when they found ancient
    corn plants she will fill canvas
    ash autumn winter discharging
    pus from slit ears

     

    your doubt remains for all that
    you stretch your neck instinctively

     

    Mona’s attention drawn to reddish
    layers glowing mudstone and sandstone
    shovels gravel sand clay

     

    clutches bright-red stems

     

    tightens around roots woven veins
    drew silence pale forests stretched
    the canvas exposed ancient corn
    plants shadowed upside down

     

    rifles against the walls
    horse and rider around the fire

     

    black urine soaking clay sand
    as he loosens his braids fingers
    dig

     

    one for the squirrel one for the crow

     

    crusted torn trees crash sounds
    sounds of riders cleaning rifles

     

    once Salia took an axe cut moonlit
    vines saw bright-red surgical scar
    through which blood

     

    infected with plague the trunk
    of the body engulfed by the serpent
    two halves of the cadavre

     

    slowly such great decay
    Salia covered his head with Mona’s
    smock

     

    child & Mona perched on Lenny’s back

     

    you stare down pursing your lips
    your neck to the side
    plagued by doubt

     

    calculating strips of wood right
    to left the weight of the corpse

     

    one for the cutworm

     

    and the night air blazes down her
    jaw fused soil grass animal outlines
    muscles slowly she reverses

     

    one for the crow

     

    changed nature of portrait strips
    calculated left to right weight
    of corpse one for cutworm down
    her jaw slowly reverses cunningly

     

    plagued by doubt his fallen figure
    stained with blood of first person

     

    ransacked cunningly you urinate
    spontaneously while Flora flinging
    while Flora flinging kernels

     

    loosens her braids her smock unwinding
    murmured into Salia’s ear Luca Luca

     

    I mesmerize intoned snake winding
    covered their heads with blankets

     

    black horns curve out sand mud
    blue haze through woodland

     

    a forked tree

     

    you ride up close squeezing a staff
    a staff with a skull splashes black urine

     

    Ahalpuh he who makes pus then hip shoulder
    elbow and in heel of cadavre stomach
    stomach and bones stretched out

     

    he stares down on horseback pursing
    their lips measuring strips of soil
    strips soil riddled invades bright
    bright red stems circles slowly

     

    calculating strips walls in aluminum
    analyzing death patterns blood segmented
    cell by cell

     

    deep-pink plague slicing bright-red stems

     

    their neck stretching left to right
    their lips measuring ransacking

     

    measuring ransacking entrails glistening
    ash crust soaking
    one for the cutworm one for the crow

     

    dissected correctly counting plastic
    plastic tubes filling

     

    plastic tubes glowing in sunlight

     

    you angled your face analyzing
    death patterns

     

    one light amber stone red wild corn
    dark ridge gouged

     

    gouged configurations ripped two
    halves two halves of parchment
    multiplying death patterns

     

    you put slashes in through which water
    through which water runs spreads over
    America through silt ash silt clay

     

    death patterns plague crossed

     

    I heard crows their claws searching

     

    riddled bright red stems one gouged
    exposed your whitish bones

     

    exhausted outlines gravel sand skull
    neck your wrists arch backwards crushing
    backwards crushing seeds she wraps
    a blanket through which blood

     

    slowly such great decay
    she stares down plagued by doubt

     

    pus from slit ears horse and rider
    in darkness tubes counted
    one for squirrel one for crow

     

    entrails walls freezing paint stained
    circles on the stomach and bones

     

    you ride up close begin searching
    my painting two halves cut into side
    deep-pink crust heat from a burning log

     

    internal and external burns glowing in sunlight
    burns glowing in sunlight

     

    widening a pair of jaws long slow
    counting teeth burnt in fire
    knife in one hand a blanket in the other
    one hand a blanket in the other

     

    gray hands stretched measured bones up close
    ends cleaved deep-pink marrow exposed
    sections you analyze the assemblage

     

    death patterns outlines of a new country

     

    then Mona looked at a circular house
    under the trees

     

    she fasted scattered cremains
    scattered cremains in the morning sun

     

    ash blood black clay glowing in sunlight
    death patterns floating like props
    backwards one by one upside down

     

    image of a whipped and crucified woman
    her saliva pools behind her teeth

     

    then an old Osage woman crushing seeds
    her palms shadowed Quicxic bloody wind
    Quicrixcac bloody claw

     

    notched stick end lower three long
    strokes strokes from end to end

     

    Flora waves her arm offering yellows
    from plants from the stick toward
    toward the sun her image crossed lines
    paint congeals

     

    you ride up close after each stroke
    upper torso shadowed skull neck body

     

    Salia details holes in the hands
    and feet north of the fire peculiar
    forms red stems splitting

     

    Leo n a rdo makes a circular mark
    passing his hands measuring skull scalp
    parchment

     

    Spaniards wearing braided silk belts
    ropes used to pull the head and torso
    elbows knees necks alternating

     

    floating like props looking she heard

     

    crows their claws searching

     

    image of a whipped and crucified woman
    her iron-gray braids hanging

     

    end to end toward the sun following
    crossed lines of paint lines cross
    recross the center

     

    freezing hard roots no sound no sound

     

    of hoof-beats you ride up close
    searching when you looked the heel
    of the cadavre segmented cell by cell
    encased roots

     

    upper torso of the little man
    multiplying seethed and probed
    palms arch resin sap jets saturates
    behind walls Salia’s sketch of smoke

     

    lines cross recross tendons veins
    clutches bright red stems measuring
    two halves of a circular house

     

    sides of aluminum walls you stare down
    on horseback you suppose she reveals
    peculiar forms groups of

     

    forms groups of the first Spaniards
    in America

     

    Leo n a rdo paints child & Mona as
    leaves sweeten lip-synced Sigmund

     

    Quicrixcac bloody claw Quicxic bloody

     

    bloody wind no sound no sound

     

    scattered cremains in the morning sun
    crossed lines of paint circles congeals
    image of a whipped and crucified woman
    her iron-gray braids hanging

     


     

    Black Stems

     

    scattered cremains
    through a woodland near a forked

     

    near a forked tree patterns seeding
    and yellow blossoms hydrogen green
    You scattered delicate blossoms
    my forearm tightens spreads over

     

    right to left red stems counted one
    for crow one for cutworm

     

    the first skull showing lines crossed
    recrossed yellow skin raw you stare
    down into heat she falls backwards
    mistrusts holes in the hands and feet

     

    used nails every inch death patterns

     

    circles spirals cross recross every
    inch nearer and nearer into heat

     

    his neck stretches Ahalpuh he who
    he who makes pus

     

    every name shadows on the walls wind
    spirals into heat spills sand gravel
    you ride up close nearer and nearer

     

    you use ropes to pull the head and torso

     

    held her whitish bones high in air
    near a forked tree broken rocks
    a mile of black dust

     

    whose names are gouged letters angled
    white-edged your fingers through sand clay
    through sand clay silt

     

    your fingers tracing slant of wall
    every inch mistrusts deviates

     

    Tell me who assures you that this
    work ever was

     

    black stems sticking out letters planted
    shape a headless idol crust ash then
    you ride up close loosen your braids

     

    hoof-beats swerving shadowed on walls
    you heard crows their claws searching

     

    black coals clumps of deep-pink rot
    fissures death patterns backflow crossed
    left to right you are drawing raw thongs

     

    image of a whipped and crucified woman
    your saliva pools behind your teeth

     

    you lower your wrist plagued by doubt
    angled letters gouged into walls nearer
    and nearer smoke from a burning cross

     

    smoke from a burning cross spreads over
    you looked at a photograph miles of
    cracked clay walls of a circular house
    spilling

     

    blows sand on carcass near a forked tree
    near a forked tree pointed tracks

     

    broken rocks stained with blood
    strips calculated weight and night air
    measured outlines counted

     

    counted one for crow one for cutworm

     

    through woodland smoke from a burning
    cross mistrusts you ride up close right
    right to left of corpse staring down

     

    analyzing death patterns jaw crushed
    pus from slit ears deep-pink marrow
    deep-pink marrow exposed

     

    blue haze through woodland you heard
    crows their claws searching
    horses passing near a forked tree

     

    hooves pointed tracks death patterns
    bones black horns curve out sand mud
    hooves crushing entrails bright red

     

    bright red stems red wild corn slowly
    ash crust soaking
    Ahalpuh he who makes pus you ride up
    close stare down on horseback pursing

     

    pursing your lips measuring claws
    your neck stretches left to right nearer
    and nearer

     

  • Fucking (With Theory) for Money: Toward an Interrogation of Escort Prostitution

    Tessa Dora Addison and Audrey Extavasia

    Literary and Cultural Theory
    Carnegie Mellon University
    ta1a+@andrew.cmu.edu (Addison) wk11+@andrew.cmu.edu (Extavasia)

     

         This paper is intended as an introductory interrogation of
         the terrain of escort prostitution mobilizing terms
         from both The Telephone Book by Avital Ronell and 
         A Thousand Plateaus by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari.
    
         For the purposes of this paper, the client will be
         presumed to be a man and the model presumed to be a
         woman.  We are not trying to provide a comprehensive
         account of all aspects of the terrain of prostitution, or
         even of escort agencies.
    
         Cross-referenced terms are in upper case.
    
         Contents: THECALLTHEMODELTHECLIENTTHEAGENCYCYBORGASSEMBLAGEB
                   ODYWITHOUTORGANSTIMESPACETHETELEPHONEVALUE/EXCHANG
                   EDESIREFACIALITYTOOLSFETISHISMDETERRITORIALIZATION
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         T H E   C A L L
    
         THE CALL is the interaction of THE MODEL and THE CLIENT
         within a particular spatial and temporal frame (see SPACE
         and TIME).  THE MODEL is a student, an actress, a nurse's
         aide, a teacher, or a secretary....  THE CLIENT is a
         businessman, a dentist, a banker, a construction worker, or
         a computer programmer....  The temporal borders of THE CALL
         are delineated by THE TELEPHONE (which connects THE CLIENT,
         THE MODEL, and THE AGENCY), in conjunction with the watch,
         or instrumental TIME.  The arm of authority behind THE
         TELEPHONE and instrumental TIME is THE AGENCY.  THE MODEL
         gets ready for THE CALL, prepares to become a 'fantasy
         girl,' by imitating (media) representations of women as
         objects of DESIRE: she wears garters and hose and high
         heels; the nails of both fingers and toes are painted.
         These are signifiers on a fragmented, coded body, signifiers
         that THE CLIENT will be drawn to (through DESIRE), that will
         reinforce his FETISHISM and in turn contribute to the
         construction of his BODY WITHOUT ORGANS (BwO).  THE CLIENT
         has a BwO which he is drawn to construct, which has an
         already written set of rules/conditions by which it must be
         constructed, conditions which include the fetishized system
         of signifying effects with which THE MODEL has attempted to
         encode her body (and which already encode her body as
         woman).  THE MODEL goes to THE CLIENT's hotel or motel or
         private home or apartment or to a bar or restaurant or hot
         tub spa....  When THE MODEL enters the SPACE of THE CALL,
         THE CLIENT gives her a substantial fee in EXCHANGE for an
         opportunity to spend a designated amount of TIME with her,
         an opportunity to interact with her cyborg subject-position
         'fantasy girl' (a subject-position which is composed of both
         fact and fantasy), an opportunity to construct his BwO.
         After she has been paid, THE MODEL calls THE AGENCY on THE
         TELEPHONE to announce that the EXCHANGE has been initiated
         and that it is now time to begin measuring the length of THE
         CALL.  THE MODEL and THE CLIENT now interact together, their
         bodies intermingling with DESIRE, FETISHISM, representation,
         the SPACE of the room, the TIME measured by THE MODEL's
         watch as well as the TIME elusively marked by THE CLIENT's
         memories, fantasies, and anticipation of orgasm (which is
         not the object of his DESIRE but a fetishized signifier
         which masks the perpetually deferred BwO, the plane of
         consistency of his DESIRE).  When the end of THE CALL is
         announced by instrumental TIME (or by a telephone call from
         THE AGENCY if THE CALL has transgressed the boundaries
    marked
         by instrumental TIME), THE MODEL telephones THE AGENCY, says
         goodbye to THE CLIENT, and exits the SPACE of THE CALL.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         T H E   M O D E L
    
              AdrienneAlannaAlexandraAlexisAllisonAman
              daAngelaAnyaArdenArianaAshleyAudreyAvery
    
         She will become part of the CYBORG ASSEMBLAGE which you are
         purchasing (you want to purchase the fulfillment of your
         BODY WITHOUT ORGANS, to draw her into its logic, to name her
         through your DESIRE which is based on representations of
         women, on fetishization), after you have picked up THE
         TELEPHONE, after you have called her.  What will you call
         her?  You must first call her a partner in the EXCHANGE in
         which you are about to take part; you must call her the
         producer of the commodity for which you will give her $ (in
         an amount purportedly based on equivalence but in fact VALUE
         is measured by, determined by FETISHISM, DESIRE, and
         taboo...).  I hear you're looking for some company
         tonight...
    
              CameronCamilleCaroleCarolynCeceliaChantal
              CharlottaCherylChristyClarissaColbyCorinne
    
         She is called the call-girl: she is connected to both THE
         CLIENT and THE AGENCY by THE TELEPHONE.
    
                   Claudette embodied a sophisticated,
                   elegant New York look, so she always had
                   a more fashionable hairstyle and very
                   chic accessories.  Tricia represented
                   the girl next door, and she tended to
                   wear dresses rather than suits--
                   especially dresses with a Peter Pan
                   collar or puffy sleeves.  Michelle was a
                   model.  She was very tall, and her
                   clothing would be slightly trendy, with
                   more dramatic hair and makeup.  Colby
                   represented the healthy, outdoorsy type,
                   with a wind-swept, off-the-farm look.
                   Marguerite was exotic and tended to wear
                   tight skirts.
    
         THE MODEL works as an independent contractor for an agency.
    
                   We are very particular about the young
                   ladies who work for us.  They must work
                   or go to school during the day, or be
                   actively pursuing a career in the arts
                   or in modeling.
    
         THE MODEL, like THE CLIENT has a BwO; her BwO is
         deterritorialized though, onto the commodity form money.
    
              DanieleDarleneDeidreDevinElaineEileenEliseEl
              izabethEricaGabrielaGingerHeatherHelenaIrene
    
                   You must always wear a skirt or a dress.
                   Please don't wear anything very short or
                   very trendy... you'll need at least one
                   suit... you'll also need a dress, which
                   should be lady-like and tailored, with
                   no frills or ruffles.
    
         THE MODEL can never fulfill THE CLIENT's BwO--there will
         always be a gap...
    
              JaimeJanineJenniferJessicaJerriJoannaJuli
              aSeverineShawnaShelbyShelleyShevaunSophia
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         T H E   C L I E N T
    
         THE CLIENT becomes a potential client when he picks up THE
         TELEPHONE.
    
                   When you talk to friends about your
                   work, you're going to end up talking
                   about the weird clients and the mean
                   clients and the bad clients, because
                   they make hilarious stories.  But even
                   weird clients are usually nice people.
    
         THE CLIENT becomes a client when the EXCHANGE is initiated.
    
                   Some of our clients are made of gold,
                   and you'll meet your share of them.  But
                   that's not true for everybody.  In some
                   cases, the evening he spends with you
                   will be his biggest treat of the year.
    
         theclientisafashionphotographerbusinessmancabinetmakerdentis
         tsconstructionworkerbankercomputerprogrammerpestcontroltechn
         iciandoctorconsultantmusicindustryprofessionalhousepainterla
         wyeraccountantrealestatedeveloperarchitecttheclientisshortth
         inbaldaveragelookingoldmarriedattractivefatsingletalluglydiv
         orcedtheclientisalegmanboobmanassmantheclientisafashionphoto
         grapherbusinessmancabinetmakerdentistsconstructionworkerbank
         ercomputerprogrammerpestcontroltechniciandoctorconsultantmus
         icindustryprofessionalhousepainterlawyeraccountantrealestate
         developerarchitecttheclientisshortthinbaldaveragelookingoldm
         arriedattractivefatsingletalluglydivorcedtheclientisalegmanb
         oobmanassmantheclientisafashionphotographerbusinessmancabine
         tmakerdentistsconstructionworkerbankercomputerprogrammerpest
         controltechniciandoctorconsultantmusicindustryprofessionalho
         usepainterlawyeraccountantrealestatedeveloperarchitectthecli
         entisshortthinbaldaveragelookingoldmarriedattractivefatsingl
         etalluglydivorcedtheclientisalegmanboobmanassmantheclient
    
         THE CLIENT is paying to interact with his 'fantasy girl,'
         his object of DESIRE; he is paying to construct his BODY
         WITHOUT ORGANS (BwO).
    
                   I guess I'd like to know if there's any
                   way to tell in advance what strange sex
                   acts will turn a particular person on...
                   absolutely anyone can be turned on by
                   absolutely anything...part of my job is
                   to respond to these people....
    
         THE CLIENT has a BwO which has an already-written set of
         rules, system of logic, by which it is to be constructed.
    
                   We did all of the usual sucking and
                   fucking.  Then he put me in the Muslim
                   prayer position so familiar to me, at
                   the edge of the bed.  Then he knelt on
                   the floor and licked my asshole for a
                   while...he started sticking his tongue
                   in my ass.  He stuck it in very deep, so
                   deep I could feel it moving around
                   inside me...then he really surprised
                   me.  He blew air into my ass and then
                   inhaled deeply as the air came back out.
                   He did it over and over, more times than
                   I could count.
    
         Integral to the logic of THE CLIENT's BwO is the
         fetishization of representations of women (by the media, by
         his memory, etc.) as objects of DESIRE.  It is the
         signifying system, the codes inscribed on THE MODEL's body
         which is being fetishized, rather than woman qua woman.
    
                   Remember, you're a fantasy for these
                   guys.  If someone asked you to sit down
                   and spell out your description of what a
                   high-class New York call girl would be
                   like, you'd probably say, 'Well, she'd
                   have a beautiful hairdo, gorgeous
                   makeup, she'd be very pretty and
                   elegantly dressed, and sophisticated.'
                   That's exactly who our clients expect
                   you to be.  You just can't walk in there
                   looking like the women he sees every day
                   at work, like his secretary, or the wife
                   he goes home to, or the girls he passes
                   by on the street.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         T H E  A G E N C Y   T H E  A G E N C Y   T H E  A G E N C Y
    
         THE AGENCY serves as the arm of the law, sets up the
         boundaries/limits of (and is part of) the CYBORG ASSEMBLAGE
         which constitutes THE CALL, which in turn effects the
         possibilities of the logic of the BwO which may be
         fulfilled.
    
                   Sometimes he might want to touch you
                   back there.  Technically it's known as
                   Greek, and we don't allow it at all.  We
                   do not touch them there and they do not
                   touch us there....
    
         THE AGENCY is headed by an agent, who is the personification
         of these limits.
    
                   Now when you're talking to the client,
                   please don't refer to us as the office
                   or the agency....  Every man has a
                   fantasy that he's calling a private
                   madam...and we try to foster that
                   image.
    
         THE AGENCY is responsible for screening THE CLIENTs, which
         means screening out unwanted DESIREs, unwanted BwO's.
    
                   For the man who asked, 'Whaddya got
                   tonight?' the answer was a dial tone.
    
         THE AGENCY receives a percentage of THE MODEL's earnings
         from THE CALL.  THE AGENCY is not a partner in the primary
         EXCHANGE with THE CLIENT; rather, the EXCHANGE between THE
         MODEL and THE AGENCY is a separate agreement based on
         different terms, different standards of VALUE.  THE AGENCY
         is paid to function as protection, both before--through the
         screening procedure--and during THE CALL.
    
                   Once you're in the room, ask if you
                   could use the phone....  Call the office
                   at the special number....  If you do
                   want to leave...if you're not
                   comfortable, then we'll take care of it
                   for you.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         C Y B O R G   A S S E M B L A G E
    
         It is neither THE MODEL's body which is being purchased nor
         is it THE MODEL's TIME.  What is being purchased is an
         opportunity to interact with the subject-position "fantasy
         girl," a subject-position which is constituted by THE MODEL,
         technology, fiction, SPACE and TIME: we would describe this
         subject-position as "cyborg space-time" and the assemblage
         which contributes to the subject-position's creation--see
         below for elements of this assemblage--as a "CYBORG
         ASSEMBLAGE."
    
              A cyborg is a cybernetic organism, a hybrid of machine
              and organism, a creature of social reality as well as a
              creature of fiction.

    1

     
         The CYBORG ASSEMBLAGE surrounding the subject-position
         "fantasy girl" is composed of fiction as well as the
         material or concrete.  Fiction: representations of beauty,
         fetishization of signifiers than encode the body (= lines to
         media), etc..  The ASSEMBLAGE is also composed of the
         circuit of THE TELEPHONE, of TIME, of SPACE, of the escort
         AGENCY (= the Law), of the EXCHANGE (= lines to capitalist
         system).
    
         There has been much criticism of Haraway's cyborg myth as
         romantic--Mary Anne Doane: "What is missing in this
         account--and seemingly unnecessary in the advanced
         technological society described here--is a theory of
         subjectivity"

    2

    --but we would argue for the importance of
         the myth of the cyborg in that it is a similar myth which
         forms the commodity in prostitution: it is formed through
         both the concrete and the abstract, through the organic and
         the technological.  The cyborg myth is also, we think,
         important in that it breaks down binary oppositions--the
         breaking down of oppositions such as public/private and
         smooth SPACE/striated SPACE is crucial to the enterprise of
         the escort agency and to the VALUE of the commodity which is
         being sold.
    
         We would want to think cyborg as articulation (using Stuart
         Hall's concept of "articulation" here, with its connotations
         of gaps, constructedness, provisionality) of human subject
         and technology--the cyborg subject necessarily foregrounds
         fragmentation, gaps, partial/incomplete identity.

    3

     
         For our project--and any project, we would argue--a theory
         of subjectivity is necessary in order to discuss power
         relations, to make distinctions and show relations
         between/among subject-positions; indeed, in order to
         distinguish cyborgs.
    
         Cyborg theory must be able to discuss power, DESIRE,
         interest.  Gayatri Spivak criticizes Deleuze and Guattari
         for not being able to do this: "The failure of Deleuze and
         Guattari [in A Thousand Plateaus] to consider the
         relations between desire, power, and subjectivity renders
         them incapable of articulating a theory of interest."

    4

         Conceptualizing CYBORG ASSEMBLAGE through concept of
         articulation which accounts for provisional identity makes
         it possible to think subjectivity, interest, DESIRE,
         power....
    
         callgirltelephonevisaagenthotelcashmemoryfantasyclientmo
         deltaxiprivatehomeamexlingeriespacemastercardtimecondoms
         vicesquadmotellubevibratorvenerealdiseasewineyellowpages
              CALLGIRLTELEPHONEVISAAGE
              NTHOTELCASHMEMORYFANTASY
              CLIENTMODELTAXIPRIVATEHO
              MEAMEXLINGERIESPACEMASTE
              RCARDTIMECONDOMSVICESQUA
              DMOTELLUBEVIBRATORVENERE
              ALDISEASEWINEYELLOWPAGES
                                     callgirltelephonevisa
                                     agenthotelcashmemoryf
                                     antasyclientmodeltaxi
                                     privatehomeamexlinger
                                     iespacemastercardtime
                                     condomsvicesquadmotel
                                     lubevibratorvenereald
                                     iseasewineyellowpages
         CALLGIRLTELEPHONEVISAAGENTHOTELCASHMEMORYFANTASYCLIENTMO
         DELTAXIPRIVATEHOMEAMEXLINGERIESPACEMASTERCARDTIMECONDOMS
         VICESQUADMOTELLUBEVIBRATORVENEREALDISEASEWINEYELLOWPAGES
    
         (CYBORG ASSEMBLAGE)
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         B O D I E S W I T H O U T O R G A N S
    
         The BwO is the commodity being sold by escort agencies.  It
         is enacted by THE CLIENT, THE MODEL, the parameters of SPACE
         and TIME (which are permeable), THE TELEPHONE,
         representations of women through the media, the EXCHANGE
         (commodification of the BwO), TOOLS/paraphernalia--in short,
         by the CYBORG ASSEMBLAGE.  The BwO is a program, a limit
         which marks the edges of the plane of DESIRE--it can never
         be reached, fulfilled.  The BwO is both inside and outside
         the concrete, both inside and outside the abstract.
    
         "The BwO is desire; it is that which one desires and by
         which one desires...There is desire whenever there is the
         constitution of a BwO under one relation or another."

    5

         DESIRE is the motor of the BwO, the driving force and
         predication of the logic of the BwO.  "The BwO is the field
         of immanence of desire, the plane of consistency specific to
         desire..." (D&G 154).
    
         The BwO is an assemblage of various bodies: "The masochist
         constructs an entire assemblage that simultaneously draws
         and fills the field of immanence of desire; he constitutes a
         body without organs or plane of consistency using himself,
         the horse, and the mistress" (D&G 156).  The BwO is THE
         CLIENT, THE MODEL, the words, and the absent presence(s)
         upon which the conditions/logic of the BwO is based:
         girlfriend, mother, ex-girlfriend, girl next door, girl in
         magazine, stripper, etc.....
    
    Let me be your little boy.
    
         "...the BwO is not a scene, a place, or even a support, upon
         which something comes to pass" (D&G 153).  What it is is a
         limit...it can never be achieved.  "The BwO is what remains
         when you take everything away.  What you take away is
         precisely the phantasy, and significances and
         subjectifications as a whole" (D&G 151).
    
         The BwO is a program, with its own rules and logic and
         conditions....
    
    Let me be your slave.
    
         "The masochist is looking for a type of BwO that only pain
         can fill, or travel over, due to the very conditions under
         which that BwO was constituted" (D&G 152).  THE CLIENT is
         looking for--and paying for--a BwO which has already been
         scripted, already has a specific set of conditions within
         whose framework it must function.  This set of conditions
         determines, too, THE CLIENT's DESIREs:
    
              "You can't desire without making [a BwO]" (D&G 149).
    
    I want to give you all my money and all my cum.
    
              "You never reach the Body without Organs, you can't
              reach it, you are forever attaining it, it is a limit"
              (D&G 150).
    
         Re: the masochist: "Legs are still organs, but the boots now
         only determine a zone of intensity as an imprint or a zone
         on a BwO" (D&G 156).  Like the object of DESIRE of the
         masochist, so too the fragments of the body of THE MODEL
         becomes for THE CLIENT "an imprint or a zone on a BwO."
         That is, she as signifying system (see FETISHISM) is part of
         the assemblage that constitutes the BwO, the plane of
         consistency of DESIRE....
    
    Do you like to see men jack off?
    
         THE MODEL is your invitation to build a BwO, as your
         invitation to interact with her [cyborg] subject position--
         that is, to have her become part of your BwO, to help you
         build it, to be built into it....
    
    Tell me what to do.  Tell me who's boss.
    
         THE MODEL can never fulfill THE CLIENT's BODY WITHOUT
         ORGANS...even COCK RINGS, even TANTRIC SEX...only
         suspend the inevitable....  "Orgasm is a mere fact, a
         rather deplorable one, in relation to desire in pursuit of
         its principle" (D&G 156).  "It is not a question of
         experiencing desire as an internal lack, nor of delaying
         pleasure in order to produce a kind of externalizable
         surplus value, but instead of constituting an intensive body
         without organs" (D&G 157).
    
    Let me worship you.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         T I M E
    
                   So you get in the elevator and you go on
                   up.  Before you knock on the client's
                   door, be sure to look at your watch,
                   because it's important to know what time
                   you arrived--and nobody likes a clock
                   watcher.  Incidentally, it's helpful to
                   wear a watch that's especially easy to
                   read in a dim light with just a glance.
    
         TIME becomes VALUE: THE MODEL's rate is based on hourly
         increments; after an hour has passed, THE CLIENT must pay
         more if he wants THE MODEL to stay for the next hour, and so
         on.
    
                   "I took a look at my watch while I was
                   in the bathroom, and I couldn't believe
                   what time it was.... I don't want to
                   rush you, but I do have to call Sheila
                   in a little while and tell her if I'll
                   be staying or leaving."
    
         For THE CLIENT, TIME often functions as a dialectic between
         memory and anticipation--"You never know what just happened,
         or you always know what is going to happen" (D&G 193)--
         his DESIREs revolve around memories and fantasies, past and
         future....  The BwO comes from the past and is aimed at the
         future--it never comes into being, never exists now.
    
         Orgasm marks anticipatory (goal-oriented) TIME.  Often THE
         CLIENT will treat THE CALL as over if he has come and not
         over if he has not yet come, regardless of the instrumental
         TIME as measured by THE MODEL's watch.  [See agency as arm
         of the law....]
    
                   Although escort services are technically
                   legal, they are at times raided by the
                   police and forced to shut down--if only
                   temporarily.  To protect ourselves from
                   being arrested under the prostitution
                   laws, we always make it clear to our
                   clients that we are charging for the
                   girls' time.
    
         Think, a person moves from here (space/man/time) through
         here (space/man enters into negotiation/time) to here
         (space/client meets fantasy girl/time) and through
         (space/client enters fantasy girl/time) to exit (space/man
         and model leave/time)--similar scenario for model, first
         they are separate, then intersect, then separate....
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         S P A C E
    
         THE CALL: it is a public SPACE that gives the illusion of
         being a private SPACE.  It is this illusion which THE CLIENT
         is paying for, this illusion which is produced and regulated
         by THE AGENCY, the capitalist system, THE TELEPHONE--e.g.
         public (social) SPACE.  The physical SPACE of the room is
         criss-crossed by THE TELEPHONE, room service, beepers, etc..
    
              "In this space [of sex/ pleasure/ leisure], things,
              acts and situations are forever being replaced by
              representations...."

    6

      [See FETISHISM]
    
              "For these bodies, the natural space and the abstract
              space which confront and surround them are in no way
              separable....  The individual situates his body in its
              own space and apprehends the space around the body"
              (Lefebvre 213).
    
         BwO and SPACE: "It is not space, nor is it in space; it is
         matter that occupies space to a given degree..." (D&G 153).
    
              privatehomehotelmotelofficehottubspa
    
                   For some of these men, an hour or an
                   evening with an escort was their only
                   opportunity all week to drop their
                   guard, be themselves, and relax.
    
         The SPACE within THE CALL is [illusionarily] smooth SPACE--
         it is the illusion of smooth SPACE which THE CLIENT is
         paying for.
    
         Striated SPACE is SPACE gridded by boundaries: constructed
         by VALUEs of THE AGENCY, circuits of THE TELEPHONE,
         standards of U.S. Treasury, logic of BwO, etc..  Marks the
         edges of illusion of smooth SPACE.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         T H E   T E L E P H O N E
    
         Okay.  So there you are, sitting at home.  Your makeup is
         on, you hair is done, your bag is packed, and you're ready
         to go.  Suddenly THE TELEPHONE rings.  Your picking it up
         means THE CALL has come through.  It means more: you're its
         beneficiary, rising to meet its demand, to pay a debt.  You
         don't know who's calling or what you are going to be called
         on upon to do, and still, you are lending your ear, giving
         something up, receiving an order.

    7

      But you do know
         who's calling.  You are on call; it's your agent calling
         about a potential client.  You get the following
         information: who he is, where he is, how old he is, and some
         other details about him, perhaps his profession, perhaps a
         little about his personality.  You do know what you are
         going to be called upon to do, what you are going to be
         called upon to be.  You are meeting a demand, receiving an
         order but you understand the demand, know the order.  You
         will be THE CLIENT's fantasy girl in EXCHANGE for a
         substantial fee.  THE TELEPHONE rings and you are part of
         the ASSEMBLAGE of escort prostitution.
    
         theclientopensthetelephonebookfindstheadintheyellowpagesandc
         allstheagencytheagentcallsthemodelthemodelcallstheclientthec
         lientcallstheagentbacktheagentcallsthemodeltoconfirmthemodel
         callstheagentonarrival(aftertheclientgivesthemodelmoney)them
         odelcallstheagentagainbeforeleaving(afterthemodelgivesthecli
         entaccesstoherbody)andagainwhenthemodelgetshome
    
                   Pager/beeper--some girls find it more
                   convenient to use a beeper, which leaves
                   them free to go shopping or out to a
                   movie while they're waiting for us to
                   call...if you do use a beeper, you have
                   to be all dressed and ready to go from
                   wherever you are.  Call-waiting--
                   naturally, you'll want to keep your
                   phone free.  Most of the girls have
                   call-waiting, and I strongly recommend
                   it.  Car phone--the car phone, if you
                   can afford it, is the escort's best
                   friend.  It gives you access to the
                   agency when you are out on the road (you
                   wouldn't believe how many girls are on
                   the way to the movie or somewhere else
                   when their beeper goes off), and it
                   gives you more flexibility when calling
                   in to the agency after you've been on a
                   call.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         V A L U E V A L U E V A L U E V A L U E
    
         "Exchange is only an appearance: each partner or group
         assesses the value of the last receivable object
         (limit-object), and the apparent equivalence derives from
         that" (D&G 439).  In terms of the terrain of escort
         "limit-object" is not determined solely by rational
         assessment but rather must be processed through the logic of
         THE CLIENT's BwO--VALUE is a derivation of DESIRE.
    
                   I keep hearing from men who want to know
                   if we have any girls who are more
                   expensive, and presumably more
                   beautiful, than the others.
    
         VALUE is not based on use value: "[Use value] is always
         concrete and particular, contingent on its own
         destiny . . . ."

    8

      Use value is determined only after the
         EXCHANGE has taken place, and is, itself, "a fetishized
         social relation" (Baudrillard 131).  VALUE is the
         fetishization of commodity's sign system; in escort
         prostitution, of the sign system encoded on THE MODEL's
         body.  The fetishization of this sign system is reinforced
         during THE CALL (see FACIALITY).
    
                   A working girl doesn't really sell her
                   body...she gives the client access to
                   her body for a certain period of time
                   and at a certain price.
    
         The VALUE of the commodity before the EXCHANGE--in order for
         the EXCHANGE to take place--is determined by the
         fetishization of the commodity.  "[F]etishism is not the
         sanctification of a certain object, or value....It is the
         sanctification of the system as such, of the commodity as
         system: it is thus contemporaneous with the generalization
         of exchange value and is propagated with it" (Baudrillard
         92).
    
              Reading woman repeatedly as the object of male exchange
              constructs a victim's discourse that risks reinscribing
              the very sexual politics it ostensibly seeks to expose
              and change.

    9

     
         THE MODEL has a dual register, as both object of and subject
         of--partner in--EXCHANGE.
    
              Reading women as objects exchanged by male desiring
              subjects partakes of a degraded positivism that relies
              on an outmoded, humanist view of identity characterized
              by a metaphysics of presence; it assumes an
              unproblematic subjectivity for 'men' as desiring
              subjects and concomitantly assumes as directly
              accessible woman-as-object.  (Newman 47)
    
         The terrain of escort prostitution, like the terrain of
         sex/gender relations, is problematic, in terms of the
         "traffic in women" paradigm.  Women working as escorts are
         not simply victims of some "pornographic mind" as Susan
         Griffin claims in Pornography and Silence, where she
         equates the "mindset" (read unified, stable, subject
         position) of pornography producers with that of Nazis and
         the Marquis de Sade.

    10

      Griffin's argument, as well as
         many other feminist arguments which want to label
         prostitutes and other women working in the sex industry as
         "innocent victims" fallen prey to "false consciousness,"
         presumes a unified subject and thus needs to be reexamined
         in the light of post-structuralist theories of subjectivity.
         As both producer of commodity and embodiment of that
         commodity, the escort participates in disruption of "traffic
         in women" paradigm.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         E X C H A N G E <-> E X C H A N G E <-> E X C H A N G E
    
         When each party has something the other wants, and they're
         able to make a deal, that constitutes a fair EXCHANGE.
    
              The priest did not turn to the west.  He knew that in
              the west lay a plane of consistency, but he thought
              that the way was blocked by the columns of Hercules,
              that it led nowhere and was uninhabited by people.  But
              that is where DESIRE was lurking, west was the shortest
              route east, as well as to the other directions,
              rediscovered or deterritorialized.  (D&G 154)
    
                   You go into the bathroom to spiff-up, to
                   fix your face but this is harder than it
                   sounds.  You look in the mirror and see
                   that your eye makeup has run onto your
                   face, your lipstick has disappeared and
                   your hair is completely disheveled.  In
                   addition to fixing your face you have to
                   wipe your crotch for wetness and odor,
                   put on your underwear, bra, hose, and
                   garters, all without spending too much
                   time in the bathroom.  You panic.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         F A C I A L I T Y
    
         facialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfacial
         ityfacialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfac
         ialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfacialityfaciality
    
         THE MODEL's face is part of THE CLIENT's BwO (see
         FETISHISM).  It is a signifier marking the boundaries of the
         object of his DESIRE.  Her face envelops the face of the
         prom queen from his high school, of the girl in the
         centerfold of his magazine, of his mother....
    
    Tell me who's boss.
    
         "All faces envelop an unknown, unexplored landscape; all
         landscapes are populated by a loved or dreamed-of face,
         develop a face to come or already past" (D&G 173).  To
         come....
    
    Tell me what you like.
    
              "The signifier is always facialized.  Faciality reigns
              materially over that whole constellation of
              significances and interpretations."  (D&G 115)
    
    Tell me how much you like it.
    
         When THE CLIENT says, "tell me how it feels" or some other
         such thing, it's not just about the words (he could say them
         himself) but about FACIALITY, watching the words being
         spoken by THE MODEL, watching the significance process
         through FACIALITY.
    
                   After you knock on the door, stand back
                   a couple of feet.  A face is such a
                   subjective thing.  It's important that
                   the client gets the full image of you
                   when he first opens the door--the total
                   you, rather than just your face.  If you
                   stand too close to the door, your face
                   is all that he sees.  And you might not
                   be exactly what his fantasy was,
                   because, let's face it, there's almost
                   no way you could be.
    
         (The BwO contains gaps and ruptures, never to be closed
         ...see BODY WITHOUT ORGANS.)
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         T O O L S
    
              CONDOMSLIPSTICKVIBRATORSTOCKINGSBEEPERBREATHMINTSL
              UBESMALLCHANGECREDITCARDSLIPSBUSINESSCARDSEYELINER
    
                   Some men are frightened by the sight of
                   the vibrator.  It's about fourteen
                   inches long and you always keep a
                   nine-foot extension cord attached to it.
                   Sometimes a man will say, 'What the hell
                   is that?' or 'Are you going to use that
                   on me?'  You say, 'It's a vibrator, and
                   I wouldn't think of using it on you.
                   Not a chance.  Don't you wish I would?'
                   Then you use it on yourself while they
                   watch.
    
         TOOLS exist only in relation to the interminglings they make
         possible or that make them possible.  (D&G 90)
    
                   You start telling him what a bad boy he
                   has been.  He says 'Yes Mistress.'  You
                   go to the dresser in your five-inch
                   heels and pick up a wooden hairbrush.
                   You tell him to stand up and bend over
                   the bed.  You pull down his panties, to
                   expose his cheeks, and smack each cheek
                   a few times.  In between smackings you
                   tell him what a bad boy he has been.
    
         TOOLS and DETERRITORIALIZATION: "there is an entire
         system of horizontal and complementary
         reterritorializations, between hand and tool" (D&G 174).
    
              suitbriefcasejewelrycocktaildressgartersstockings
              brasbustierslatexglovesbubblebathmassageoil
    
         TOOLS form the appendages of the CYBORG ASSEMBLAGE....
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         F E T I S H I S M
    
         Two kinds of FETISHISM occur during THE CALL--that of the
         commodity as VALUE and that of THE MODEL as object of
         DESIRE.  The fetishization is not of use VALUE or meaning;
         rather it is about being drawn to the system of
         signification, it is a generalization of the structural code
         of the object: "it is thus not a fetishism of the
         signified, a fetishism of substances and values (called
         ideological), which the fetish object would incarnate for
         the alienated subject.  Behind this reinterpretation (which
         is truly ideological) it is a fetishism of the signifier.
         That is to say that the subject is trapped in the
         factitious, differential, encoded, systematized aspect of
         the object" (Baudrillard 92).  This entrapment can be called
         DESIRE.
    
                   people who want me to wear costumes,
                   people who want me to sit with them
                   while they watch dirty movies and jerk
                   off, people who want to be tied up,
                   people who want to wear diapers and be
                   given a bottle....
    
         Beauty as FETISHISM: we are "bound up in a general
         stereotype of models of beauty . . . the generalization of
         sign exchange value to facial and bodily effects"
         (Baudrillard 94).  Thus for clients FETISHISM is being drawn
         to media representations of women, fascination with the
         system of encodement represented on women's bodies through
         images in magazines, porn movies, television, advertising,
         etc..
    
                   After Mommie Dearest, suddenly there
                   were guys who wanted to be hit with wire
                   coat hangers.
    
         FETISHISM is integral to logic of, to construction of, THE
         CLIENT's BODY WITHOUT ORGANS: "the boots now only determine
         a zone of intensity as an imprint or a zone on a BwO" (D&G
         156).
    
                   The only concession we make to overt
                   sexiness is the highest heels you can
                   manage to walk in without falling over.
                   In our experience, men just adore high
                   heels.
    
         "Tattoos, stretched lips, [etc.]: anything will serve to
         rewrite the cultural order on the body; and it is this that
         takes on the effect of beauty" (Baudrillard 94).  For THE
         MODEL, it is not usually tattoos but rather, high heels,
         garters, bustiers, lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, painted
         toenails, long fingernails....
    
                   When these men were young the first
                   naked women most of them had ever seen
                   were usually dressed in frilly
                   undergarments in a magazine like
                   Playboy.  As a result, seeing a woman
                   dressed only in lingerie would create a
                   powerful, nostalgic yearning that many
                   men found irresistible.  [See TIME]  This
                   made the experience more pleasant for
                   the girls, because the more excited the
                   man was as the evening became intimate,
                   the easier things would be when it came
                   down to the nitty-gritty.
    
                   If he likes it I like it.  That's part
                   of his fantasy.  It isn't even a
                   question of whether I like it or not.
    
         $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $  $
    
         D E T E R R I T O R I A L I Z A T I O N
    
         THE MODEL performs a DETERRITORIALIZATION on her BwO during
         THE CALL, reterritorializes it onto the commodity form money
         (via cash, check or plastic), which stands in for her own
         DESIRE.
    
         Your BwO is my physical activity: fucking, sucking,
         spanking, bending, straddling, arching, moaning, gasping,
         etc..  I am a material girl.
    
         The impossibility of the BwO being ever reached is
         reterritorialized by THE CLIENT onto DESIRE, onto orgasm,
         onto THE MODEL as object of DESIRE.
    
         "The more the system is systematized, the more the fetishist
         fascination is reinforced" (Baudrillard 92).  DESIRE (for
         the object of DESIRE) is reterritorialized onto [see
         FETISHISM] the coded female body, through the system of
         media representations then again through the escort system.
         (Escorts are fetishized as "live" versions--but are in fact
         part of a further systematization--of the system of media.)
    
    "Act like you're enjoying it."

     

    Notes

     

    1. Donna Haraway, “A Manifesto for Cyborgs,” in Elizabeth Weed, ed., Coming to Terms: Feminism, Theory, Politics (New York: Routledge, Chapman and Hall, Inc., 1989), 149.

     

    2. Mary Ann Doane, “Commentary: Cyborgs, Origins, and Subjectivity,” in Weed, ed., Coming to Terms, 210.

     

    3. Stuart Hall, “Signification, Representation, Ideology: Althusser and the Post-Structuralist Debates,” in Critical Studies in Mass Communication, vol. 2, no. 2 (June 1985): 93.

     

    4. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, In Other Worlds: Essays On Cultural Politics (London: Methuen, Inc., 1987), 273.

     

    5. Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1987), 165. Cited in the text hereafter as D&G.

     

    6. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1991), 311.

     

    7. Avital Ronell, The Telephone Book: Technology, Schizophrenia, Electric Speech (Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1989), 2.

     

    8. Jean Baudrillard, For a Critique of the Political Economy of the Sign (Saint Louis: Telos, 1981), 130.

     

    9. Karen Newman, “Directing Traffic: Subjects, Objects, and the Politics of Exchange,” in Differences, vol. 2 (Summer 1990): 47.

     

    10. Susan Griffin, Pornography and Silence: Culture’s Revenge Against Nature (New York: Harper and Row, 1981).

    Works Cited

     

    [Some unreferenced portions of this paper contain reworked material from Mayflower Madam (Sidney Biddle Barrows), Working (Dolores French), and the journals of the authors.]

     

    • Barrows, Sidney Biddle with William Novak. Mayflower Madam. New York: Ballantine Books, 1986.
    • Baudrillard, Jean. For a Critique of the Political Economy of the Sign. Saint Louis: Telos, 1981.
    • Doane, Mary Ann, “Commentary: Cyborgs, Origins, and Subjectivity.” In Elizabeth Weed, ed., Coming to Terms: Feminism, Theory, Politics. New York: Routledge, Chapman and Hall, 1989.
    • French, Dolores with Linda Lee. Working. New York: Windsor Publishing, 1988.
    • Griffin, Susan. Pornography and Silence: Culture’s Revenge Against Nature. New York: Harper and Row, 1981.
    • Hall, Stuart. “Signification, Representation, Ideology: Althusser and the Post-Structuralist Debates.” In Critical Studies in Mass Communication, vol. 2, no. 2 (June 1985).
    • Haraway, Donna. “A Manifesto for Cyborgs.” In Elizabeth Weed, ed., Coming to Terms: Feminism, Theory, Politics. New York: Routledge, Chapman and Hall, 1989.
    • Lefebvre, Henri. The Production of Space. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1991.
    • Newman, Karen. “Directing Traffic: Subjects, Objects, and the Politics of Exchange.” In Differences, vol. 2 (Summer 1990).
    • Ronell, Avital. The Telephone Book: Technology, Schizophrenia, Electric Speech. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1989.
    • Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. In Other Worlds: Essays On Cultural Politics. London: Methuen, 1987.

     

  • Revolting Yet Conserved: Family Noir in Blue Velvet and Terminator 2

    Fred Pfeil

    Center for the Humanities
    Oregon State University

    <centerfh@ccmail.orst.edu>

     

    When we think about film noir in the present, it is well to remember the categorical instability that has dogged its tracks from the moment French critics coined the term in the mid-1950s as a retrospective tag for a bunch of previously withheld American films which now, upon their foreign release, all looked and felt sort of alike. Ever since, critics and theorists have been arguing over what noir is and which films are examples of it, over what social processes and psychic processes it speaks of and to, and what might constitute its own social effects. Does film noir constitute its own genre; a style which can be deployed across generic boundaries; a movement within Hollywood cinema, limited to its place in space and time? These, the intrinsic questions and debates, have their own momentum and energy, but derive extra charge from an associated set of extrinsic questions regarding noir‘s relationships to other, non-cinematic social trans- formations, especially shifts in gender identities and relationships in the post-WWII U.S. Did the spider-women of so many films noir, despite their emphatically evil coding and self-destructive defeats, nonetheless constitute a challenge to the restoration and extension of a patriarchal- capitalist gender economy under whose terms men controlled and ran the public sphere while women, desexualized and maternalized, were relegated to hearth and home? Does the aggressive sexuality, power and plot controlling/generating/ deranging force, of, say, a Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity, Jane Greer in Out of the Past, Gloria Grahame in The Big Heat, together with noir‘s characteristically deviant visuality–its cramped asymmetrical framings, its expressionistically harsh lighting contrasts and lurid shadows, the whole twisted and uncertain spatiality of it matching the male protagonist’s lack of control over the breakneck deviousness of its plot–constitute a real and potentially effective subversion of the dominant order, as Christine Gledhill suggests?1 Or is it simply, as neoformalist film historian David Bordwell asserts, that “These films blend causal unity with a new realistic and generic motivation, and the result no more subverts the classical film”–or, we may presume, anything else–“than crime fiction undercuts the orthodox novel” (77)?

     

    Noir, then, as coded alternative or as alternate flavor of the month, something to put alongside vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and The Best Years of Our Lives? The debate smolders on unresolved, and perhaps irresolvably, depending as it does on some broader knowledge or agreement as to what indeed constitutes subversive or progressive work within a pre- or non-revolutionary cultural moment and social formation. More directly, the question is how any capital-intensive work, such as film or mainstream television production, which is produced for a mass audience, can be progressive, and how we can tell insofar as it is. How (and how well) would such work work? What (and how much) would it do? More crudely still, how far can a work go and still get made and distributed within a system whose various structures are all overdetermined by capitalism and patriarchy (not to mention racism and homophobia)? What’s the most, and the best, we can demand and/or expect?

     

    It is, as Marxists used to say perhaps too often, no accident that such messy questions press themselves on us today so insistently and distinctly that a whole new interdisciplinary protodiscipline, “cultural studies,” now constitutes itself just to deal with them. Their emergence and urgency for us is, after all, inevitably consequent upon the dimming of the revolutionary horizon, and the loss or confusion of revolutionary faith, not only within the socialist Left but throughout all the other feminist and “minority” movements in the ’70s and ’80s, condemned as each has been to its own version of the excruciating declension from essentialist-nationalist unity to division Fanon outlined in The Wretched of the Earth for a post-colonial subject on the other side of a war of national liberation for which there was finally, in the U.S. anyway, never a credible or even distinct equivalent anyway. Here the revolution, if there was anything like one, came from the Right–New Right maven Paul Weyrich proudly proclaiming in the wake of the first Reagan election in the early ’80s, “We are radicals seeking to overthrow the power structure”– against the liberal-corporatist State and the sociopolitical good sense that flowed from and supported it, both of which had to be, and have been, dismantled and rearticulated in quite different ways. Given this combination, then, of dis- integration below and regressive hegemonic re-integration from on high, the whole notion of what Gramsci called “war of movement,” of deep structural and institutional change, has come to seem to many once-insurrectionary spirits to be inconceivably crackpot or even worse, a grisly ruse of the very Power (a la Foucault) it pretends to oppose; so that a permanent “war of position,” the ever partial and provisional detournement of otherwise intractable institutional arrangements and practices, becomes literally the only game in town.

     

    I describe this situation here not to deplore or criticize it, no more than I would claim to know how to resolve the questions of cultural politics that flow from it in some new transcendent synthesis of What Is To Be Done; it is, for better and for worse, the set of circumstances we in the developed West, and the U.S. in particular, are in. So it will be both the context from which we must think about the meaning and direction of the so-called “return” of noir during the ’70s and ’80s just past, and some of the newest mutations in the noir sensibility today.

     

    For starters, moreover, we would do well to resist the very notion of straightforward repetition or “return” to explain such films as Body Heat (1981) and the remakes of Farewell My Lovely (1975) and The Postman Always Rings Twice (1981).2 For whatever noir was in the ’40s and ’50s, it will not be again three decades or more later by dint of sheer straightforward imitation, if only because the meanings and effects of the original films noir even today must still be experienced and understood in their relation to a whole system of film production, distribution, and consumption–the Hollywood studio system, in effect– which was in its last hour even then and is now gone. As Thomas Schatz has recently reminded us, it was that system which most fully standardized and customized the look and feel and plotlines of film genres, from MGM classics and costume dramas to Warner’s gangster pics and Universal’s specialty in horror: some of them genres from which noir had something to steal (e.g., the deep shadows and expressionistic framings of the horror film), but each and all of them together a system of techniques, conventions and, not least, audience expectations (e.g., the romantic happy ending and/or the satisfying restoration of law and order) that noirs first defined themselves by violating.

     

    Accordingly, when the studio system breaks up into the present “package-unit” system in which individual producers assemble production groups and materials on a film-by-film basis, employing what is left of the studios primarily as a distribution arm, and generic production atomizes too as the specialized constellations of talents and resources once fixed in position to produce it are dispersed, we may expect that the working parts of the noir machine of effects and responses will also break apart into so many free agents, capable of being drafted onto any number of new, provisional combinatory teams, all according to the same recombinant aesthetic economy which, for example, a decade ago brought us the TV series Hill Street Blues out of a directive to its original writers to knock out a combination of sit-com Barney Miller and the action-adventure series Starsky and Hutch.3 In this newer Hollywood, quintessential site of the intersection between the flexible specialization of post-Fordist production and the free-floating ideologemes- turned-syntax of postmodernism, the transgressive energies and subversive formal practices that first animated and defined noir may be most alive and well where they have migrated from the now-conventionalized site of their first appearance towards some new and even perverse combination with other formal and thematic elements in similar drift from other ex-genres of film.

     

    Such, at any rate, is the general hypothesis of the present essay, whose specific claim will be that film noir in particular, homeless now as a genre (or aesthetic reaction-formation to genre), nonetheless currently finds itself most alive where its former elements and energies form part of a new chronotope whose chief difference from that non- or even anti-domestic one of “classic” noir lies in the extent to which the newer one includes, and indeed is centered on, home and family, even as it decenters and problematizes both. Through a look at two successful recent films, Blue Velvet and Terminator 2, I mean to show how home and family are being destabilized, “noir-ized,” in both: in which case, the large differences between our two films in terms of aesthetic strategies and audiences should only make the similarities in the end results of each film’s processing of the elements of noir it takes up that much more striking and significant. Striking in what way, though, how significant and for whom? Connected to what other transformations and praxes, underway or to come? Those questions will raise their heads again on the other side of the following readings, forcing us again to hedge and answer them as best we can in the absence of any clear or shared utopian goal.

     

    I. Blue Velvet and the Strangely Familiar

     

    It is too easy to tick off the noir elements in David Lynch’s art-film hit Blue Velvet (1986). The investigative male protagonist (Kyle McLachan) caught between dangerous dark-haired Dorothy Valens (Isabella Rossellini) and bland blond Sandy (Laura Dern); the far- reaching nature of the evil McLachan’s Jeffrey uncovers and the entanglements of the police themselves in its web; the homoerotic dimension of the relationship between Jeffrey and the film’s arch-villain Frank (Dennis Hopper): any college sophomore with Intro Film Studies under his or her belt can make the idents, just as anyone who’s ever taken Intro to Psych can pick up on the Oedipal stuff hiding in plain sight, beginning of course with the collapse of Jeffrey’s father and ending with his restoration. Michael Moon, in one of the best commentaries on the film, summarizes quite nicely the familiar story of how it goes in between:

     

    a young man must negotiate what is represented as being the treacherous path between an older, ostensibly exotic, sexually 'perverse' woman and a younger, racially 'whiter,' sexually 'normal' one, and he must at the same time and as part of the same process negotiate an even more perilous series of interactions with the older woman's violent and murderous criminal lover and the younger woman's protective police- detective father. This heterosexual plot resolves itself in classic oedipal fashion: the young man, Jeffrey, destroys the demonic criminal 'father' and rival, Frank; rescues the older woman, Dorothy, from Frank's sadistic clutches; and then relinquishes her to her fate and marries the perky young daughter of the good cop.4

     

    Such a blatant evocation, or perhaps more accurately, acting out, of the standard image repertoires of generic noir and psychoanalytic truism will, it is worth noting, not be obvious to everyone–only to those who, thanks to college or some other equivalent educational circuitry, have the cultural capital to recognize the codes at work. Assuming such an audience, though, the point is to consider such paint-by-number material not as finished product, but as starting point and second-order raw material for the film’s subsequent elaborations. If it would be a mistake to accept such generic material at face value, in other words, it would be just as wrong to write it off and look for what else is “really” going on instead.

     

    Our first job, then, is rather to consider obviousness in Blue Velvet as a subject and production in its own right, and with its own multiple, complex effects. But to take this subject up in turn is to notice immediately just how many ways Lynch “shoves it in our faces” as well as how many things “it” in that last phrase comes to be, so often and so many that a certain kind of “ominous-obvious” may fairly be said to constitute both the film’s thematic subject and its formal method alike. An exhaustive reading of Blue Velvet along these lines could in fact begin with the film’s very first image, the rippling blue velvet against which its opening titles appear, shot in such extreme, quasi-magnified close-up that, as Barbara Creed points out, its smooth soft surface appears mottled and rough as bark (100). But I would rather concentrate instead on the image-flow that follows those credits, a sort of music video to the Bobby Vinton oldie of the film’s title, falling in between (in both a chronological and a stylistic sense) the credits and the story-line that picks up at its end. Here is a list of the shots that compose the film’s dreamy opening montage:

     

    1.      Tilt down from perfectly blue sky to red roses in medium close-up against white fence. DISSOLVE to
    2.      Long shot: fire truck passing by slowly on tree- shaded small-town street, with fireman on it waving in slow motion. DISSOLVE to
    3.      Yellow tulips against white fence, close-up as at the end of shot 1. DISSOLVE to
    4.      Long shot, small-town residential street: traffic guard beckoning for schoolchildren to cross, again in slow motion. DISSOLVE to
    5.      Long shot: white Cape Cod house and yard. CUT to
    6.      Medium shot: Middle-aged man with hose, watering yard. CUT to
    7.      Long shot, interior: Middle-aged woman inside, sitting with cup of coffee on couch, watching tv, which displays black-and-white shot of man crossing screen, gun in hand, and from which issues sinister noirish music. CUT to
    8.      Close-up of hand holding gun on TV screen. CUT to
    9.      Man with hose, as in shot 6, but now off-center at screen left.

     

    Actually, the sequence at this point has already begun to speed up somewhat, moving from shots of approximately five seconds apiece (shots 1-4) to an average of three (5-8). From shot 9 on, moreover, the sequence will quicken and warp still further, as an increasingly rapid montage of increasingly close-up shots of kinked hose/sputtering tap/vexed man, joined with a sound-track in which the diegetic sound of water fizzing under pressure is combined with a gradually rising and apparently non-diegetic buzz or roar, towards the man’s collapse, the hose’s anarchic rearing upward, a slow-mo shot of a dog drinking from the hose beside the fallen man, the sound of the dog barking, a baby crying, a rushing wind combined with a mechanical rustling noise, as we go down through the lawn in a process- shot pretending to be an unbroken zoom-in to a horde of swarming, warring black insects whose organic-mechanical noise-plus-wind now swells up to an overwhelming roar….

     

    What is one to make of such an opening? Or rather, what do we make of it? Given our previous training in how to watch feature films, or, more specifically, in how to read their spatio-temporally orienting shots and narrative cues, it seems to me that with part of our minds we struggle to do the usual with this image-flow: to read it narratively, place ourselves in it, “follow” it out. And, of course our efforts and presumptions in this regard are not entirely in vain. Okay, we say, it’s a small-town, and here’s a particular family inside it, a Dad and Mom, and look, something’s happening to the Dad so things are off- balance now, not right, gee what happens next? But all that is only with part of the mind, and against a kind of semic counter-logic or inertial drag instigated by the very same shots, at least or especially shots 1-4 and the slow-motion and extreme close-ups that close off the sequence (as other such shot combinations will serve as the disjunctive ligatures between one section of the film’s narrative and the next): in the degree to which all these shots overshoot their narrative or, in Barthesian terms, proairetic function, and force attention on themselves in some purely imagistic way instead, Bobbie Vinton, blue sky and red roses at one end, roaring wind, mechanical rustling and ravening black insects on the other.

     

    If, moreover, such a difference from the opening moves of conventional film falls somewhere short of effecting a total break with the prevailing model of filmic narrative, its relative distance from that model is nonetheless made all the more apparent by the lurch that follows back toward typicality. Like a second beginning, the shot-sequence that follows the one we have just rehearsed opens with a set of establishing long-shots of the town of Lumberton, simultaneously named as such by the local radio station on the soundtrack, after which we are shown Jeffrey the film’s protagonist for the first time, pausing on his way to visit his hospitalized father in order to throw a stone in the field where he will soon find the severed ear of Dorothy Valens’ husband and thereby set the film’s noirish plot into full motion. So now, in effect, we are invited to take a deep breath and relax and enjoy, i.e., do a conventional reading of, the film: only once again, not quite. For this sequence will no less settle into assured conventionality than the last completely broke from it. So the d.j.’s radio patter is slightly, well, skewed–“It’s a sunny day,” he chirps, “so get those chainsaws out!”–as, on a visual level, is the sequence of images itself, in which the aforementioned shot of Jeffrey in the field is followed by two brief red-herring long-shots of downtown, one in which an unknown car pulls onto the town’s main street, the other of an unknown man standing spinning what might be a ring of keys in his hand as he stands out in front of a darkened store, before the sequence slips back into gear with a close-up of Jeffrey’s father in his hospital bed as Jeffrey’s visiting presence is announced.

     

    From its outset, then, Blue Velvet is characterized by the partial and irresolute opposition of two distinct kinds and pleasures of narrative: one characterized by the relative dominance of what, following Barthesian narrative theory, I have called the semic, and the other by the equally relative dominance of the establishing, fixing and plotting functions of the proairetic. Less pretentiously, of course, we could speak of the predominance of image versus that of story-line, and avoid French post- structuralist theory altogether, were it not for the real yet perverse relevance of Barthes’ terms, and the psychopolitical valences attached to them, for this particular film. To discern this relevance, we need only recall, first of all, that within that theory the placing, naming, and motivating functions of the proairetic, and its predominance in conventional narrative, are held to be defining symptoms of the constitutive oedipality of such narrative energies and desires, or perhaps more precisely of the binding, sublimation and containment of such desire; just as the atemporal and never-fully-repressible bursts and upwellings of the semic are identified with the carnivalesque freedom of the unregulated, post-, pre-, or even anti-Oedipal social and individual body. Then all we have to do is notice how insofar as such definitions and categories do hold water for us, Blue Velvet gets them– though once again, only sort of–wrong from the get-go, observing this oppositional distinction and flouting it at the same time by reversing what one might have thought was their “natural” order: for what kind of narrative text is it, after all, in which the fall of the father is preceded by an image-flow predominantly semic in nature, but followed by one that more or less falls obediently into story-plotting line?

     

    A postmodern text, of course; the kind of postmodern work which, as in Cindy Sherman’s first acclaimed photos, is concerned both to hybridize and hollow out the cliche. For simultaneously hyper-realizing and de-centering narrative and cinematic convention, is from the start what Blue Velvet is about, both its way of doing business and the business itself. Visually, as Laurie Simmons’ description of Lynch’s style suggests, its techniques and effects are most clearly related to those of Pop Art, though more that of Rosenquist, say, than Andy Warhol.5 Such perfect two-dimensionality–so different, it may be worth noting, from the expressionistically crowded and askew deep-spaces of classic noir style–simultaneously flattens and perfects all its glazed gaze captures, from roses to ravening insects, soda fountain booth to severed ear, while on the film’s soundtrack, the same sense is created and reinforced by Badalamenti’s score which, here and in Twin Peaks alike, flaunts its bare-faced imitation of misterioso a la Hitchcock composer Bernard Hermann one minute, gushing romantic strings a la Dmitri Tiomkin the next, with some dollops of the kind of insipid finger- popping jazz-blues once written for Quinn-Martin tv- detective series, soundtrack scores of the first living-room noirs, thrown in on the side. Such predigested product thus functions as the musical equivalent of the cliched dialogue of the script and the two-dimensional visuality of the cinematography, each overdetermining the other into an aggregate signal of intentional derivativeness and knowing banality whose obverse or underside is clearly that moment when, aurally and/or visually, that which we take as the ur-natural (the clicking and mandibular crunching of the insects, the robin with the worm in its mouth) becomes indistinguishable from sounds of industry, the sight of the obviously animatronic–in short, the synthetic constructions, material and imaginative, of human beings themselves, recognized and felt as such.

     

    In early-industrial Britain, Keats invited his readers to the edge of one sublime mode of hyper-attention, a falling into the object’s depths so intense the viewer’s own consciousness browns out (“A drowsy numbness pains/My sense”). In the postmodern late-industrial mode of Lynch’s film, however, the gleaming but off-kilter perfection of such recherche surfaces as those we have examined constitutes its very own warp, and the terrified rapture of the romantic swoon away from consciousness is replaced by a queasy awareness of anxious affiliation to and guilty/paranoid complicity with all that we are so familiar with in what we see and hear, as in this scene in which our hero Jeffrey has a talk in the den with Lieutenant Williams, bland-blonde Sandy’s father and police detective, consequent to Jeffrey’s discovery of the ear:

     

    Williams:
    You’ve found something that is very interesting to us. Very interesting. I know you must be curious to know more. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you not only not to tell anybody about the case, but not to tell anybody about your find. One day when it’s all sewed up, I’ll let you know all the details. Right now, though, (glancing sidelong, sneaking a puff on his cigarette) I can’t.
    Jeffrey:
    I understand. I’m just real curious, like you said.
    Williams:
    (slightly smiling) I was the same way myself when I was your age. That’s why I went into this business.
    Jeffrey:
    (laughs) Must be great.
    Williams:
    (freezes, sours smile) It’s horrible too. I’m sorry Jeffrey; it just has to be that way. Anyway Jeffrey, I know you do understand.

     

    Each sentence, every phrase, 100% B-movie cliche, and delivered as such, with all the wooden earnestness the actors can muster. Yet I hope my transcription also conveys something of the extent to which, even as that dialogue rattles out, Williams’ suspiciously askew reactions and expressions move our reactions not so much against the direction of the cliches as athwart them. On the level of the story-line, and given our past experience of both oedipal narrativity in general and noir in particular, they may prompt us to wonder if Father/Detective Williams won’t turn to be one of the bad guys after all; on the level of what we might call the film’s enunciation, though, and in light of all else we have seen about this film so far, such a moment is apt to engender a far more fundamental distrust, less the suspicion that we haven’t gotten to the bottom of this yet than the fullblown paranoia that there may be no bottom here at all.

     

    So, in the closing moments of the film, when Jeffrey and Sandy and their families are both completed and combined around the exemplary center of their good love, the famous moment when that robin shows up with the worm in its mouth and Jeffrey’s Aunt Barbara, looking over his shoulder and munching on a hot dog, says “I could never do that!” provokes a complicated laugh from the audience. On the one hand, of course it’s about both the ironic relation of that amorally predatory robin to the goopy speech Sandy gave earlier in the film, in which robins figured in a dream she’d had as emblems of pure good, and the reinforcing irony of Aunt Barbara’s self-righteous disavowal of the very appetitiveness she is displaying by stuffing her mouth. On the other, though, given the bird’s obvious artificiality, the music’s cliched goopiness, and the hypercomposed flatness and stiffness of the mise-en-scene, it’s also about the anxious and delightful possibility that Aunt Barbara–and Jeffrey and Sandy, for that matter–are robots too. And of course they are, in the sense that they are constructions of sound and words and light, spaces where Lynch & Company’s projections meet our own; and in this sense so are all the characters in every feature film. Yet if every film in the Hollywood tradition invites its audience to recite some version of the Mannoni formula Je sais bien mais quand meme on its way into and through the story-world it offers, Blue Velvet is nonetheless distinctive for the steady insistence with which it ups the volume on its own multiple, hybridized, and hyper-realized elements of retrouvee, pushing its audience to acknowledge its own “I know very well” at least as much as its “but even so . . .,” and so to taint and complicate a heretofore blissfully irresponsible and safely distanced voyeurism with its own admissions of familiarity as complicity, anxious lack of distance, guilt at home.6 “You put your disease inside me!” Dorothy says to Jeffrey, and of him, to everyone around her at one point; and so he/we did; but in another sense, of course, it was there/here/everywhere all along, and we have “it” inside us too.

     

    It is this “it,” this recognition and admission of the obvious artifice, that we then carry with us alongside and through those obvious elements of noir and of oedipal psychopathology which have in and of themselves elicited so much critical commentary. Some writers have concentrated on Lynch’s blending and blurring of genres (MacLachan’s Jeffrey as both Philip Marlowe and Dobie Gillis) and generic chronotopes (the smokey nightclub in the small-town, the naked “dark woman” in the family’s living room), while others hone in on the sheer mobility of male-hysterical fantasy in the film–the dangerous, vertiginous, yet perpetual oscillations between sadism/masochism, “Daddy” and “Baby,” hetero- and homosexual desire, as all these are acted out (in both senses of the term) in the film’s excess of primary scenes (Jeffrey with Dorothy, Frank with Dorothy, Jeffrey and Frank with Ben, Jeffrey with Frank). Yet even those who have attempted to consider and synthesize both these manifest topical areas have tended to miss, or at least underestimate, the full measure, meaning and effect of the de-realizing, de-naturalizing formal operations of the film, and the extent to which they power the movement toward what Michael Moon, examining that psychosexual terrain, describes as “the fearful knowledge that what most of us consider our deepest and strongest desires are not our own, that our dreams and fantasies are only copies, audio- and videotapes, of the desires of others and our utterances of them lip-synching of these circulating, endlessly reproduced and reproducible desires” even before the generic mix is evident and the sexual-psychoanalytic heyday/mayhem begins.7 What fascinates and appalls in Blue Velvet, what simultaneously underwrites and undermines the mixed messages of its generic play and desublimated oedipality, is the sense of the fragility of the Symbolic, its susceptibility to the metonymic “disease” of constant slippage that is always already inside it, a gynesis of both film and family that irresolves without overthrowing, that keeps home un-natural while forcing us to own up to the familiarity of all that is officially Other and strange, home-making and and as dislocating, from blue-sky beginning (plenitude or emptiness? true blue or fake void?) to blue-sky end.

     

    II. Terminator 2: Any Which Way But Loose

     

    Things are somewhat different in this past summer’s blockbuster sci-fi hit Terminator 2: Judgement Day, if only because it is not likely investors will put up $90 million for a project whose meanings, pleasures, and rules of motion derive from the principle of semiotic erosion of narrative conventions, irresolution as an aesthetic way of life. The overall regime of pleasure in the blockbuster film is, rather, a paradigm of late capitalist consumer production: it must keep us constantly (though not continuously) engaged without demanding much attention; knock us out with all the trouble it’s gone to just to give us an instant’s satisfaction; and not only offer us options but affirm and even flatter us for whichever ones we pick.

     

    To define blockbusters in terms of such hard-wired business requirements is, however, not to mark the point where analysis of their significance ends, but rather to suggest where it has to begin. For if the blockbuster typically invites us to “have it either and/or both ways,” then both the character of the particular contradictory options offered and the name and the definition of the “it” can be read as complex signposts showing the way to the mainstream national culture’s ideological “points de capiton,” the places where collective social desire–for transformation and salvage, revolution and restoration, anarchy and obedience–is simultaneously fastened and split.8

     

    Thus, to take up one early example, the interest of those opening scenes of T2 in which the two synthetic creatures from the future first appear in present-day L.A. bent on their opposed missions, to protect or kill the boy John Connor, and to this end outfit themselves in the garbs and roles of ordinary mortal men. The T-800, a.k.a. Arnold Schwarzenegger, cyborg-simulacrum of Sarah Connor’s would-be killer in the first Terminator film, arrives in the blue burnished glory of his hypermuscled nakedness in front of an equally gleaming semi-truck parked across from a biker bar he will soon scope out, bust up, and leave in full regalia, in shades and leathers, and astride a Harley hog, to the heavy-metal strains of George Thorogood and the Destroyers stuttering “B-b-b-born to be bad.” In the following sequence, however, in which we meet the protean, programmed- to-kill all-robot T-1000, we are taken to a desolate patch of no-man’s land underneath a curving span of L.A. overpass to which a city cop has been called to investigate the strange electrical goings-on accompanying this unit’s passage through time and space: whereupon the T-1000, assuming for the moment a proto-hominoid silver shape sneaks up on the cop from behind, kills him, and takes on his steely-eyed Aryan form, complete with uniform, as his central “identity” for the rest of the film.

     

    In the span of these two brief scenes, entertainment professionals James Cameron et al. have already provided us with a wide range and satisfying oscillation of identifications and exclusions, pleasures and disavowals. For starters, there’s the linkage and differentiation of Arnold in his ab ovum muscle-builder’s pose and the parked semi behind him, suggesting as this composite image does both Arnold himself as gleaming machine, icon of burly masculinist culture at its most spectacularly developed pitch, and Arnold as a display item quite out of this dingy quotidian work-world altogether. Such ambivalence, together with its options for enjoyment, is then carried right into and through the mayhem at the biker bar that ensues, in which those menacing scumbags are first literally summed up by the T-800’s hi-tech apparatus then disarmed and disrobed, resulting in a new version of the composite Arnold-image, both “badder” and “higher” than the bikers, at one and the same time pure realization of their outlaw nature and antithesis of their downwardly-mobile sleaze. And the ambivalence of this newly sublated figure will then be further marked and played out against that constructed in the next sequence around the evil T-1000, which begins in turn by cueing off our conventional identification with the figure of law and order poking around in the dark shadows at the margins of the normatively social, but ends by conflating these two figures into one, a white male L.A. cop as formless evil (a particularly pungent if fortuitous maneuver, we may note, given national exposure of the racist brutality of Police Chief Gates’ L.A.P.D. a scant few months before this film’s release).

     

    We’ll soon return to consider further the exact nature and significance of the agon between this bad-guy-as-good- guy and the good-guy-as-bad. For now, though, let this opening example serve as a demonstration of the play of opposition and symbiosis essential to T2: i.e., of a play which combines a fair amount of mobility granted to our various social and libidinal desires and fears with a lack of ambiguity at any given moment as to what we ought to think and feel. One minute the bikers are low-life scum, then Arnold’s a biker; one minute the L.A. cop is bravely doing his duty, the next minute he’s a remorseless assassin; yet throughout all these inclusions and exclusions we are never in doubt about which side to be on. The punctual clarity of such a “preferred investment” strategy, as we might call it, thus stands in marked contrast to the real ambiguities of judgement and feeling that are the warp and woof of classic noir, in the figures of, for example, the morally shady detective and the smart, alluring femme fatale, not to mention as far or even farther away from the constant sliding and seepage inside Lynch’s film. In fact, the first thing to observe about most of those features of noir taken up by Terminator 2 is the degree to which they are, as in Blue Velvet, both untrustworthy as straightforward quotation or appropriation, yet paradoxically, all the more significant for that.

     

    Take T2‘s narrational strategy, to choose one of the film’s several noirish qualities. In “classic” noir, as we know, the question of who is in control of the film’s narration is often central to noir‘s meanings and effects.9 In noirs like Gilda or Out of the Past, that question is posed by the disjunction between the male protagonist-narrator’s tightlipped voice-over and the sinister twists of the enacted plot in whose devious turnings the figure of the femme fatale seems to exert a powerful hand. And at first it seems that something of the same, but with a post-modern, post-feminist difference, is true of Terminator 2 as well. Here too the laconic decisiveness of the voice-over contrasts with the comparative lack of power of the narrator to take control over the film’s action; only here the destination towards which the plot careens is enlarged from individual catastrophe all the way to planetary nuclear holocaust as a result of the entropic drift of masculinist techno- rationality, and the tough-guy narrator is a woman.

     

    On this level, then, Terminator 2 like its predecessor appears to be a sci-fi “feminist noir” pitting its female heroine Sarah Connor against various individual and collective “males fatales” in a simple yet effective inversion of the old device. Yet while such a conclusion is, I think, not entirely false, even less could it be declared simply true. For one thing, it is obviously not Linda Hamilton who is the big star of Terminator 2, but Arnold Schwarzenegger; nor is it Sarah Connor who, for all her stirring efforts, is finally able to save the world, if indeed it has been saved, but the proto/semi-male T-800 who supplies the vital edge. For another, and for all the noirish haze and green/blue/black suffused throughout the film, on the level of narrative structure and plot the amount of confusion we are plunged into as to what is going on, and how to feel about it, how the action is hooked to whatever else has been happening and how it is all going to come out, is virtually nil. Just as clearly as we know from moment to moment who’s good and who’s bad, we know Arnold the T-800 protector will rescue boy John from the clutches of the wicked T-1000; and when boy John insists they break into the state hospital for the criminally insane and rescue his mother Sarah, we know they will be able to pull that off as well. When the three of them, plus Dyson the computer scientist, are on their way to the headquarters of Cyberdyne Corporation to destroy those fragments of the first Terminator from the first Terminator film, which, when analyzed and understood, will result in the construction of the SkyNet system of “defense” that will in turn trigger off the holocaust, Sarah’s voiceover, atop a night-for-night shot of a dark highway rushing into the headlights and past, intones the noirish message that “The future, always so clear to me, had been like a dark highway at night. We were in uncharted territory now, making up history as we went along.” By this time, though, such a message comes across as mere atmosphere, the verbal equivalent of the aforementioned laid-on haze, rather than as any real entrance into “uncharted” territory on the part of a plot in which we know where we are, and where we are headed, each step of the way.

     

    Yet if the relation between narration and enactment in T2 is thus less an innovative extension of noir than first appeared, it is not hard to locate more genuine expressions of a noir sensibility in its sense of space and time, or chronotope. In terms of space, Terminator 2 early on takes its leave of the sunstruck residential neighborhood where John Connor lives with his ineffectual foster parents, and spends the rest of its running time either keeping its distance from or destroying any and all traditional domestic space. And its noir-classical preference for the bleak sprawl of Southern Californian freeways, state institutions, research centers, malls, and plants over any closed familial enclaves is matched by its implicit flattening of time even across the gap of nuclear apocalypse. The premise motivating T2–that in the wake of nuclear apocalypse a resistance led by the adult John Connor continues to struggle against the inhuman power of the machine, so that both sides, Resistance and Power Network, send their mechanical minions back in time, one to protect John-the-boy and the other to “terminate” him– insists on a difference between present and future that the film’s depictions erode. Here in the present official power, whether in the form of the sadistically panoptical mental hospital, the gleaming surfaces and security systems of the soulless corporation, or the massively armed and equipped, anonymous police, already runs rampant; here already, before the Bomb falls, the hardy band of guerrilla- terrorists resists, the fireballs blossom and the bodies pile up in the perpetual dark night of Hobbesian confrontation between bad anarchy and good.

     

    Terminator 2 thus not only reconstructs the fallen public world and queasy temporality of classic noir but constructs them together in the form of an apocalypse that has, in effect, already occurred. Like Benjamin’s once- scandalous Angel of History, its chronotope offers us a perspective from which modernity appears less “a chain of events” than “one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage, and hurls it in front of [our] feet,” a “storm” that is “what we call progress” (Benjamin 257, 258). Yet the very incongruity of such a rhyme between the ruminations of a Marxist-modernist intellectual in Europe at the end of the 1930s and a contemporary Hollywood blockbuster film raises its own set of questions concerning what “conditions of possibility” must have been met before such a view could become mainstream. What preconditions must be met before a mass audience can find such an anti- progressive perspective pleasurable, can “want to believe this,” as Leo Braudy says of the rise and fall of generic perspectives in general10; and what consequences follow from Terminator 2‘s particular channelings of that desire?

     

    Fredric Jameson suggests that the predominance of dystopic visions in contemporary science-fiction signals the general loss of our ability even to conceive of, much less struggle to enact, a utopian social vision, trapped as we are within both an imperialist nation in decline and the overheated “perpetual present” of postmodernist culture (Jameson, “Progress”). And much of Terminator 2, with its timed bursts of violence merged with state-of-the-art special effects, offers itself up to such an interpretive hypothesis as Exhibit A. (Call to reception theorists: how many in the American audience recognized in the evil cybernetic techno-war depicted in T2‘s opening post- apocalyptic sequence an image of a hysterically celebrated Gulf War just past, in which “our” machines mowed down their human bodies, as the saying goes, “like fish in a barrel”? And what were the effects of this surely unintentional echo?) Yet here again, like a good blockbuster, T2 also invites us to critique the violence it presents, and quite explicitly, in Sarah’s diatribe to scientist Dyson. “Men like you built the hydrogen bomb,” she roars. “Men like you thought it up . . . You don’t know what it’s like to create something.” It is a speech that might have been drawn from, or at least inspired by, the works of such essentialist critics of male instrumental rationality as Susan Griffin, or such proponents of a maternalist-based women’s peace movement as Sarah Ruddick or Helen Caldecott; and it is there for the taking, not instead of but right along with, the violence it decries.

     

    The ease with which this moment’s feminist critique of Enlightenment takes its place alongside brutal displays of techno-violence, though, should not blind us to its value as a clue to what is deeply and genuinely moving–in both the affective and narrative senses of the word–in Terminator 2. After all, the film we have described so far is one in which a fundamentally uneventful frame (the apocalypse which has already occurred) is constructed as backdrop for a plot whose terms and ends (T-800 saves boy; saves Sarah; saves world; destroys evil twin, a.k.a. T-1000) are all pretty much known in advance. If the cybernetic machine that is Terminator 2 nonetheless appears at all alive and in motion, its assignment rather involves an extensive renegotiation and reconstruction of the hetero-sex/gender system itself, and that little engine of identity and desire called the nuclear family in particular. And indeed, we have already hinted at one important aspect of that renegotiation in our discussion of the noirish space of action in T2, which gives us the ranch-style home and residential neighborhood of traditional American domesticity as the place of the phoney family (the foster parents of which are promptly dispatched), and the new “mean streets” of mall and culvert, corporate research center, freeway, and desert, as site of the new true one.

     

    This relocation of the family unit of Mommy/Daddy/Baby to the place where the noir hero used to be, out in public and on the run, is likewise braided in with a complex transfiguration of all three roles in the family romance, part transforming, and part regressive in each case. Most prominently is of course ultra-buff Linda Hamilton’s Sarah Connor as fully operational warrior-woman, like Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley in Cameron’s Aliens only more so, phallic mother with a complete set of soldier-of-fortune contacts, cache of weapons and survivalist skills.11 Conversely, there is “the Arnold,” fresh from Kindergarten Cop and therefore all the more available for refunctioning from killing machine to nurturant proto-father who, as Sarah’s own voice-over puts it, “would always be there and would always protect him [i.e., John the son]. Of all the would-be fathers, this machine was the only one that measured up.” And finally, rounding out this new holy family is golden-boy John, who as grown-up rebel leader sends Arnold back to the past to protect his childhood self, but who as a kid must teach both Mom and Dad how and when to cool their jets.

     

    If, as Constance Penley has shown us, the first Terminator film posits John Connor as “the child who orchestrates his own primal scene” to run the energy of “infantile sexual investigation” into the project of re- marking the difference between the sexes through remaking/displacing it as “the more remarkable difference between human and other” (“Time-Travel” 121, 123), then in Terminator 2 he must be both father-to-the-Man and to-the- Mom. Arnold must learn from him that “you can’t kill people”; while Sarah must be domesticated away from the Mother-Wolf fury in which she is enmeshed. That in this latter task, as unerringly right-on as young John is, it helps to have a Dad around is perfectly evident in the follow-up to the film’s one overtly erotic moment, when having interrupted Mom’s commando raid on the Dyson home, John confronts her, now collapsed in a heap, and moaning “I love you, John–I always have.” “I know,” he answers hoarsely, and falls into her embrace. A second later, though, we are all delivered from this hot-and-heavy scene before it goes any farther and shorts out the film, thanks to the presence of Arnold, whose stern let’s-get-going glance to John literally pulls the boy out of Sarah’s dangerous clutches and allows the action to roll ahead.

     

    But for that matter, it is also abundantly clear by the end of the film that for all John’s moral sense and Sarah’s muscles, they both still need Dad–and a Dad who’s not that different after all. For in the course of Terminator 2‘s movement from shopping mall to shop floor, both John and Sarah are demonstrated to be ultimately ineffectual in their struggle against T-1000 and the forthcoming holocaust alike. For all her desire to change the dystopian course of history, and all the paramilitary training, Sarah is unable (i.e., too “womanish”?) to pull the trigger on Dyson: just as, despite the fortitude that enables her even to gun down her own T-1000 simulation when it appears,12 she is incapable of defeating this tireless, emotionless, yet endlessly mutable villain by herself. Could this be because, as the film also shows us through Sarah’s own recurrent and prophetic holocaust dream, she herself is after all a split subject only one of whose forms is warrior-like–and that one, compared to the apron- frocked housewife-mother on the other side of the fence, merely a secondary product of, and compensatory defense against, her terrible foreknowledge of the apocalyptic future as the history-that-already-hurts?

     

    At any rate, for whatever reason, deliverance can only come from a real man, i.e., another machine-guy like the T- 1000, albeit one minus the mutable part, and plus a modicum of moral-sentimental sense. “I know now why you cry,” Arnold the T-800 tells the John-boy in that touching final moment in between defeating the T-1000 and lowering himself down into the vat of molten steel that will terminate him too: “but it’s something I can never do.” The moral equivalent of such affective male positioning in the film, is, of course, that grisly motif we are free to enjoy as sadistic joke and/or, god help us even more, take seriously as moral improvement: i.e., Arnold’s oft-demonstrated commitment to maiming (usually by kneecapping) rather than killing his human opponents, as per the John-boy’s moral command.

     

    By such means T2 gets it all in its renegotiation of paternal masculinity, offering us Arnold’s stunted moral- affective capacities to us simultaneously as hard-wired limitation (push come to shove, he’s still only a machine) and as virtuous necessity (what a man’s gotta do). And indeed we might as well have come at the same point from the opposite direction; for the converse of all I have just been saying is also true, and equally well demonstrated in the final victory over the T-1000, despite its technological superiority to our Arnold. How is it, after all, that Arnold the protector is able to rise from the dead, as it were, even after the T-1000 has driven an iron crowbar straight through his back? Or, perhaps more accurately, how is it that we find ourselves able to believe that he does?

     

    Here, I think, is how. Because, you will recall, at this very moment of greatest extremity, a small red light begins to shine far, far back in his eye–the sign, we are told, of his back-up power supply kicking in. And what then encourages us to swallow such a manifestly inadequate explanation–after all, there is no sensibly consistent reason why a T-1000 would not know of, or would fail to notice, the existence of an earlier model’s alternative energy source–is the primary distinction between 800 and 1000 that has been there all the time, but is now most explicitly given us in the comparative representations of Arnold’s near-death to the T-1000’s dissolution. For the T- 1000, the liquid-metal prototype, there is no deep red light to resort to, no power backup to call on when all else fails; there is only an orgiastic extravaganza of special effects, recapitulating with oozy swiftness all the metamorphoses its liquid-metal shape-changing abilities have enabled it to undertake throughout the film. By contrast, then, with this horrific (but spellbinding!) swoon through difference, is it not clear that compared with the T-1000 Arnold, our new man, has a core-self–or, if you will, individual soul–and just enough of one, whereas T-1000 is the merely the embodiment of amorally evil dispersion itself, endless semiosis as the highest form of technocratic death-rationality?

     

    If so, in its implication that the capacity to feel and make moral choices, and just enough of it, marks our new adult Daddy-man out from both the inhuman rationality (or is it semiosis?) on one side and the all-too-human (or is it fanaticism?) on the other, T2 might plausibly be said to have thrown its family out on the street only to turn it every which way but loose, i.e., only to redirect us and it back to the fixed ambiguities of a masculinist humanism whose very vertiginousness is uncannily, and literally, familiar. But then this reconstruction just at its most triumphantly synthetic moment too half-dwindles, half- mutates into one final set of ambiguous-available options for our attention, anxiety, and desire. At the close of the film, does our pathos go to working-stiff Arnold lowering himself down into the soup, just another self-sacrificing husband and father off to shiftwork at the plant, “just another body doing a job”? Or do we move our sympathies over to the figure of Sarah Connor fiercely holding on to John-boy, and see her instead as that arguably more up-to- date figure of the ’80s and ’90s: the victimized and abandoned single-mother head of a homeless family?

     

    III. Conclusions in Flux

     

    That it ‘keeps going on like this’ is the catastrophe.
     

    –Walter Benjamin13

     

    I’m in the middle of a mystery
     

    –Jeffrey in Blue Velvet

     
    So far, we have looked at the overdetermining yet mutually subverting interplay of formal means Lynch’s Blue Velvet foregrounds as part and parcel of the project of bringing the urban spaces and ur-narrative of noir into the formerly secure domestic spaces of the small town and the family. And we have also examined the narrative- dramatic operations through which Terminator 2 simultaneously reconstructs the family even as it moves it out to the mean streets. One film constructed for and consumed primarily by the culturally upscale, and therefore with a corresponding emphasis on meaning-through-style; the other for a mass audience and, accordingly, with its meanings and judgements carried largely on the back of its plot. Yet the main burden of this conclusion of sorts must be to consider some of the social meanings, possibilities, and effects at play and implicit in the overall project we have seen both films take up in this particular post- generic, postmodernist moment, for all their different ways of working on it: a project we have been suggesting is the domestication of noir.

     

    As a kind of side-door entrance into such considerations, though, it may first be worth taking note of a few aspects of our two films we have left unmentioned until now: specifically, those which draw on the economic and racial codes of mainstream white capitalist culture. The former is most obviously referenced in the very selection of a steel mill as the site of T2‘s climactic ending, given the function of steel production in contemporary socio-economic discourse as the paradigmatic icon of the Fordist industrial world we have now, depending on whom you read, shipped off, frittered away, or even transcended, but in any case lost, in our national economy’s shift toward a “post-Fordism” regime with service rather than manufacturing industries at its core. Yet similar allusions to a vanished or vanishing industrial world can be found throughout Blue Velvet as well, from its frequent reminders to us of its small town’s extractive-industrial base (e.g., in the deejay’s patter, or the image of the millyard in which Jeffrey comes to the morning after being assaulted by Frank) to the ominous brick warehouses in which Frank seems both to live and conduct his dirty work, and arguably even down to the anachronistic “spider-mike” Dorothy employs in the implausibly located night-club where she works.

     

    Though the uses to which such imagery is put in each of our two films are multiple and complex, in Blue Velvet the evocation of industrial culture is part and parcel of its overall construction of an environment where nature and culture lose their borders, and danger and pleasure coincide; whereas Terminator 2‘s uncanny yet nostalgically recalled foundry adds an extra measure of weight and yearning to the triumphant restoration and victory of the old male dominant nuclear family and “breadwinner ethic” that went along with the socioeconomic era just past. More generally still, though, and in keeping with many another contemporary polygeneric film from Lethal Weapon to Batman, the iconic spaces and imagery of Fordist production and industrial culture in both our films function as a late-twentieth century equivalent to the feudal mansion in the chronotope of the eighteenth-century Gothic novel: i.e., as a ruin (albeit a capitalist one) in which to place the monstrous dangers of the present and/or stage a regressive deliverance from out of the sex/gender system of the past.

     

    But I will have more to say elsewhere on the subject of these new capitalist ruins and their deployment as privileged sites of “ruinous” pleasure and recuperation for white straight masculinity.14 So for now let us move along instead, and turn our attention to the inflections and incitements of racial marking in these films, a practice whose operations paradoxically take on all the more significance insofar as racial discourse and positioning may at first sight appear to play such a small part in our two films’ overall schemes, practices and effects. From a normatively “white” point of view, after all, racial marking would seem to be an issue only at those rare moments when someone “non-white” shows up on-screen, and then only as a question of how that “non-whiteness” is defined. What such a normative perspective thus typically, indeed systematically, fails to notice or acknowledge is the essentially relational operation of all racial discourse and representation, or in other words the way every construction of a/the racial Other generates by contrast an implicit definition of what it means to be “the same”–i.e., in the present instance, “white” and by no means just the “whiteness” up on the screen.

     

    Let us take a quick look back at our two films from this relational perspective, then, to see what implications we find in their nominally innocuous-to-honorific depictions of “non-white.” In Blue Velvet, there are the two store- uniformed and aproned “black” clerks who work at Jeffrey’s father’s hardware store, peripheral even as secondary characters, and seemingly memorable only because of the whimsically transparent little shtick they play out in the scant few seconds in which they appear, in which the sighted one uses touch signals to cue the blind one as to price or number of objects, and the blind one pretends he has with magical prescience come up with the number himself. Terminator 2, on the other hand, while “randomizing” race among those cops and hospital attendants destined to be casually crippled or killed, places non-whites in secondary roles of clearly greater significance: Dyson the corporate scientist and his family as African-Americans; Enrique, Sarah’s former soldier-of-fortune comrade-in-arms, and his family as Hispanics.

     

    In T2, in fact, the self-approvingly “non-racist” liberalism we seem to be meant to read off from these last two sets of non-white characters and groups is more or less spelled out within the film. There, Sarah’s musings, quoted above, on how well Arnold the T-800 fills the paternal bill are immediately followed by a softly sunstruck montage of her old Hispanic running buddy’s Mommy-Daddy-Baby unit caught unaware in the midst of their unselfconscious domestic bliss, the sight of which is then immediately linked to a recurrence of that dream of nuclear holocaust that separates Sarah from her own apron-frocked domestic self. Likewise, a short while later, Dyson’s more upscale family life is depicted in similarly idyllic and conventional terms, Mom taking care of Baby, Dad smiling over from where he is hard at work, in the final moment before Sarah’s assault. The liberal progressivism of such representations thus announces itself in the contrast between the settled, happy domesticity of the non-white families up above (Dyson’s) or down below (Enrique’s) the social level of the aberrant and provisional white one we are traveling with. But we could put the same point less generously but no less accurately by saying that such progressivism is itself little more than a stalking horse for the conservative project that rides in on it, i.e., the (re)constitution of the regulative ideal of the old male- dominant oedipal-nuclear family for whites, coming at them, as it were, from both sides.

     

    Moreover, though Terminator 2 neither represents nor endorses any non-familial social ideal, it still seems significant that both our non-white paterfamilia are associated from the start with contemporary visions of social disorder and mass violence. For many if not most white viewers at least, Sarah’s rapid allusion to Enrique’s past as a contra, combined with his guntoting first appearance and his family’s desert location, will call up a melange of unsorted and uneasy impressions from Treasure of the Sierra Madre to the mainstream media’s spotty yet hysterical coverage of a decade of messy and unpleasant struggle “down there” somewhere, plus attendant anxieties over “their” illegal entry and peripheral existences “up here” now; whereas the Afro-American Dyson is straightforwardly depicted as the author of the technological breakthrough that will eventually give us SkyNet, the fully autonomous, computerized war technology that will soon trigger nuclear holocaust as the first move in its war against humanity itself. One wonders, in fact, how many white viewers recoiled from Sarah’s verbal assault on a black man as the incarnation of value-free and death- bound masculinist-corporate technorationality, and on what level of consciousness they did so, and to what effect: how, detached from its unlikely target, is her didactic essentialist feminism taken in? I have no idea, and would not presume to guess. At any rate, though, following this bizarre moment, the film’s treatment of Dyson runs once again in familiar ways, towards familiar ends: it rolls out the Moebius-strip time-travel causality of that ’80s blockbuster Back to the Future in its suggestion that Dyson the black man doesn’t really invent anything15 (the breakthrough he comes up with turns out to be merely an extrapolation from those remnants of the first Terminator, from the first Terminator film, that his corporate employer managed to scoop up); and, as in many another film featuring a once-wayward non-white sidekick, it rehabilitates him Gunga-Din style, by including him into the assault on the power with which he has formerly been associated, an assault whose victory is, not accidentally, coincident with his self-sacrifice and death.

     

    These regulative procedures by which whiteness learns from and is defined by its Other(s) even as those Others are re-subordinated, stigmatized, and/or punished, are not to be found in Blue Velvet, however–or not quite. There another, culturally hipper version of the game of reference and relegation is going on, in which, to put it briefly, racial difference is placed within quotation-marks, and, thus textualized, is both evoked and winked away. So the blackness of the store clerks sits next to the blindness of the one clerk and to the pseudo-magical trick they both like to play, as just so much more semic doodling along the margins of this endlessly decentered text in which each element of the normal and conventional is estranged, while each strangeness or Otherness is subjected to a metonymic slippage that renders it both equivalent to every other otherness and empty in itself: blackness=blindness=stupid trick. In the universe constructed by Lynch’s postmodern aesthetics, there is no need either to make liberal gestures towards the inclusion of the racial Other, or to discipline and punish that Otherness when it appears. Rather, as the whiff of Amos ‘n Andy we can smell around the figures of our two clerks in Blue Velvet suggests, and the overtly racist stereotypes (blacks and creoles as figures for a demonically sexualized and violent underworld) in Lynch’s more recent film Wild at Heart make abundantly clear, even the most offensive tropes may be called back for a culturally upscale and predominantly white audience to enjoy under the new PoMo dispensation that such hoary ideologemes are really only to be delected like everything else in the film, including the tropes of Back Home themselves, as simply so many hyperrealized/evacuated bits of virtually free-floating text.16

     

    Our examination of both our films’ means of (re)producing the locations and distinctive pleasures of whiteness and their regressive deployments of the new ruins of Fordist industrial space thus bring us back to the central vortex or stuck place by which we may know contemporary “family noir” when we find it: in the apparent dissolution of the rigid identity/Otherness categories of the Symbolic in general, and those of the sex/gender system in particular, into a semic flow or play of boundaries from which, paradoxically, those same categories re-emerge with renewed half-life; and in the astonishingly mobile and contradictory circuitry of desire and anxiety, pleasure and fear, that this process both releases and recontains. Terminator 2, as we have seen, plays around with border crossings between male and female, human and machine, the Fordist past and the post-Fordist present, and, for that matter, bio-social predestination (“It’s in your nature to destroy yourselves”) versus existential possibility (“No fate but what we make”), only to redraw the lines of the old nuclear family system as precisely the last best line of defense against the fluid yet inexorably programmed assaults of the terribly New. Yet this restoration is itself a tenuous and contradictory one, given its figuration through the asexual (or should it be “safe-sexual”?) coalition of a cyborg Dad and a warrior- woman Mom, half-assisted and half-constructed through the educative and team-building efforts of a child who is thus both effectively as well as literally Father to himself (Pfeil 227 and ff.). And Blue Velvet pulls off what is finally the same denaturalizing/restoring act on a more formal level, by presenting us with a pre-eminently oedipal narrative whose recuperations of patriarchal order are riddled with artifice and suspicion, and eroded by a mode of skewed hyper-observation that simultaneously fills and estranges, exceeds and evacuates the conventional terms in which such narratives used to be couched.

     

    Within contemporary political culture, we know what to call this meltdown and restoration of the categories by which women and non-whites are put back in their place (even Blue Velvet‘s Dorothy, like T2‘s Sarah, is firmly, albeit hyperbolically, placed back in the mother role in that film’s closing shots) and white men in theirs, at the same time as the devices of the political rhetoric that does so are brazenly bared, and the very notion of location is smirked away. Its name is Reaganism (or Bushitis now, if you like). And certainly, brushed with the grain as it were, the process by which Blue Velvet‘s Jeffrey gets to answer girlfriend Sandy’s doubt as to whether he’s “a detective or a pervert” by being both, and a good kid besides, is the same as that by which the old actor got to be simultaneously the world’s leading authority figure and its largest, most spectacularized airhead. Likewise, our intense enjoyment in Terminator 2 of the spectacular semiotic mutability of our protean villain–practically Mr. Gynesis in himself–together with the stabilizing satisfactions provided by the return of the classically distinct, embodied (if no less synthetically produced) masculinity of our Arnold as Good Old Dependable Dad,17 rhymes with the joys of the swings themselves over the past four years, from Willie Horton to “Pineapple Head” Noriega to, in Bush’s delivery, “Sodom” Hussein, together with the pleasures available in the manifestly constructed image of Bush as, like the T-800, another kinder, gentler, ass-kicking guy.

     

    Within cultural theory, too, as well as practice, feminist critics such as Suzanne Moore and Tania Modleski have been swift to notice and condemn this same process by which gynesis, the dissolution of the forms and categories of the patriarchal-oedipal-bourgeois Symbolic, can be taken over by white male theorists and cultural producers, the aptly-named “pimps of postmodernism,” to co-opt the pleasures of release and reconstruct new and more mobile means of domination. Yet without disagreeing in any way with these critiques, it remains for us to step beyond or outside them, in accordance with the old Benjaminian dictum that it is preeminently the task of the historical materialist to “brush History”–even, and perhaps especially, that History which is our own present moment– “against the grain” as well (257). In other words, we must attempt to read the particular complex of social- psychological needs and desires that gets ventilated and redirected in these films not only as raw material for a new social contract with the same old Powers That Be, but as a set of contradictory energies which, under the sign of utopia, might be shaped and channeled in progressive directions as well.

     

    It may be, then, that the way to respond to the irresolute resolutions and rebellious conservatism of our films without reproducing their equivalents in theory is to recognize the truth and legitimacy of the needs and desires that underlie the dynamics of the films’ operations while refusing their opposed yet commingled terms. Such a utopian reading would then pass through the recognition that even these admittedly corrupt and pernicious cultural productions have to both rest on and run off a widely-held consensus that the old nuclear, oedipal, male-dominant, breadwinner- ethic-based family is neither a natural nor a desirable set- up, and an equally widely-held and equally justifiable anxiety as to the brutal chaos that ensues when the rules of that old system are tattered or in abeyance without any other emerging to take its place: to pass through that recognition and then to take the combination of desire and anxiety it has found as a resource for a progressive politics, a need for a better sex/gender system that for its fulfillment must be turned into a set of socially transformative demands.

     

    In 1983, as the conclusion of her survey of white male revolts against what she dubbed the “breadwinner ethic” and the oedipal-nuclear families it produced, Barbara Ehrenreich proposed that “male [white male, that is] culture seems to have abandoned the breadwinner role without overcoming the sexist attitudes that role has perpetuated” (182). But she went on to suggest that the only way to begin to move beyond this impasse is to struggle for an expanded, democratized, feminist expansion of the welfare state in which women and men alike earn a “family wage,” and in which women are also provided with the “variety of social supports” they must have “before they are able to enter the labor market on an equal footing with men or when they are unable to do so”– including, and especially, “reliable, high-quality child care” (176-77). Her argument is not that such goals, when achieved, would automatically bring an end to the deflection of male revolts against patriarchy into new forms of sexist oppression, or issue in a feminist utopia; it is simply that without such gains, little new ground for the construction of less oppressive gender roles and relations was–and is– at all likely to open up.

     

    In 1991, of course, after eight more years of repression, rollback and decay, such a program may seem, like Alec Nove’s model of a “feasible socialism,” all the more a combination of the hopelessly insufficient and the wildly utopian. Yet such a hybrid failing, if failing it be, nonetheless seems to me practically unique, and uniquely exemplary, within recent American cultural theory, in its insistence on a given set of programmatic political goals to organize and struggle for; just as that insistence in turn seems infinitely more adequate to the need in the present moment to recover the terrain of political agency and possibility than any rehash of the essentialist vs. post- structuralist debate. The same proposals, and others instead or as well, might be generated out of another, more fully utopian reading of the films we have looked at, and of family noir in general: generated, that is, as so many specific instances of a sense of “canceled yet preserved” we must renew and nourish now within and across our various movements and without any false sense of guarantees. But the main point here is nonetheless that for all the bleakness of the present moment, and indeed precisely because of it, we must nonetheless learn or relearn to propose something more real and more properly political as the outcome of our analyses than the indulgent rages and self-strokings of Identity and/or the jouissance of post-structuralist free-fall. The only alternative to such a “canceled-yet-preserved” renewal of politics itself is the dubious enjoyment of being permanently stuck, like Blue Velvet‘s Jeffrey, “in the middle of a mystery” whose pleasures most of the people we speak for and with can only afford to take in every now and then, when thanks to the magic of motion pictures and political campaigns aimed variously both high and low, at the hip and the masses, the catastrophe “That it goes on like this” is at no small expense made into a little fun.

     

    Notes

     

    A somewhat expanded version of this essay will be published in The Dark Side of the Street, edited by Joan Copjec and Mike Davis (New York and London: Verso, forthcoming). Thanks to Ann Augustine, Gray Cassiday, Michael Sprinker, and Ted Swedenburg for their suggestions, assistance and support, and to the editors of Postmodern Culture for their smart editing; and special thanks to the Center for the Humanities at Oregon State University for the fellowship that enabled me finally to get this piece done.

     

    1. Gledhill’s argument for the subversiveness of the films noir of the forties and fifties may be found in “Klute I: A Contemporary Film Noir and Feminist Criticism,” in Kaplan’s Women in Film Noir, 6-21.

     

    2. Here I feel bound to note that my argument regarding these “neo-noirs” converges on that of Fredric Jameson’s concerning what he calls “nostalgia” films of the ’70s and ’80s, but with a difference: I am less concerned to relate their hollowed-out aesthetic of “pastiche” to any larger and more global “cultural logic of Late Capital” than to place that aesthetic within the particular commercial and institutional context in which it makes its initial sense. Cf. Jameson, Postmodernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, 19-20 and 279-96.

     

    3. See Gitlin’s account of the rise and fall of Hill Street Blues, and his argument that the “recombinant aesthetics” of television production are the quintessence of late capitalist cultural production, in Inside Prime Time, 273-324 and 76-80 respectively.

     

    4. “A Small Boy and Others: Sexual Disorientation in Henry James, Kenneth Anger, and David Lynch,” in Spillers, ed., Comparative American Identities, 142. This is the place, moreover, to declare the general debt my reading of Blue Velvet owes to Moon’s insistent exploration of the film’s sexual-discursive “underside.”

     

    5. “Take something comforting, familiar, essentially American,” she writes, “and turn up the controls, the visual volume. It’s overheated technicolor . . . [e]very detail is picture-perfect and it reeks of danger and failure.” Quoted from the anthology of responses compiled in Parkett 28 (1991), “(Why) Is David Lynch Important?”, 154.

     

    6. Mannoni’s widely-cited formula first appears in his Clefs pour l’Imaginaire, ou L’Autre Scene (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1969). For another recent consideration of relationship of the circuitry of disavowal and enjoyment it describes to postmodernist culture, see Jim Collins, Uncommon Cultures: popular culture and postmodernism (New York: Routledge, 1989), 110 ff..

     

    7. The full sentence from which this quoted material comes is worth quoting in full for the linkage Moon makes, and claims the film makes, between the film’s sadomasochistic homoerotics and the mobile discursivity of the desires it displays: When Lynch has Frank mouth the words of the song a second time [Ben having done so, to Frank’s anguished pleasure, back at the whorehouse a short time before], this time directly to a Jeffrey whom he has ritually prepared for a beating by ‘kissing’ lipstick onto his mouth and wiping it off with a piece of blue velvet, it is as though Lynch is both daring the viewer to recognize the two men’s desire for each other that the newly discovered sadomasochistic bond induces them to feel and at the same time to recognize the perhaps more fearful knowledge that what most of us consider our deepest and strongest desires are not our own, that our dreams and fantasies are only copies, audio- and videotapes, of the desires of others and our utterances of them lip-synchings of these circulating, endlessly reproduced and reproducible desires. (146)

     

    8. Buttoning or quilting points: borrowed here from Lacan through Zizek, who lifts the concept far enough out of the bottomless and hopelessly occluded waters of Lacan’s narcissistic language-game to allow me to transliterate and socialize it that much more towards a strictly ideological sense. See especially Zizek’s alternately insightful and hilariously obscurantist essay “‘Che vuoi?’,” in The Sublime Object of Ideology, 87-129.

     

    9. Not to mention noirish melodramas of the same moment: see Mary Ann Doane’s illuminating discussion of these issues in The Desire to Desire: The Woman’s Film of the 1940s (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987).

     

    10. See the opening pages of his fine discussion of “classical” film genres in The World in a Frame, 104-24.

     

    11. The hysterical panic provoked in (some) male quarters by the appearance of Linda Hamilton’s ninja warrior in T2 and Sarandon and Davis’s incarnation as vengeful bandidas in Thelma and Louise in the same summer of 1991 is a topic worthy of investigation in itself. For a sample, see Joe Urschel’s USA Today editorial, “Real men forced into the woods,” July 26-28, 1991, which argues, as far as I can tell, half-seriously, that the powerful women and male- bashing plots of movies the two aforementioned movies leave men no choice but to join Robert Bly’s mythopoetic “men’s movement” and return to nature! I am grateful to my friend Gray Cassiday for bringing this phenomenon to my attention.

     

    12. Here the comparative term might be Jennifer O’Neal’s fatal paralysis at the sight of her cloned self at the climax of The Stepford Wives (1975).

     

    13. Quoted, from the notes for the uncompleted Passagen-Werk, in Susan Buck-Morss, The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1989), 375.

     

    14. See the concluding section of “From Pillar to Postmodern: Race, Class and Gender in the Male Rampage Film,” in Socialist Review and in White Guys: Studies in Postmodern Power, Choice, and Change (forthcoming from Verso, 1993).

     

    15. See “Plot and Patriarchy in the Age of Reagan: Reading Back to the Future and Brazil,” in my Another Tale to Tell: Politics and Narrative in Postmodern Culture (Verso, 1990), especially 235-36.

     

    16. For a prescient early warning of this phenomenon, first spotted in the high-cult realm of the visual arts, see Lucy Lippard, “Rejecting Retrochic,” in Get the Message? A Decade of Art for Social Change (New York: E. Dutton, 1984), 173-78; and for a recent assessment of its presence and effects in contemporary American popular culture, see Suzanna Danuta Walters, “Premature Postmortems: ‘Postfeminism’ and Popular Culture,” in New Politics, 3.2 (Winter 1991).

     

    17. The distinction between the “classical” and the “grotesque” body is drawn from Bakhtin and elaborated brilliantly by Peter Stallybrass and Allon White in The Politics and Poetics of Transgression. What seems worth noting here now, however, about the figure of “our Arnold” and perhaps about other contemporary ideal-images of contemporary white straight masculinity, is the degree to which the “classical” and “grotesque” seem to be mutually contained and containing within such figures, in a way that seems connected to the broader thematic and political argument I am making here.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Benjamin, Walter. “Theses on the Philosophy of History.” In Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Schocken, 1969.
    • Bordwell, David, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson. The Classical Hollywood Style. New York: Columbia UP, 1986.
    • Braudy, Leo. The World in a Frame: What We See in Films. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1976.
    • Creed, Barbara. “A journey through Blue Velvet: Film, fantasy and the female spectator.” New Formations 6 (Winter 1988).
    • Ehrenreich, Barbara. The Hearts of Men: American Dreams and the Flight from Commitment. Garden City, NY: Anchor/Doubleday, 1983.
    • Gitlin, Todd. Inside Prime Time. New York: Pantheon, 1983.
    • Griffin, Susan. Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her. New York: Harper and Row, 1978.
    • Jameson, Fredric. Postmodernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1991.
    • Jameson, Fredric. “Progress Versus Utopia: Or, Can We Imagine the Future?” Science Fiction Studies 9.2 (1982).
    • Kaplan, E. Ann, ed. Women in Film Noir. London: British Film Institute, 1978.
    • Modleski, Tania. “The Incredible Shrinking He(r)man: Male Regression, the Male Body, and Film.” differences 2.2 (1990): 55-75.
    • Moon, Michael. “A Small Boy and Others: Sexual Disorientation in Henry James, Kenneth Anger, and David Lynch.” In Comparative American Identities: Race, Sex, and Nationality in the Modern Text. Ed. Hortense J. Spillers. New York: Routledge, 1991.
    • Moore, Suzanne. “Getting a Bit of the Other–the Pimps of Postmodernism.” In Male Order: Unwrapping Masculinity. Ed. Rowena Chapman and Jonathan Rutherford. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1988: 165-192.
    • Penley, Constance. “Time-Travel, Primal Scene and the Critical Dystopia.” In Alien Zone: Cultural Theory and Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema. Ed. Annette Kuhn. London and New York: Verso, 1990.
    • Pfeil, Fred. “Plot and Patriarchy in the Age of Reagan: Reading Back to the Future and Brazil.” In Another Tale to Tell: Politics and Narrative in Postmodern Culture. Verso, 1990: 227-241.
    • Ruddick, Sarah. Maternal Thinking: Toward a Politics of Peace. New York: Ballantine, 1990.
    • Schatz, Thomas. The Genius of the System. New York: Pantheon, 1988.
    • Stallybrass, Peter and Allon White. The Politics and Poetics of Transgression. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1986.
    • Zizek, Slavoj. The Sublime Object of Ideology. New York and London: Verso, 1989.

     

  • Edward Schizohands: The Postmodern Gothic Body

    Russell A. Potter

    Dept. of English
    Colby College

    <rapotter@colby.edu>

     

    A schizophrenic out for a walk is a better model than a neurotic lying on the analyst’s couch. A breath of fresh air, a relationship with the outside world . . . while taking a stroll outdoors . . . he is in the mountains, amid falling snowflakes, with other gods or without any gods at all, without a family, without a father and a mother . . . .1
     

    –Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-Oedipus

     

    A schizophrenic out for a walk . . . thus Deleuze and Guattari frame the peripatetic, or as they would say, the nomadic position of their classic critique of Freud’s Oedipus complex. The world of this schizo subject is profoundly machine-made, “everything is a machine. Celestial machines, the stars or rainbows in the sky, alpine machines–all of them connected to those of the body.”2 And it is in just such a way that Edward Scissorhands, in Tim Burton’s film of the same name, enters the world; left alone and unfinished in the huge gothic mansion of his dead Inventor, not born but built, his only company other dusty machines, filling his days trimming intricate ornamental hedges with his bladed hands. And yet Edward’s own mark is that of the wound, for everything he touches is cut, severed, disjointed. In contrast, down below the mountain on which his mansion stands dwells a sedately postmodern collection of pastel-hued modular homes, each with its nuclear, Oedipal family, its pastel-hued automobile, and its well-watered, neatly manicured lawn.

     

    And yet to simply construe Edward Scissorhands as an incarnation of Deleuze and Guattari’s schizo would be to do both texts an unwitting violence, for like the prose monolith of the Anti-Oedipus, Edward Scissorhands discloses a cut, a blade, that severs the very narrative and theoretical strands that would seem to hold it together; coming-apart is what they are all about. Just so Milton, in a moment of delirious excess, wrote Comes the blind Fury, with th’ abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life.3 Edward’s hands, though, are not hands of fury but hands of desire, of a desire that inescapably wounds everything it embraces. In this sense, they might appear to be thoroughly Oedipal hands–if one reads the wound they inflict as the mark of castration. Yet this wound is deeper and wider, it is the social wound which bleeds out the deferred pain of a banalized generation, the stain under the plush beige carpet, the leak in the somnifacient waterbeds of a suburban existence so attenuated that it has become, in Baudrillard’s terms, a mere simulacrum of itself.

     

    Television and film, of course, are replete with such plateaus, whether it is in the encapsulated fragments of America’s Funniest Home Videos or in the hyperreal simulations of the “holodeck” on board the starship Enterprise in Star Trek: The Next Generation. Yet Edward Scissorhands stands somehow apart, a strange territory where the passions lost in the kitschy planet of Suburbia U.S.A. are recovered via–what else?–the Gothic. With its visceral excesses, its gargoyles of blood and sensuality, the Gothic offers a perfect compensation for the dead historical machinations of the postmodern. Founded itself in a reconstruction of a past that never was, the Gothic does not re-enact history, but withstands it (and its loss). Tim Burton’s twist–and a brilliant one it is–is to conjoin this vividly baroque Gothic with the Industrial Gothic of Charlie Chaplain’s Modern Times, where men re-enact catatonically the stiff and jerky motions of the machines they service, and that service them. Like the nefarious automated feeding-machine that nearly drives Charlie to distraction, the principal of the Burtonesque (as of the Chaplinesque) machine is that it do less well something which could be done far more easily by hand. The Inventor’s early inventions, like his cookie-making assembly line, precisely re-enact this scene, breaking eggs and cutting cookies with overcharged zeal; Edward, lacking precisely hands, is himself a consummate machine, in that he does everything less well, except cutting. Therein lies his mad art, and with it, at least temporarily, he reconfigures the postmodern aesthetic, scattering bulbous clowns, dolphins, and dancers among the previously sedate shrubberies of Burton’s postmodern suburbia.

     

    Deleuze and Guattari’s nomadic constructions of desiring-production give us, I would argue, an economics as well as a stylistics of the Gothic genre, both in its novelistic and cinematic avatars. The two-phase engine of desiring production is the pivot through which this structure articulates itself. In the first phase, the organs-partial objects–bodily parts disjointed from the whole–appear as persecuting machines: schizo voices undercut reality with paranoiac narratives, dead hands crawl out of the grave to avenge their killer, telltale hearts give the lie to narratorial sanity. In the second phase, the body-without-organs, or BwO, re-absorbs these partial and persecutorial fragments: the infamous schizo Judge Schreber swallows his larynx accidentally, but is healed by the “miraculating” rays that seem to radiate from his anus; the Blob absorbs its victims into an undifferentiated amoebic mass; the Golem returns to clay.

     

    Edward, too, inhabits this dual movement; while he is gentle, his immaculate and lethal hands have a mind all their own; the same hands which shape surreal topiary hedges with a gardener’s grace “accidentally” slash Edward’s own face, and the faces of those he loves. On a broader scale, Edward himself is the persecutorial agent of the suburban enclave whose practiced conformities he unwittingly shreds. Exhibited at a neighborhood barbecue, displayed in a classroom “show-n-tell,” a guest on a television talk-show, in every instance he severs and disjoints the body of the socius. Peg’s endeavor to graft Edward back into family and community leads instead to the rupture of the community’s own unarticulated sutures of desire, to the re-opening of scars that not even the “miraculating” cinematic machine of “love” can heal. The drama of Edward Scissorhands, consequently, is not the persecution and destruction of the “monster,” but rather the implosion of the Oedipal family, which is disclosed as monstrous–the drama, in short of Anti-Oedipus.

     

    Just as in Deleuze and Guattari’s work, Edward Scissorhands mobilizes against the Oedipal/capitalistic strictures of desire. The unfinished thing about Edward is not the Oedipal signifier of the phallus, but rather his hands, producers of sensation, the quintessential synecdoche of sensitivity (handle with care, hand-made, touched, touching). In schizo-analytic terms, the hands, while “partial” like all desiring-machines, bring with their overload of sensation the illusion of becoming-complete. In drawings of the body scaled to represent the relative number of nerve endings in various organs, the hands loom grotesquely large over an insectine body, their mass figuring an excess of sensation. In the place of these sensory machines, Edward has fists full of blades, machines of anti-production, machines that can do only injury, even when he reaches to stroke or embrace. As much as Edward is gentle, his hands are remorseless; they twitch involuntarily at the approach of the unknown, and when his emotions overwhelm him they cut maniacally at bushes, clothing, and people.

     

    It would be hard to imagine a scene more traumatic than that in which the Inventor, just as he is on the verge of presenting Edward with hands, falls to the floor in the spasms of death. When the gift is revealed, Edward’s eyes open wide, and he briefly attempts to touch these new hands in his scissored grasp. Then, as Edward looks on, the pleasure in the Inventor’s eyes is replaced with a look of panic; as he slumps to the floor the human hands are thrust onto Edward’s bladed fingers and fall, broken into fragments along with the sensations they might have produced. Reaching out to caress the Inventor’s face, Edward instead leaves a long red gash on his cheek. The Oedipal crisis of desire-as-lack (manque) is subsumed within the larger crises of desiring-production, whose machines, as Deleuze and Guattari put it, “only work when they break down.” Edward’s problematic humanity begins with this breakage, but within the Gothic hallways of the inventor’s mansion it remains unproductive, a celibate machine whose tasks never extend beyond keeping the hedges trimmed in a garden no-one but Edward sees.

     

    This isolation is broken when Peg, the neighborhood Avon Lady, and as such a (minor) agent of the capitalistic machine, comes to call. Overcoming her shock at the first sight of Edward, she recovers herself as soon as she sees the cuts on his cheeks (the narcissistic touch, too, opens only wounds for Edward). “At the very least, let me give you a good astringent,” she says as she pats the terrified Edward’s cheeks with a moistened cotton ball, “and this will help to prevent infection.” When she takes Edward home, she unwittingly opens a crisis within the unreal reality of her neighborhood; having brought the “real” (Gothic Edward, whose schizo hands will make the unheimlich out of the allzuheimlich) within the capitalist machine, all other values come into question–or rather, the absence of value as such is disclosed, as soon becomes evident in the dinner-table moralizing of Peg’s husband Bill. Edward’s true allies, however, are not the adults, who have already taken up their places within the capitalistic desiring-machines (cd players, stereos, kitchen appliances, waterbeds), but with children and adolescents, whose crisis is suddenly shown to be not domestic but fundamentally social. By re-enacting the Anti-Oedipal moment, Edward breaks open the “family unit” and discloses a cut that runs across the boundaries between the “nuclear” families in Peg’s neighborhood and the social production of desire.

     

    As the schizo, the outcast, Edward poses a threat not only to the “family,” but to all the other microfascistic machines that had guaranteed the inviolability of the unreal suburb. Esmerelda, the local born-again Christian, denounces Edward as bearing “the mark of Satan,” and attributes the problems which Edward’s presence produces to his diabolical mission (Edward’s answer, carving her shrubbery into a grinning demon’s head, gives a perfect schizo gloss on her paranoia).

     

    The Hands

     

    Shall I even confess to you what was the origin of this romance? I waked one morning in the beginning of last June from a dream, of which all I could recover was, that I had thought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head like mine filled with Gothic story) and that on the uppermost bannister of a great staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armor . . . .4
     

    –Horace Walpole, of The Castle of Otranto

     

    The hands–les mains (French amplifies the schizo by placing “hands” in a neutral and impersonal form)–floating and disembodied in the opening credits of Scissorhands, hands that will never find their way to Edward’s body. If the brain is coded as the seat of identity (the transfer of brains in Frankenstein and its heirs, the suspended brain common to so many science fiction scenarios)5–the hands are coded as the site of sensibility. The hands are right there in the “laboratory” scene; the horror at their transfer, their stitches is at least as great as the horror of the transferred brain. “There’s nothing to fear! Look! No blood, no decay . . . just a few stitches.” So Henry Frankenstein comforts his assistant when the monster’s hands arouse his terror. The horror of the transplanted hands is echoed by Henry’s own admixture of pride and fear at the work of his own hands–“Think of it! The brain of a dead man, waiting to live again in a body I made in [sic] my own hands (holds up his hands and gazes at them) . . . in my own hands!”

     

    Henry’s lines, perhaps inadvertently, conflate two metonymic deployments of the hands: “a body I made with my own hands” and “(his) life is in my hands.” A similar condensation–though visual rather than linguistic–occurs in Mad Love (1932). A concert pianist named Orlac loses his hands in an accident, but is given new hands (taken from an executed murderer) by a demented surgeon named Gogol (Peter Lorre). These hands, however, seem to have retained their murderous propensity; Orlac’s playing deteriorates as the hands restlessly finger various lethal implements. At the same time, driven by desire for Orlac’s wife, Gogol attempts to drive Orlac insane by visiting him in disguise, donning artificial hands and a neck brace so as to convince him that he is the murderer come back from the dead. Orlac’s hands eventually come to the rescue, however; when Gogol assaults his wife, Orlac kills him with a single skilled throw of a knife.

     

    This theme has been repeated (with somewhat less success) many times, most recently in Body Parts (1991), which in many ways is a kind of remake of Mad Love. Yet the re-suturing of the severed hand has hardly put an end to the terror of the hand all by itself. In The Hand (1981), Michael Caine plays a cartoonist whose severed hand embarks on a murder spree. Suggestively, Caine undergoes psychotherapy, and becomes convinced that the disembodied hand is a mere hallucinatory projection of his own murderous desire–a plausible solution, at least until the hand sneaks up on Caine’s therapist and strangles her while Caine watches from across the room. The hand, it would seem, has a mind of its own, if only because of its extraordinary intensity of sensation; a severed hand takes with it all that is palpable, caressable, the feelable–or brings with it all the callous(ed) insensitivity society attributes to a murderer, much as the “criminal brain” that Frankenstein transplants into his monster in the 1931 film version.

     

    To lose a hand, of course, is one thing; never to have one is another, and to have something else in their place still another. Edward is the consummate guest, well-trained in etiquette by the Inventor, but when he cuts the family meatloaf with his blades, not everyone will eat it–he has touched it with his hands, and it becomes in a sense unclean. As the opening scene of the film frames it, there once was a man “who had scissors for hands,” that is, both in the place of and as hands. In the place of hands, they are a disaster, cutting those Edward tries to help or hold; as hands they are the producers of his sudden success–as hedge-trimmer, dog-clipper, barber. A number of sexual double-entendres rotate around Edward’s hands, as the women in the neighborhood fantasize about their erotic possibilities: <

     

    Joyce:
    Oooh. Completely different.
    Neighbor 1:
    No kidding.
    Neighbor 2:
    He’s so…
    Neighbor 3:
    Mysterious.
    Joyce:
    Do you imagine those hands are hot or cold? And just think about what a single snip could do…
    Neighbor 1:
    Or undo

     

    The men, for their part, are equally unnerved about Edward’s hands, but their uneasiness is translated into humor: “Whoa, that’s a heck of a handshake you got there, Ed.” One elderly male barbecue-goer does confide in Edward, however: “I have my own infirmity. Never did me a bit of harm. Took some shrapnel during the war, and ever since then, I can’t feel a thing. Not a damn thing. Listen–don’t let anyone ever tell you you have a handicap.” Edward is drawn out of this conversation, though, by Joyce and the other women, who line up to feed him mouthfuls of “Ambrosia salad” and other earthly delights. Their feeding marks the ineptitude of Edward’s hands (at that point employed as shishkebabs), as also their maternal and sexual interest in his body.

     

    The Fabricated Body

     

    Professor:
    And you really believe that you can bring life to the dead?
    Henry Frankenstein:
    That body is not dead. It has never lived. I created it. I made it with my own hands from the bodies I took from graves, from the gallows, anywhere…

     
    From its inception, the Gothic has posited and reproduced a legion of partial, disjointed, or decomposed body parts, which by their very existence accuse the waking world of a fundamental illegitimacy. The giant, disembodied hand whose mysterious appearance in Walpole’s Castle of Otranto (1761) gives the lie to Prince Manfred’s claims of nobility; the detachable hand that horrifies Sir Bertrand in Anna Barbauld’s “Sir Bertrand” (1792); the severed hand that establishes the guilt of its former owner in Mary-Anne Radcliffe’s Manfrone (1828)–function as the organs- partial-objects which disclose the founding aporia of the socius. The old man’s blind eye, and the relentless beating of his disembodied heart, speak the j’accuse of Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” as does the barrage of ventriloquized voices in Wieland; it ceases to matter whether they are “real” or “hallucinatory,” they are real enough to drive rationality into madness.

     

    Something still more deeply terrifying takes place when, as in Frankenstein, these body parts are assembled to form the unwhole-y whole of the monstrous body. The horror and revulsion of this body is its disjunction–its organs have been separately acquired from a shadowy contingent of cadavers, then sewed back together in such a way that the stitch-marks show. The stitches in the makeup for Boris Karloff’s early film personation of Frankenstein terrify because they disclose the stitches within ourselves, the “dissolving sutures” that transgress our own body, inasmuch as it traverses the amorphous plane of the Body without Organs. This “BwO,” as it is often abbreviated, is a kind of anti-body, a repository of the not-body; organs cling to it as parasites or (in Deleuze and Guattari’s own metaphor) “like medals jingling on the chest of a wrestler.” The Oedipal, familial, oral-anal organization that has been imposed on the body exacts a terrific price–its price is no less than the BwO, whose desire will never be eaten by a mouth or contained by an anus.

     

    The fabricated body of the Gothic is also a shadow of the terror of libidinal organization; it is positioned between the Oedipalized body with its territorialized zones and the zoneless BwO. Existing partly in both worlds, it is a threat to both, as well as a loving secret; no one who has kissed a lover’s scar can deny it. Every scar is potentially a mouth or an anus, or both–a kind of opening unmarked by libidinal fascisms. The fabricated body, covered with scars, is an erotic feast as well as a terror (that is, a tearer) of flesh. Edward’s facial scars are self-inflicted, “accidental”–and yet Peg Boggs spends the better part of Edward’s suburban sojourn trying to find the particular admixture of cosmetics which will conceal them. “We’ll cover up the scars and start with a completely smooth surface,” Peg muses at one point, but her efforts result only in a gooey paste that makes Edward look worse than ever.

     

    Peg’s desire to smooth Edward’s scars thus can be read not only as a desire to erase the terror of Edward’s hands but as reaction against the horror that Edward’s entire body is an assemblage, a mass of sutures, a fabricated and anti-Oedipal anti-territory. We can see this not only through Edward’s leather armor (or is it his skin?), which jangles with studs and metal buckles, but through the scene staged as “The Etiquette Lesson.” Here Edward, lying in bed, thinks back to the impossible moment of his assemblage. As the camera pans around the room in the opening shot, we hear the Inventor’s voice declaiming a lecture on etiquette: “Should the man rise when he accepts his cup of tea?” The camera pans past an oversize book, its pages turned by a sudden breeze; at the word “man” we see Edward’s bodily development. In the early sketches he resembles others of the inventor’s robots, with an egg-like torso and a spherical head; in later drawings arms are attached, and the torso is filled out; the face is given features, the arms a more hominid form. Like the Inventor’s other creatures, Edward is held together by a series of belts–figurations, like Frankenstein’s scars, of his body’s partiality. We see the addition of the scissor hands, and their (unfulfilled) replacement by human ones.

     

    When the camera arrives at Edward, we see that he is not yet himself assembled; his torso and head rest on a kind of workbench, with arms and legs lying laid nearby. At length the Inventor closes the book of etiquette, proclaiming it “boring,” and opens a book of poems (which turn out to be limericks). In a voice of mock-solemnity, he intones

     

    There was an old man from the Cape
    Who made himself garments of crepe.
    When asked, “Will they tear?”
    He replied, “Here and there,
    But they keep such a beautiful shape.”

     

    The “clothing of crepe” (pre)figures Edward’s own fragile skin, the fragility of the Inventor’s wrinkled skin, the fragility of his body and bodies in general. Edward, not yet bodied himself, smiles tentatively, and the Inventor parentally intones “That’s right. Go ahead, smile. It’s funny!” Yet the paradox here is that the inventor himself is both more and less than a parent, and Edward more and less than a child. Edward truly possesses language before he possesses a body, and as a result he can consciously inhabit zones which others will only know in dreams–and (“on the other hand”) he can make mistakes no human child would make. To be born, and to grow, in an Oedipalized family is one thing–and to be built, to come into being partially whole and yet wholly partial, is another. Edward’s inception is not a conjunction but a disjunction, as the planned hands are broken and lost (they shatter upon impact) and he remains not incomplete but unfinished.

     

    Edward’s secrets–that no amount of make-up will cover our scars, that the libido has nothing to do with families and everything to do with society at large (economics, houses, hedges, malls, talkshows, food), that our own sanity has been purchased as the result of a kind of extortion or holding-hostage of our bodies–are, in the end, too much to bear. Jim, as the quintessential fascist, wants him out: “You destroy everything you touch!” he yells. Kim, moved by the uncanny recognition that her home is not her home, her parents are not her parents, her boyfriend is not her boyfriend, alone knows and moves to Edward’s side. But she cannot remain, not at least if this film is to have something we could call an ending, something that can re-contain just enough of the terror it discloses so that we can all go back home to our waterbeds and sleep in peace.

     

    Edward Is Dead: Long Live Edward

     

    Many film critics, such as Pauline Kael, have faulted Edward Scissorhands for what they see as its maudlin sensibility (Kael calls it “Frankenstein’s monster by way of L. Frank Baum”)6 or its melodramatic denouement. All this assumes, of course, that some generic codes have been violated, or at least that the audience has somehow been led to expect some other kind of ending. Leaving aside the fact that the Gothic itself is historically an outgrowth of the sentimental, there is no reason to expect that the drama at work in this film be univocal, even at the start (something which is signalled immediately in the juxtaposition of suburban tract homes and gothic castle). I would argue indeed that several filmic machines are at work here, each with its own imperatives: the Gothic Romance (as in Wuthering Heights–storm-crossed lovers against the world of social conventions), the Dark Hero genre (this was after all the film Tim Burton made immediately after Batman), the Adolescent Horror Carrie), not to mention the sensitive-creature-from-another-world (long before E.T., there was The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) and Revenge of the Creature (1955)).

     

    Yet the strongest narrative underlying Edward Scissorhands, as I have suggested above, is clearly that of the filmic Frankenstein. And, as the inheritor of that tradition, Edward is driven to re-enact–albeit with many suggestive differences–the inexorable expulsion and persecution of the monstrous. The scene is so familiar as to be a cliche; all one needs is a few dozen “peasants” armed with torches storming the door of some castle. Yet Burton’s film displaces that cliche by rendering ambiguous any comfortable distances of time, place, or social class– in the process indicting the very audiences most likely to view his film. Indeed, by taking Edward out of the mansion and into the suburbs Burton re-enacts the history of the Gothic; “Mrs. Radcliffe” (of Udolpho) moves in next door to “Mrs. Smith” (of Mrs. Smith’s Pies), and it turns out they have known each other all along.

     

    In the commodity-fetishism of Burton’s suburbs, chronology is deliberately scrambled, such that commodities, like the clip-art cutouts of postmodern collages, drift about in their own free play of signification. 90s appliances, such as CD players, exist side-by-side with 50s fixtures such as boomerang tables and lava lamps; the parents are from 60s sitcoms but the kids are from 21 Jump Street. The cars–at least those we see up-close–are of early-70s vintage, as are the houses seen in exterior shots. Yet even here, the pastel coloration–one might even say, colorization–of these houses refuses a simplistic mimesis. Like Andy Warhol’s brightly colored silkscreens of Mao Tse-Tung or Marilyn Monroe, these houses are in effect coloring-book reproductions whose hyperveracity gives the lie to realism. The final effect is a kind of timeless time, a place without chronology or geography–in short, the suburbs as seen by those whose lives remained somehow untransgressed by history.

     

    Yet the apparent smoothness of this untrammelled suburban territory belies the alienation–both of others and of itself–which is the founding ethos of the suburbs. In her recent study, Belonging in America: Reading Between the Lines, Constance Perin argues that one thing that suburbia U.S.A. has always done, and done well, is to stare at, ostracize, alienate, and expel those (re)marked as different.7 The modalities of suburban demonization indeed seem to follow remarkably similar patterns, whether the person so demonized is a newcomer, a retiree, a “handicapped” person, or a someone “just passing through.” Edward, while initially welcomed almost manically, is soon regarded with deep suspicion, especially after the break-in at Jim’s parents’ house; by serving as the scapegoat for this crime, Edward marks both himself and his adoptive “family” as outcasts.

     

    It is Kim’s boyfriend Jim who proves to be the ultimate local agent of this suburban fascism, just as he is the ultimate Oedipal subject. Jim’s father keeps his electronic toys in a locked room outfitted with state-of-the-art burglar alarms; as Jim himself says in a dinnertable jab, “they keep things pretty much locked up. My father has his own room for his stuff to make sure I can’t get any use of it.” For “when the family ceases to be a unit of production and of reproduction . . . it is father-mother that we consume”8:

     

    Kim:
    But that’s breaking and entering!
    Jim:
    Look, my parents have insurance up the rear, okay? What’ll it cost ’em–a little hassle? That’s about it. A week and my dad’ll have a new and better everything.
    Kim:
    We can’t!
    Jim:
    Look, there’s a guy who’ll give us cash for this stuff!
    Kim:
    Jim, I don’t want to.
    Jim:
    What–you don’t want us to have our own van like Denny’s when we could be all by ourselves whenever we like? Huh? With a mattress in the back?
    Kim:
    Well, why can’t you just do it?
    Jim:
    Because my father keeps the damn room locked. We need Edward to get in.

    vKim:Well, can’t you take the key, like, when he’s sleeping or something?Jim:You don’t understand. The only thing he holds on to tighter is his dick.Kim:huhm…Jim:C’mon, Kim. Razor Blades’ll do anything for you!Kim:That’s not true!Jim:Oh no? Why don’t you ask him?

     

    In the end, Edward performs this sacrifice for Kim, whom he has loved from the moment he sees her face in the mandatory assemblage of family photographs (all families are simulacra, D&G might say) that adorns Peg’s mantelpiece.9 And yet Kim does not know until some time later that Edward knew all along that the house they were breaking into was Jim’s, and that he knowingly committed this crime for her. When she finally learns the truth, she recognizes at once what Bataille might call the sovereign abandon of Edward’s gesture and despises Jim. Jim’s recognition of Kim’s rejection sets off his maniacal determination to destroy Edward, even if he can only alienate Kim further by doing so. Thus, in a classically gothic denouement, Kim’s shift of love and allegiance exposes the inhumanity of the “human” and the humanity of the “inhuman.”

     

    Yet there is something more here, something beyond a mere farce of the Oedipal drama. In schizoanalytic terms, Edward has not merely broken the Oedipal equation, he has short-circuited it. Edward, like Frankenstein’s monster in the 1931 film, is somehow allied to electricity; asked by the talk-show host about whether he has a girlfriend, Edward touches the microphone stand with his hand, grounding it out and spraying sparks all over the stage. Now, having taken for a moment Jim’s place in the Oedipal chain, he draws its flow outward, away from the nuclear family; he grounds it out, unbinding its libidinal cathexes. Edward does not simply castrate (one knife would be sufficient for that–why have ten?), he unhinges all organs from their Oedipal affixations, he pulls the surface of the Body Without Organs taut, turning velcro into teflon. The Oedipal crisis is itself placed in crisis; its “undoing” turns out not to be castration after all, but indifference.

     

    Jim, left not only without the phallus but without recourse to the Oedipal narrative which offered his only prospect of ever claiming it, is thrown into a frenzied spiral of jealousy. He is activated, as it were, as the community’s agent to expel the intruder who has threatened its libidinal and social borders. No one is willing to throw Edward out, but no one is willing to stop Jim from throwing him out. The local policeman, suggestively, is on Edward’s side, giving an undertone of the many films of the 50s which implicitly or explicitly took up the question of unpopular justice (e.g. To Kill a Mockingbird), in the place of what he regards as an imaginary threat, he drives to the mansion’s gate and fires his revolver into the air, telling the neighbors that “it’s over” and that they “can all go home now.” But where is “home”? Jim’s not there, wherever it is; even as Edward is running, slicing off the clothes he wore during his stay at the Boggs’s, Jim is swigging Jack Daniel’s in the back of his friend’s van, getting his “courage” up for the inevitable confrontation.

     

    While following the conventions to a point, the final scenes of the film offer a subtle yet crucial set of differences–differences which, as in other parts of the film, initiate slippages that belie their apparent conventionality. Edward flees to his “castle,” with Kim and Jim right behind him; the suburban “peasants” are held in reserve. Jim sets about killing Edward with mock-Eastwood machismo, first with a gun, and (when that fails) by breaking beams over his back. Kim intervenes, and ends up atop the prostrate Edward; in one uncanny moment she grasps Edward’s hand and menaces Jim with it. When Edward and Jim face off a moment later, it seems that Kim has finally given Edward the cue for what he must do, as he snips the thin-spun life out of Jim’s chest with a single thrust of a finger. Locked out of his parents’ Oedipal sanctum, and superseded by Edward in Kim’s affections, Jim dies quickly and easily–as Deleuze and Guattari say, “4, 3, 2, 1, 0– Oedipus is a race for death.”10 His body, discovered below the window, does not even hold enough interest to make the neighbors linger. What the neighbors want is Edward, and Kim gives “him” to them; descending the stairs, she seizes upon one of the inventor’s discarded alternate hands. “He’s dead,” she proclaims to the neighbors, waving the hand aloft: “See?”

     

    This disembodied hand, of course, is no guarantee, but it is readily taken as one by the assembled crowd. One thinks for a strange moment about Freddie Kruger’s bladed glove in Nightmare on Elm Street; while the glove itself may be removed and hidden in the basement, it doesn’t prevent Freddie from coming back (not only in that film, but in a long string of lucrative sequels). Yet the horror of Edward Scissorhands is a veritable antipodes to Elm Street and its sequels. Its ethic is not the fear of the nightmare Other, but a realization that in expelling otherness is born self-alienation, an alienation which Edward and his hands disclose, and the crisis of adolescence understands, but the more thoroughly Oedipalized adults have forgotten, plowed under, surrounded hedges and fences. Oh keep the dog far hence, that’s friend to men / Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!

     

    And so the film closes in upon itself, even though closure is not quite what it offers. We pan back again from Edward’s house, and into the window of the room where Kim, now white-haired, sits recounting the tale of Edward to her granddaughter. One wonders aloud: and what was her history, the history of some other love, that has descended into this young girl who sits under a heavy coverlet listening to her grandmother’s tale. And the difference: “You see, before he came down, it never snowed . . . but now, it does.” The snow, the flurry of ice-flakes, turns out to be the detritus from Edward’s relentless sculpting, a statement of love via surreality and excess, even as Edward effectively is pushed back into a mythic realm, to the status of a kind of local sky-god. A fairy tale after all–or is it? In some strange way, the frame-narrative is unable to quite contain Edward– he is neither killed in the manner of Frankenstein’s monster, nor saved (like the Beast in Beauty and the Beast). Kim pronounces what ought in the circumstances to be the magic words: “I love you”–and yet nothing happens. Edward remains untransformed and unassimilated; his ice sculptures freeze time, and in them Kim remains a young woman dancing in the snow. Immaculate in their lifelessness, these figures of ice themselves constitute a kind of machine, a memory palace, where Edward is not the fabricated but the fabricator. From the shreds of these fabrications, snow descends on us all, the snow of our doing–and undoing.

     

    Notes

     

    1. Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus, trans. by Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Helen R. Lee. (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1983), 2.

     

    2. Anti-Oedipus, 2.

     

    3. John Milton, “Lycidas,” lines 75-6, in The Complete Poetry of John Milton, ed. John T. Shawcross (New York: Doubleday, 1971), 160.

     

    4. Horace Walpole, letter to William Cole (March 9, 1765), qtd. in The Castle of Otranto, The Mysteries of Udolpho, Northanger Abbey, ed. Andrew Wright (NY: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1963), xi.

     

    5. See for example Donavan’s Brain (1953), in which the brain of a dead millionaire keeps a scientist chained to its will; The Man Without a Body (1958), in which a man’s talking head is kept artificially alive; The Brain that Wouldn’t Die (1959), where a man preserves his dead wife’s head in a pan of nutrient solution, and embarks on a quest for a body to attach to it–or more recently the well-known Star Trek episode where Mr. Spock’s brain is stolen and wired into a planet-regulating computer network.

     

    6. See Pauline Kael, “The Current Cinema: New Age Daydreams.” The New Yorker vol. 66 no. 44 (Dec. 17, 1990): 115-121.

     

    7. See the suggestive chapters “Penalizing Newcomers,” “Tattling on Neighbors,” and “Imperfect People,” all in Belonging in America: Reading Between the Lines (Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1988).

     

    8. Anti-Oedipus, 265.

     

    9. Edward’s own schizo assemblage (which significantly is not on the mantelpiece but in the fireplace) consists of newspaper clippings with headlines such as “BOY BORN WITHOUT EYES READS WITH HIS HANDS,” “I’LL NEVER DIET AGAIN,” and “NEWLYWEDS, 90 & . . . TO HAVE A BABY”–an anti-Oedipal anti-family whose membership is open only to those (re)marked as singular.

     

    10. Anti-Oedipus, 359.