Category: Volume 3 – Number 2 – January 1993

  • Anouncements & Advertisements

     
     
    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)  _AXE: E-mail Newsletter
     2)  _The Centennial Review_
     3)  _College Literature_
     4)  _FineArt Forum_
     5)  _F.A.S.T._
     6)  _Future Culture_
     7)  _Gender, Language, and Myth: Essays on Popular Narrative_
     8)  _GNET_: An Archive and Electronic Journal
     9)  _The Internet Companion_
    10)  _The Law and Politics Book Review_
    11)  _NOMAD_
    12)  _Non Serviam_
    13)  _Poetics Today_
    14)  _Positions_
    15)  _Public Culture_
    16)  _PYNCHON NOTES_
    17)  _Sub Stance_
    18)  _TapRoot_
    19)  _XB_
    
    Calls for Papers and Participants:
    
    20)  SUNY PRESS: _Postmodern Culture_
    21)  HERMIT 93
    22)  The Experience of Theory: Literary Symposium organized by
         and for young scholars--call for papers addressing the
         experience of theory
    23)  Montage 93: International Festival of the Image--call for
         work from independent producers for an exhibition of
         electronic time-based media.
    24)  1993 Annual Meeting of the Society for Literature and
         Science--call for papers
    25)  Simulation & Gaming: An International Journal of Theory,
         Design, and Research"--call for papers
    26)  Simulation & Gaming: An International Journal of Theory,
         Design, and Research"--call for Guest Editorships
    
         Conferences and Societies
    
    27)  Video Positive 93
    28)  NARRATIVE: An International Conference
    
         Networked Discussion Groups
    
    29)  _ORTRAD-L_
    30)  _SEMIOS_L_
    31)  _SOCHIST_
    32)  _INTERDIS_
    
    1)---------------------------------------------------------------
                        _AXE: E-mail Newsletter_
    
         A quarterly electronic journal dedicated to contemporary
    French Language, Modern and Postmodern Literature (Quebec,
    Belgium, Switzerland, Africa, and Caribbean).  Published
    essentially in French.
    
         To subscribe to the journal, send the command SUB AXE-LIST
    Firstname Lastname (where these are the first and last names of
    the individual subscriber) bt electronic mail to the addressee:
    
                   LISTSERV@VM1.MCGILL.CA
    
         Electronic subscribers will receive instructions on how to
    order a list of available articles, how to retrieve full texts of
    these articles, and how to cancel subscriptions.  To make access
    to the journal more manageable, access is provided to individual
    articles rather than entire issues.  However, interested readers
    may order all articles from an issue.  Inquiries for the list
    should be sent to Janusz PRZYCHODZEN at McGill University in
    Canada (CXZN@MUSICA.MCGILL.CA).
    
         AXE-TALK is the AXE Journal discussion group.  Subscriptions
    to AXE-TALK are independent of subscriptions to AXE-LIST; if you
    are not a discussion group subscriber and would like to be, send
    command SUB AXE-LIST Firstname Lastname by electronic mail to the
    address:
    
                   LISTSERV@VM1.MCGILL.CA
    
         A directory of all AXE-LIST articles are available on
    Comserve.  To obtain the list, send the following command to:
    
              LISTSERV@VM1.MCGILL.CA:  INDex AXE-LIST
    
    2)---------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _The Centennial Review_
    
    Edited by R.K. Meiners
    
    The _Centennial Review_ is committed to reflection on
    intellectual work, particularly as set in the University and its
    environment.  We are interested in work that examines models of
    theory and communication in the physical, biological, and human
    sciences; that re-reads major texts and authoritative documents
    in different disciplines or explores interpretive procedures;
    that questions the cultural and social implications of research
    in a variety of disciplines.
    
    Issues now available:
    
    Fall 1991: _Discourses of Mourning, Survival, and Commemoration_
    Articles by James Hatley, Donald Kuspit, Tony Brinkley, and
    Joseph Arsenault, Marshall W. Alcorn, Jr., Peter Balakian, R.K.
    Meiners, Louis Kaplan, Haqns Borchers, Morris Grossman, Berel
    Lang, David William Foster; Poetry by Dimitris Tsalouman, Sherri
    Szeman, Walter Toneeo, Henry Gilfond, Elizabeth R. Curry, Peter
    Balakian.
    
    Winter 1992: _Cultural Studies_  Articles by Douglas Kellner,
    Eyal Amiran, John Unsworth, and Carol Chaski, Steven Best, Janet
    Staiger, Jeffrey Seinfeld, Charles Altieri, Tony Barnstone;
    Poetry by Hillel Schwartz, Robert Hahn, Michael Atkinson, John
    Hildebidle.
    
    Spring 1992: Articles by Stephen Gill, Peter Baker, R.M. Berry,
    Carole Anne Taylor, Michel Valentin, Edward M. Griffen, Robert
    Erwin, Ronald Hauser, Karl Albert Scherner (trans. Ronald
    Hauser), Diana Dolev and Haim Gordon, Albert Feuerwerker, Donald
    Lammers, Ileana A. Orlich.
    
    Subscription rates:      1 year/$10.00  2 years/$15.00
                                  Single Issue/$5.00
                        (postage outside the US: please add $3.00)
    
    Make checks payable to:
    
    _The Centennial Review_
    312 Linton Hall
    Michigan State University
    East Lansing, MI
    48824-1044
    
    3)---------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _College Literature_
    A Triannual Literary Journal for the Classroom
    
    Edited by *Kostas Myrsiades*
    
    "In one bold stroke you seem to have turned _College Literature_
    into one of the things everyone will want to read."
         Cary Nelson
    
    My sense is tat _College Literature_ will have substantial
    influence in the field of literacy and cultural studies."
         Henry A. Giroux
    
    A journal one must consult to keep tabs on cultural theory and
    contemporary discourse, particularly in relation to pedagogy."
         Robert Con Davis
    
    Forthcoming issues:
    
         Cultural Studies: Theory, Praxis, Pedagogy
         Teaching Postcolonial Literatures
         Europe and America: The Legacy of Discovery
         Third World Women
         African American Writing
    
    Subscription Rates:      US             Foreign
              Individuals    $24.00/year    $29.00/year
              Institutional  $48.00/year    $53.00/year
    
    Send prepaid orders to:
    
    _College Literature_
    Main 544
    West Chester University
    West Chester, PA  19383
    
    4)---------------------------------------------------------------
    
              FINEART FORUM GETS NEW PUBLISHER
    
    FineArt Forum, the international electronic newsletter, is now
    being published by the Mississippi State University/National
    Science Foundation Engineering  Research Center for Computational
    Field Simulation (MSU/NSF ERC).  Its new editor is  the English
    artist Paul Brown, a member of the MSU Art Faculty.
    
    Founded in 1986, FineArt Forum is one of the longest established
    electronic news letters for the arts.  It is distributed monthly
    via the Internet and provides the artworld with information about
    new developments and opportunities in art &  technology.  For the
    past six years it had been published by the International Society
    for Arts Science and Technology (ISAST) on behalf of the Art,
    Science and  Technology Network (ASTN).  However in November 92
    ISAST lost grant income which supported the newsletter, and the
    MSU ERC offered to take the title over.   ISAST will remain the
    distributor, sending it out to subscribers along with its own
    on-line publication, Leonardo Electronic News.
    
    The MSU ERC has been supporting art and technology since it was
    founded in 1990.  It runs a number of interdisciplinary courses
    involving computer animation and  electronic imaging. Last year's
    student animations were widely exhibited and appeared on
    television both in the USA and overseas.  Last summer Paul Brown
    joined  the faculty, in a joint appointment with MSU's Department
    of Art,  to develop new opportunities including a graduate
    program in Computational Design.
    
    Brown had previously founded the UK's National Center for
    Computer Aided Art &  Design and later helped establish
    Australia's Advanced Computer Graphics Center.   As an artist he
    has been working with computers for almost twenty years and has
    exhibited and published in Europe, Australia and the USA.
    "I have been writing about art & technology for a long time and
    jumped at the  chance to edit FineArt Forum", he explained.
    "It's an ideal vehicle for exploring new forms of electronic
    publication.  Also many more people from the artworld  now want
    to learn about this new area and there's a growing demand for
    sources of information".
    
    FineArt Forum is distributed on, or around, the 1st of the month.
    Subscribers also receive Leonardo Electronic News on the 15th.
    To participate you need  access to the Internet (which is
    available via many of the commercial networks).   Send an e-mail
    message to:  fast@garnet.berkeley.edu with the content:   SUB
    FINE-ART your-email-address, first-name, last-name, and postal
    address.
    
    Like a lot of the network publications it's free.
    
    For further information and images contact: Paul Brown Editor,
    FineArt Forum MSU/NSF Engineering Research Center PO Box 6176
    Mississippi State MS 39762-6176 601 325 2970 601 325 7692 fax
    brown@erc.msstate.edu
    
    5)---------------------------------------------------------------
    
                             _F.A.S.T_
    Fine Art, Science and Technology Electronic Bulletin Board and
    Data Base
    Current Developments in the Application of New Technology
    to the Arts Around the World
    
         * Calendar of Worldwide Events
         * Electronic Newsletters: Leonardo Electronic News
         * Sections on Holography, Space Arts
         * ISAST Member News
         * Job Listings
         * Directory of Resources: Grants, Fellowships, Funds,
              Organizations
         * Bibliographies and Book Lists
         * Words on Works: A special section where subscribing
    
              artists describe new artworks.
         *Profiles of Organizations
    
    F.A.S.T. (Fine Art, Science and Technology Electronic Bulletin
    Board) covers all applications of Science and Technology to the
    Arts.  Topics include computer graphics and animation,
    applications of artificial intelligence to the arts, applications
    of computers to music, holography, robotics, telecommunications
    and art, video, computer literature, and new materials in the
    arts.
    
    The Directory includes artist-in-residence programs and a list of
    curators who are interested in art which uses technology.
    
    In addition, F.A.S.T. contains an archive of FineArt Forum
    newsletters so that subscribers may review back issues.
    
    The F.A.S.T. Bulletin Board not only allows rapid access to
    information, but also allows subscribers direct contact with
    other subscribers interested in the application of new
    technologies to the arts.
    
    SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION
    
    The F.A.S.T. Database is updated weekly.  Leonardo Electronic
    News is published monthly (the 15th).  A 1-year subscription to
    F.A.S.T. (expiring one year from date of your activation access
    to F.A.S.T.) may be obtained electronically for $40 (individuals)
    and $100 (Educational Libraries).  ISAST members are entitled to
    a discount subscription rate of $20.00/year.  Leonardo Electronic
    News may be delivered by surface mail for an additional charge of
    $55.00/year for members and $65.00/year for non-members.
    
    In order to subscribe to F.A.S.T., the user must have access to
    The WELL conferencing system.  This system uses the phone lines
    to transmit information thus a modem is also necessary.  There is
    a charge for subscribing to this as well as access charges from
    the phone company.  The WELL is the system on which we post
    Leonardo Electronic News, and the various bulletin boards and
    calendars for F.A.S.T..
    
    The WELL (Whole Earth 'Lectronic Link) is centered in the San
    Francisco area with an international access through Compuserve.
    The WELL includes private electronic mail, public and private
    conferences, and storage files.  Information about the WELL is
    available via e-mail at info@well.sf.ca.us or by calling (415)
    332-4335 or writing The WELL, 27 Gate Five Road, Sausalito, CA
    94965.  When you subscribe to The WELL, please mention that you
    are doing so in order to have access to F.A.S.T., we get a small
    credit for each referral.
    
    Reduced access charges are available via PC Pursuit and
    Compuserve Packet Network.  Contact The WELL for further
    information.
    
    It is also possible to receive F.A.S.T. on diskettes.  Each
    diskette (5 1/4/ MSDOS diskettes, ASCII text, double-sided,
    double-density) contains all of the information on F.A.S.T. for
    the current quarter.  This includes three issues of Leonardo
    Electronic News, the calendars, selections from Laser News, Words
    on Works, Space Art News, Member News, the organizations and e-
    mail directories, the latest bibliography and the job listings.
    Each diskette is $17.00 for members and $25.00 for non-members,
    annual subscription rates (four diskettes) are $60.00 for members
    and $90.00 for non-members.
    
    For additional information about ISAST, or to become an ISAST
    member. contact:
         ISAST (International Society for the Arts, Sciences, and
                Technology)
         672 South Van Ness, San Francisco, CA 94110, USA
         Tel: (415) 431-7414 or fax: (415) 41-5737
         Email: fast@garnet.berkeley.edu
    
    For further information about FineArt Forum or F.A.S.T., send
    email to fast@garnet.berkeley.edu (internet) or FAST@UCBGARNE
    (bitnet).
    
    6)---------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _FutureCulture_
    
    Requests to join the FutureCulture E-list must be sent to:
    future-request@nyx.cs.du.edu
    
    The subject must have one of the following:
    
    subscribe realtime  -subscribe in realtime (reflector)
    format
    subscribe digest    -subscribe in daily-digest (1 msg/day
    subscribe faq       -subscribe to faq only (periodical updates)
    unsubscribe realtime
    unsubscribe digest
    unsubscribe faq
    help                -send help on subscribing and general info
    send info           -receive info on the FutureCulture
    mailing list
    send faq            -this file
    
    FutureCulture list maintainer and keeper of this FAQ:
    andy
    ahawks@nyx.cs.du.edu
    ahawks@mindvox.phantom.com
    
    While no article that attempts to document an entire emerging
    subculture can be complete, I will do my best to give you enough
    complete and accurate information to get you on your way to the
    future.
    
    This article will focus mainly on cyberpunk culture, rave
    culture, Industrial, po-mo, virtual reality, drugs, computer
    underground, etc..  Basically, the elements that make up the
    developing techno-underground, the new edge, the technoculture.
    
    Included in this article will be: suggested readings--books
    magazines, zines, requisite authors, BBSes devoted to relevant
    topics, corporations and merchandise geared toward the techno-
    aware, Internet e-mail addresses for figure-heads in this area,
    suggested music and movies/videos, FTP sites, etc..
    
    Contact on Internet: ahawks@nyx.cs.du.edu.
    
    7)---------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _GENDER, LANGUAGE, AND MYTH_
    Essays on Popular Narrative
    
    edited by *Glenwood Irons*
    
    _Gender, Language, and Myth_ is a collection of fourteen papers
    on popular romance, detective, western, science fiction and
    horror.  Authors included are Jean Radford, Tania Modleski, and
    Leslie Fiedler (on romance); Marcus Klein, John Cawelti, and Jane
    Tomkins (on the western); Glenwood Irons, Scott Christianson and
    Umberto Eco (on detective and espionage); and Harold Schecter,
    Carol Clover, and Robin Wood (on horror).
    
    University of Toronto Press
    50.00/cloth (Cdn)
    18.95/paper (Cdn)
    
    8)---------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _GNET: an Archive and Electronic Journal
    
    Toward a Truly Global Network
    
    Computer-mediated communication networks are growing rapidly, yet
    they are not truly global--they are concentrated in affluent
    parts of North America, Western Europe, and parts of Asia.
    
    GNET is an archive/journal for documents pertaining to the effort
    to bring the net to lesser-developed nations and the poorer parts
    of developed nations (Net access is better in many "third world"
    schools than in South-Central Los Angeles).  GNET consists of two
    parts, an archive directory and a moderated discussion.
    
    Archived documents are available by anonymous ftp from the
    directory global_net at dhvx20.csudh.edu (155.135.1.1).  To
    conserve bandwidth, the archive contains an abstract of each
    document, as well as the full document (Those without ftp access
    can contact me for instructions on mail-based retrieval).
    
    In addition to the archive, there is a moderated GNET discussion
    list.  The list is limited to discussion of documents in the
    archive.  It is hoped that document authors will follow this
    discussion, and update their documents accordingly.  If this
    happens, the archive will become a dynamic journal.  Monthly
    mailings will list new papers added to the archive.
    
    We wish broad participation, with papers from nuts-and-bolts to
    visionary.  Suitable topics include, but are not restricted to:
    
         descriptions of networks and projects
         host and user hardware and software
         connection options and protocols
         current and proposed applications
         education using the global net
         user and system administrator training
         social, political or spiritual impact
         economic and environmental impact
         politics and funding
         free speech, security and privacy
         directories of people and resources
    
    To submit a document to the archive or subscribe to the moderated
    discussion list, use the address gnet_request@dhvx20.csudh.edu
    
    Larry Press
    
    9)---------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _THE INTERNET COMPANION_
    A Beginner's Guide to Global Networking
    
    Tracy LaQuey
    Editorial Inc.
    Software Tool & Die
    and
    The Online Bookstore (OBS)
    Are Pleased to Announce...
    
    The first simultaneous electronic and print publication of a
    major new book: _The Internet Companion: A Beginner's Guide to
    Global Networking_  by Tracy LaQuey with Jeanne C. Ryer (Addison-
    Wesley, $10.95.
    
    Online copies of Vice-President-elect Al Gore's Forward and the
    first two chapters of this best-selling book are available via
    anonymous FTP from:
    
    world.std.com
    
    in the directory:
    
    /OBS/The.Internet.Companion/
    
    Further chapters will be released in the future.  See README
    and COPYRIGHT files in that directory for more details.  Direct
    comments and questions about the book can be sent to:
    
    internet-companion@world.std.com
    
    This pioneering effort is a step in bringing together the on-line
    electronic and print media, enabling authors to explore new
    avenues of publishing their works.  Comments, inquiries, etc.
    welcome.  Send to:
    
    obs@world.std.com
    
    10)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _THE LAW AND POLITICS BOOK REVIEW_
    
    The _Law and Politics Book Review is now available on the gopher
    server at Northwestern University:
    
    gopher@nwu.edu.
    
    Choose "Northwestern University Information" on the first menu
    and "Law and Politics Book Review" on the next menu.
    
    Herbert Jacob
    Northwestern University
    Voice Mail (708) 491-2648
    e-mail  mzltov@nwu.edu
    
    11)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _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 the undefined
    regions among critical theory, the visual arts, and writing.  For
    information, contact:
    
    Mike Smith
    406 Williams Hall
    Florida State University
    Tallahassee, FL  32306
    
    e-mail:
    Paul Rutkovsky
    
    12)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _NON SERVIAM_
    The Radical Electronic Newsletter dedicated
    Stirner's Philosophy of Egoism
    
    Editor: Svein Olav Nyberg 
    
    _Non Serviam_ is an electronic newsletter centered on the
    philosophy of Max Stirner, author of "Der Einzige und Sein
    Eigentum" ("The Ego and Its Own"), and his dialectical egoism.
    The contents, however, are decided upon by the individual
    contributors and the censoring eye of the editor.  The aim is to
    have  somewhat more elaborate and carefully reasoned articles
    than are usually found on the news groups and lists.
    
    Introductory file:
    
    "Non Serviam!"--"I will not serve", is known from literature as
    Satan's declaration of his rebellion against God.  We wish to
    follow up on this tradition of insurrection.
    
    In modern times, the philosophy of the individual's assertion of
    him//herself against gods, ideals, and human oppressors has been
    most eloquently expressed by Max Stirner in his book "Der Einzige
    und Sein Eigentum".
    
    Stirner, whose real name was Johann Kaspar Schmidt (1805-56),
    lived in a time dominated by German Idealism, with Hegel as its
    prominent figure.  It is against this background of fixation of
    ideas that Stirner makes his rebellion.
    
    For the more formal part, though the letter is centered on
    philosophy and ideas, articles on topics relevant to true egoists
    will also be admitted.  The prime requirement is that the
    articles are not on-line ranting, but serious attempts to convey
    something of interest and relevance.  Articles on literature
    through the ages are fine, stories will be welcomed if they are
    appropriate, and I even think I might fall for an article on
    french cuisine made easy...  However: If in doubt whether an
    article will accepted, ask ne by personal mail first.  A waste of
    time is a waste of time.
    
    I hope to be able to make each of the issues of the newsletter
    thematic, that is we will have one main theme in each issue.  The
    main theme is not meant to be the sole content, however, but more
    of an inspiration for writing.
    
    Editor and List owner: solan@math.uio.no
    
    13)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _Poetics Today_
    
    Edited by Itamar Even-Zohar
    
    International Journal for Theory and Analysis of Literature and
    Communication
    
    Subscription Rates:
    
    Individuals: $28
    Institutions: $56
    Single Issue: $14
    
    (Add $8 for subscription outside of the US)
    
    Send Check, money order, credit card number to:
    
    Duke University Press
    Journals Division
    6697 College Station
    Durham, NC 27708
    
    Call of FAX between 8:00 and 4:00 EST with your VISA, MasterCard,
    or American Express order.
    
    Phone:  (919) 684-6837
    FAX:    (919) 684-8644
    
    14)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _POSITIONS_
    
    East Asia cultural critique offers a new forum of debate for all
    concerned with the social, intellectual, and political events
    unfolding in East Asia and within the Asian diaspora.  Profound
    political changes and intensifying global flows of labor and
    capital in the late twentieth century are rapidly redrawing
    national and regional borders.  These transformations compel us
    to rethink our priorities in scholarship, teaching, and
    criticism. Mindful of the dissolution of the discursive binary
    East and West, _POSITIONS_ advocates placing cultural critique at
    the center of historical and theoretical practice.  The global
    forces of that are reconfiguring our world continue to sustain
    formulations of nation, gender, class and ethnicity.  We propose
    to call into question those still-pressing, yet unstable
    categories by crossing academic boundaries and rethinking the
    terms of our analysis.  These efforts, we hope, will contribute
    toward informed discussion both in and outside the academy.
    
    _POSITIONS_ central premise is that criticism bust always be
    self-critical.  Critique of another social order must be self-
    aware as commentary on our own.  Likewise, we seek critical
    practices that reflect on the politics of knowing and that
    connect our scholarship to the struggles of those whom we study.
    
    All these endeavors require that we account for positions as
    places, contexts, power relations, and links between knowledge
    and knowers as actors in existing social institutions.  In
    seeking to explore how theoretical practices are linked across
    national and ethnic divides we hope to construct other positions
    from which to imagine political affinities across the may
    dimensions of our differences.
    
    _POSITIONS_ is an independent refereed journal.  Its direction is
    taken at the initiative of its editorial collective as well as
    through the encouragement from its readers and writers.
    
    To subscribe to the triannual magazine beginning in Spring 1993
    write to:
    
    Mr. Steve A. Cohn
    Journals Manager
    Duke University Press
    6697 College Station
    Durham, NC  27708
    
    To submit a manuscript send three copies to:
    
    Tani E. Barlow
    Senior Editor
    94 Castro Street
    San Francisco, CA 94114
    
    or e-mail: Barlow@sfsuvax1.edu.
    
    15)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _PUBLIC CULTURE_
    
    Edited by Carol A. Breckenridge
    
    Engaging critical analyses of tensions between global cultural
    flows and public cultures in a diasporic world.
    
    Fall 1992 issue (Vol. 5, Number 1): "ON WRITING THE POSTCOLONY"
    
         *  Hindu/Muslim/Indian             Faisal Fatehali Devji
         *  The Habit of Ex-Nomination      Anannya Bhattacharjee
            Nation, Woman and the Indian
            Immigrant Bourgeois
         *  Narrativizing Postcolony             Tejumola Olaniyan
         *  The Banalities of Interpretation     David William Cohen
         *  Save the African Continent           V.Y. Mudimbe
         *  The Magic of the State               Michael Taussig
         *  Mbembe's Extravagant Power           Judith Butler
         *  The Vulgarity of Power          Michel-Rolph Trouillot
         *  Disempowerment.  Not.                John Pemberton
         *  Can Postcoloniality be Decolonized?  Pernand Coronil
         *  Machiavellian, Rabelaisian,          Dain Borges
            Bureaucratic?
         *  On the Power of the Banal            Michele Richman
         *  Prosaics of Servitude and            Achille Mbembe
            Authoritarian Civilities        (Trans. Janet Roitman)
    
    _Public Culture_ is now published by the University of Chicago
    Press and will move from two to three issues per year.  For the
    general reader the subscription rate will necessarily change from
    $10 dollars per year to $25.  For students it will remain at $5
    per issue or $15 dollars per year.  _Public Culture_ trusts that
    readers will continue to enjoy this enhanced publication.
    
    Forthcoming special issues will include one guest edited by Lila
    Abu Lughod on television in the Third World and another guest
    edited by Benjamin Lee on public cultures/public spheres in which
    China figures prominently.
    
    Write to:
    
    _Public Culture_
    University of Chicago
    1010 East 59th Street
    Chicago, IL  60637
    USA
    tel. (312) 702-0814 and (312) 702-5660
    fax. (312) 702-9861
    E-mail CBRE@midway.uchicago.edu
    
    16)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _PYNCHON NOTES_
    
    Editors
    
    John M. Krafft
    Miami University--Hamilton
    1601 Peck Boulevard
    Hamilton, OH 45011-3399
    
    E-mail:  jmkrafft@miavx2.bitnet  or
    jmkrafft@miavx2.ham.muohio.edu
    
    Khachig Tololyan
    English Department
    Wesleyan University
    Middletown, CT  06457-6061
    
    Bernard Duyfhuizen
    English Department
    University of Wisconsin--Eau Claire
    Eau Claire, WI  54702-4004
    
    E-mail:  pnotesbd@uwec.bitnet  or  pnotesbd@cnsvax.uwec.edu
    
    _PYNCHON NOTES_ is published twice a year, in spring and fall.
    
    Submissions: The editors welcome submissions of manuscripts
    either in traditional form or in the form of text files on floppy
    disk.  Disks may be 5.25" or 3.5"; IBM-compatible, Microsoft
    Word, and WordPerfect 4.1 or later.  Manuscripts, notes and
    queries, and bibliographic information should be addressed to
    John M. Krafft.
    
    Subscriptions: North America, $5.00 per single issue or $9.00 per
    year (or double number);  Overseas, $6.50 per single issue or
    $12.00 per year, mailed air/printed matter.  Checks should be
    made payable to Bernard Duyfhuizen--PN.  Subscriptions and back-
    issue requests should be addressed to Bernard Duyfhuizen.
    
    _PYNCHON NOTES_ is supported in part by the English Departments
    of Miami University--Hamilton and the University of Wisconsin--
    Eau Claire.
    
    BACK ISSUES
    
    _PYNCHON NOTES_ has been published since October 1979.  Although
    most back issues are now out of print, they are available in the
    form of photocopies.
    
    Nos.   1-4:  $1.50 each; Overseas, $2.50
    
    Nos.  5-10:  $2.50 each; Overseas, $3.50
    Nos. 11-17:  $3.00 each; Overseas, $4.50
    No.  18-19:  $7.00;      Overseas, $10.00
    No.  20-21:  $7.00;      Overseas, $10.00
    No.  22-23:  $9.00;      Overseas, $12.00
    No.  24-25:  $9.00;      Overseas, $12.00
    
    Khachig Tololyan and Clay Leighton's _Index_ to all the names,
    other capitalized nouns, and acronyms in _Gravity's Rainbow_ is
    also available.
    
    _Index_: 5.00; Overseas, $6.50
    
    All checks should be made payable to Bernard Duyfhuizen--PN.
    Overseas checks must be payable in US dollars and payable through
    an American bank or an American branch of an overseas bank.
    
    _PYNCHON NOTES_ is a member of CELJ
    the Conference of Editors of Learned Journals.
    
    17)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _Sub Stance_
    
    Edited by *Sydney Levy and Michel Pierssens*
    
    Published: 3/year  ISSN: 0049-2426
    
    _Sub Stance_ promotes new thoughts by leading American and
    European authors which alter the perception of contemporary
    culture--be it artistic, humanistic, or scientific.  The journal
    represents literary theory, philosophy, psychoanalysis, art
    criticism, and film studies.
    
    Rates:         Individual (must pre-pay)     $21/yr.
                   Institutions                  $68/yr.
                   Foreign postage               $ 8/yr.
                   Airmail                       $25/yr.
    
    We accept MasterCard and Visa.  Canadian customers please remit
    7% Goods and Services Tax.
    
    Please write for a free brochure and back issue list to:
    
    Journal Division
    University of Wisconsin Press
    114 North Murray Street
    Madison, WI 53715 USA
    
    Tel:  (608) 262-4952
    FAX:  (608) 262-7560
    
    18)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _TAPROOT_
    
    Edited by Luigi-Bob Drake 
    
    Reviewers: Deidre Wickers, Jake Berry, Bill Paulauskas, Nico
    Vassiliakis, Bob Grumman, Tom Beckett, Roger Kyle-Keith, and
    Luigi-Bob Drake.
    
    Fall 1992 Issue 1.1
    
    _TapRoot_ is a quarterly publication of Independent, Underground,
    and Experimental language-centered arts.  Over the past 10 years,
    we have published 40+ collections of poetry, writing, and visio-
    verbal art in a variety of formats.  In August of 1992, we began
    to publish _TapRoot Reviews_, featuring a wide range of "Micro-
    Press" publications which are primarily language-oriented.  The
    printed version appears as part of a local (Cleveland Ohio)
    poetry tabloid, _The Cleveland Review_.  This posting is the
    electronic version, containing all of the short reviews that seem
    to be of general interest.  We provide this information in the
    hope that netters do not limit their reading to E-mail & BBSs.
    Please e-mail your feedback to the editor, Luigi-Bob Drake, at:
    
    au462@cleveland.freenet.edu
    
    Requests for e-mail subscriptions should be sent to the same
    address--they are free.  Please indicate what you are requesting.
    Hard-copies of _The Cleveland Review_ contain additional review
    material.  In this issue, reviews & articles by John M. Bennett,
    geof huth, Micheal Basinski, Tom Willoch--as well as a variety of
    poetry, prose, and grafix.
    
    _TapRoot_ is available from: Burning Press, P.O. Box 585,
    Lakewood OH  44107--2.50 pp.  Both the print & electronic
    versions of TapRoot are copyright 1992 by Burning Press,
    Cleveland.  Burning Press is a non-profit educational
    corporation.  Permission granted to reproduce this material FOR
    NON-COMMERCIAL PURPOSES, provided that this introductory notice
    is included.  Burning Press is supported, in part, with funds
    from the Ohio Arts Council.
    
    19)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _XB_
    
    A bibliographic database of the literature of xerography,
    (photo)copier art, electrostatic printing, and electrographic
    art, seeks data and materials about the form copy art & the use
    of duplicative printing technologies for cultural or artistic
    purposes by artists or non-artists for input into the Procite
    bibliographic software for Macintosh.  An ongoing art
    information-information art project, _XB_ requests submissions
    especially in machine-readable form but also in other media
    formats: periodicals, serials, newspaper and magazine clippings,
    exhibition announcements and catalogs, monographs, search
    printouts and information on disk.  All these are of interest.  A
    copy of the completed bibliography or the database on diskette
    (Procite databases work equally well on Mac or IBM) to each
    contributor along with some sort of documentation of the process
    and a list of participants.
    
    Submissions via mailways, telephone, or Bitnet/Internet/Well:
    
    _Xb_
    c/o Reed Altemus
    email: IP25196@portland.maine.edu or
              raltemus@well.sf.ca.us
    mail:  16 Blanchard Road
           Cumberland Ctr., Maine 04021-97 USA
    phone: (207) 829-3666
    
    20)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    Announcement and Call for Submissions
    
    _POSTMODERN CULTURE_
    A SUNY Press Series
    
    Series Editor  *Joseph Natoli*
    Editor         *Carola Sautter*
    
         We invite submissions of short manuscripts that present a
    postmodern crosscutting of contemporary headlines--green politics
    to Jeff Dahmer, Rap music to Columbus, the Presidential Campaign
    to Rodney King--and academic discourses from art and literature
    to politics and history, sociology and science to women's
    studies, from computer studies to cultural studies.
    
         This series is designed to detour us off modernity's yet-to-
    be-completed North/South Superhighway to Truth and onto
    postmodernism's "forking paths" crisscrossing high and low
    culture, texts and life-worlds, selves and sign systems, business
    and academy, page and screen, "our" narrative and "theirs,"
    formula and contingency, present and past, art and discourse,
    analysis and activism, grand narratives and dissident narratives,
    truths and parodies of truths.
    
         By developing a postmodern conversation about a world that
    has overspilled its modernist framing, this series intends to
    link our present ungraspable "balkanization" of all thoughts and
    events with the means to narrate and then re-narrate them.
    Modernity's "puzzle world" to be "unified" and "solved" becomes
    postmodernism's multiple worlds to be represented within the
    difficult and diverse wholeness that their own multiplicity and
    diversity shapes and then re-shapes.
    
         Accordingly, manuscripts should display a "postmodern style"
    that moves easily and laterally across public as well as academic
    spheres, "inscribes" within as well as "scribes" against realist
    and modernist modes, and strives to be readable-across-multiple-
    narratives and "culturally relative" rather than "foundational."
    
    Inquiries, proposals and manuscripts should be addressed to:
    
    Joseph Natoli
    Series Editor
    20676jpn@msu.edu
    
    or
    
    Carola Sautter
    Editor
    SUNY Press
    SUNY Plaza
    Albany, NY  12246-0001
    
    21)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    *********************************************************
    HERMIT '93
    An International Art Symposium
    under the auspices of the Czech Ministry of Culture
    1st June - 30th June, 1993
    Plasy, Czechoslovakia
    *********************************************************
    
         A Call for Sound Installations, Sculptors, and Fine Artists.
    
    GROWTHRINGS:
    time - place - rhythm - light - matter - energy
    from Baroque till present.
    
    The theme of the second international symposium-meeting-
    exposition and workshop in the Ancient Cistercian monastery in
    Plasy (West Bohemia) will be the stimulation of interrelations
    between the seeing and hearing, between the past and the
    present,between centrum and province, high and low, matter and
    energy, between people and their cultural and natural
    environment.
    
    Artists, musicians, and intermedia artists from Czechoslovakia,
    the Netherlands, Belgium, USA, Australia, Germany and Great
    Britain too part in the first symposium HERMIT '92.  However,
    while HERMIT '92 was mainly focused on artists from the CSFR,
    Netherlands, and Belgium, this year's selection will be
    multicultural.  Beside artists from Western and Eastern Europe,
    fine artists and musicians from other continents and ethnic
    cultures will be in attendance.
    
    The installations, sound sculptures, and performances were mostly
    realized directly in the complex of this former monastery founded
    in 1142.  The convent contains many different spaces--from dark,
    mysterious, subterranean cellars with underground water systems
    to light chapels and huge corridors.  The ideal sonic conditions
    of the interiors were used for many sound installations and music
    performances.  The four floor interior of the granary, with its
    early gothic King's chapel and old tower clock, are considered by
    artists to be outstanding exhibition space for contemporary art.
    
    The program will be divided into sections:
    
    1) SOUND INSTALLATION AND MUSIC PERFORMANCES.
    
         The scope of musical styles and genres will range from
         interpretations of baroque music, to authentic folklore and
         experimental contemporary. This part of the symposium will
         consist of exhibition held in the convent, the large concert
         hall in the former refectory, the chapel of St. Benedict and
         of St. Bernard, and the corridors of the first floor of the
         granary (check on this).  Further, the work of some of the
         sound artists and musicians will be presented in workshops.
    
    3) DISCUSSIONS:
    
         Theoretical issues will be formally raised in a series of
         lectures, discussions and workshops addressing different
         aspects of the Baroque tradition from the perspective of
         mondial fine art, architecture, music, philosophy, ecology,
         history, and the transformation of the Baroque heritage in
         modern society.  Discussions are open to the public.
    
    Invited participants should send their proposals for HERMIT 2
    with documentation at least three months prior to the beginning
    of the Symposium.  Deadline is April 1, 1993.
    
    The contribution fee is 150 DM.  The organizers of HERMIT 93 will
    take care of accommodations for active participants.  The minimal
    time spent in Plasy is 7 days, maximum is 2 months.
    
    Contact:
    
              The HERMIT Foundation.
    
    curators:  Jana Sykyrova
               The Monastery of Plasy,
               33101 PLASY,
               Bohemia.
               (tel)  0942-182-2174
               (fax)  0942-182-2198
    
               Milos Vojtechovsky
               Binnenbantammer Straat 15,
               1011 CH Amsterdam
               Holland
               (tel)  020-62575-69
    
    22)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    Announcement and Call for Papers
    
    *********************************
    THE EXPERIENCE OF THEORY
    Literary Symposium organized
    by and for young scholars
    *********************************
    
    University of Gothenburg, Sweden
    September 24-26, 1993
    
    Defining THEORY is becoming increasingly difficult in the age of
    postmodernism, where the impact of philosophical theory on
    literary research during the 70s and 80s is now supplemented by
    the demand for an orientation towards history, culture, science,
    society and politics.
    
    In a number of workshops, we propose to discuss THEORY AS
    EXPERIENCE--as a process influencing our perception of literary,
    critical, and scholarly activity.  How does theory, as
    experience, enhance our understanding of the literary work?  In
    what ways does theory enable us to experience art as becoming
    rather that being, and, conversely, how does theory prevent us
    from experiencing the text as something dynamic rather than
    static?  The discussion of theory as experience opens new modes
    of evaluating theory, thus in extension contributing to the
    formation of a theory about theory.
    
    We call for papers focusing on THE EXPERIENCE OF THEORY;
    experience here may be the experience of studying, of teaching,
    of researching, of theorizing, of reading, of writing, of
    enjoying, etc..
    
    We invite participants from Europe and the USA and expect to have
    guest speakers from Scandinavia and Great Britain.
    
    The registration fee of SEK 200 also covers all meals and
    accommodations for those who accept to stay with a fellow
    student.  On request we can undertake to send lists of hostels
    and hotels.
    
    Prospective participants are invited to contact us no later than
    31st January, 1993; and submit papers by 31st March, 1993.
    
    David Dickson       Claudia Egerer      Hans Werner
    
    Mail:     University of Gothenburg
              Department of English
              The Experience of Theory
              S - 412 98  GOTHENBURG
              Sweden
    
    E-mail:   egerer@eng.gu.se
              werner@eng.gu.se
    
    Fax:      int+46 (0)31-773-47-26
    
    23)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    Call for Work
    
    *************************************************
    MONTAGE 93:
    International Festival of the Image
    July 11 through August 7, 1993
    *************************************************
    
    Montage 93: International Festival of the Image, is inviting
    independent producers to submit work for an exhibition of
    electronic time-based media.  Work will be screened at Montage
    93, July 11 through August 7, 1993.
    
    Goals
    The goals of Montage 93 are to celebrate the fusion of arts and
    technology in contemporary image making and to explore the future
    of the visual communications.  The International Video Etc.
    Festival is seeking new electronic time-based work created by
    independent producers worldwide.
    
    Review Procedure
    All work will be reviewed by a committee of curators,
    programmers, and makers.  The committee will attempt to assemble
    an exhibition that reflects the current state of the visual time-
    based electronic arts.  Notification of acceptance or rejection
    will be made by June 1, 1993.
    
    Submission Guidelines:
    Visual time-based electronic media including video, computer
    graphics/animation, multimedia*, and hypermedia* are eligible.
    
    * Work must be exhibitable as a single channel videotape.
    
    All work must be submitted on videotape, in any of the following
    NTSC formats:
    3/4 UMatic, VHS, S-VHS, BETA, Video8, Hi8.
    Maximum length of any title is 58 minutes.
    
    Submission Procedures:
    Each maker must include a resume.
    Each title must be accompanied by a statement.
    Each title must be accompanied by a copy of the Entry and Release
    Form printed below.
    
    Tapes mailed from within the United States will be returned only
    if accompanied by a self addressed stamped envelope.  Tapes
    mailed from outside the United States will be returned only if
    accompanied by a self addressed envelope and an international
    money order in U.S. dollars for the cost of return mail.
    
    Tapes mailed from outside the United States should be marked:
    "No commercial value.  Educational Material."
    
    ***Tapes must be received by May 1, 1993.
    
    Send tapes, statement, resume, and Entry and Release Form
    together to:
    
    Montage 93: Video Etc. Festival
    31 Prince Street
    Rochester, NY, USA 14607-1499
    
    Please note:
    Do not send masters, originals, or irreplaceable materials.
    Montage 93 will make every reasonable attempt to safeguard tapes,
    but is not responsible for loss or damage.
    Maker is responsible for any copyrighted material within the
    title.
    
    *****************************************************************
    
    Video Etc.
    Entry and Release Form
    
    A copy of this form must accompany each title.  Please print or
    type.
    
    Name____________________________________________________________
    
    Address_________________________________________________________
    
    City____________________________________________________________
    
    State_________________________________Zip/Postal Code___________
    
    Country_________________________________________________________
    
    Phone_________________FAX________________E-Mail_________________
    
    Provide the following information for each title:
    
    Title___________________________________________________________
    
    Original, Medium, and Format____________________________________
    
    Completion date_________________________________________________
    
    Running time____________________________________________________
    
    Format: (circle one)  Z3/4 UMatic  VHS  S-VHS  Beta  8mm   Hi 8
    
    ________________________________________________________________
    
    Your signature authorizes Montage 93 to duplicate your work for
    exhibition at Montage 93.
    
    STATEMENT
    
    ___
    ___
    ___
    ___
    
    This will be edited for use in program notes and/or a catalog.
    
    24)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    Call For Papers
    ***********************************
    1993 Annual Meeting of the Society
    for Literature and Science
    ***********************************
    
    Back Bay Hilton
    Boston, MA
    November 18-21, 1993
    
    Theme: "Possible Worlds, Alternate Realities: Literature and
              Science as World-Making"
    
    To include such topics as:
    
         *Rhetoric and Reality
         *Anthropological Discourse and the "Other"
         *Images and Visual Representation in Science and Technology
         *Technology, Embodiment, Knowledge
         *Constructing the Natural and the Artificial in Science,
              Technology, and Literature
         *Literary Strategies and the History of Science
         *Virtual Realities
         *The Representation of Nature and Science and the Rhetoric
              of Popular Culture and Film
         *Primitive and Postmodern
         *The Garden and the Wilderness
         *God and Nature
         *Illness Narratives and the Rhetoric of Biomedicine
         *Discovery and Colonization
         *Ecology and Politics
         *Orderly Disorder
    
    Proposals must include:
    
         1.  Full names, addresses, phone numbers, e-mail addresses
              (if available)
    
         2.  Full titles and one-page abstracts for all papers
    
         3.  Titles/themes and name of coordinator for all seminars
              and special panels
    
    Send abstracts for individual papers or proposals for seminars or
    special panels to:
    
    Alan Kibel
    Literature Department
    MIT
    Cambridge, MA  02139
    
    Due date for abstracts and proposals is March 1, 1993.
    
    25)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    CALL FOR PAPERS
    
    ****************************
    
    _Simulation and Gaming_
    An International Journal of
    Theory, Design and Research
    
    ****************************
    
    _Simulation and Gaming_ (Sage Publications) is the world's
    foremost journal devoted to academic and applied issues in the
    fast expanding fields of simulation, computerized simulation,
    gaming, modeling, play, role-play and active, experimental
    learning and related methodologies in education, training and
    research.
    
    The broad scope and interdisciplinary nature of _Simulation &
    Gaming_ is demonstrated by the variety of its readers and
    contributors, as well as its Editorial Board members, such as
    sociologists, political scientists, economists, psychologists and
    educators, as well as experts in environmental issues,
    international studies, management and business, policy and
    planning, decision making and conflict resolution, cognition,
    learning theory, communication, language learning, media,
    educational technologies and computing.  Manuscripts are welcome
    at any time.
    
    Before submitting a manuscript, potential authors should write
    for a copy of the Guide for Authors, enclosing a self-addressed,
    sticky label and $2 in stamps (in USA only).
    
    Write to:
    
    David Crookall
    Editor
    S&G
    Morgan Hall
    Box 870244
    U of AL
    Tuscaloosa, AL  35487  USA
    
    To subscribe:
    Sage Publications
    2455 Teller Road
    Newbury Park, CA  91320  USA
    
    Bonhill Street
    London EC2A 4PU
    UK
    
    26)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    Call for Guest Editorships for Theme Issues of
    _Simulation & Gaming_
    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    
    From time to time a special theme issue of S&G is prepared by a
    Guest Editor.  Special issues in preparation or that have already
    appeared deal with business, debriefing, evaluation,
    ethnomethodology, military gaming, cross-cultural communication,
    and entrepreneurship.
    
    In principle, any theme can be proposed for a special theme
    issue, as long as it is important and of interest to a wide range
    of readers.
    
    If you would like to offer your services as a Guest Editor,
    please send:
         - a one page proposal (justifying the theme, outlining the
    
           rational, identifying possible authors and sub-topics)
    
         - a short resume (one page)
    
         - notes on any previous editorial experience
    
         - name, address, telephone numbers and e-mail address(es)
              (the latter is essential)
    
    to
         crookall@ua1vm.bitnet or
         crookall@ua1vm.ua.edu or
         David Crookall
         Editor S&G
         PO Box 870244
         University of Alabama
         Tuscaloosa, AL 35487 USA
    
    Subscription inquiries about S&G should be directed to:
    
         Sage Publications
         PO Box 5084
         Newbury Park, CA 91359 USA
         tel: (805) 499-0721
    
    27)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    VIDEO POSITIVE 93
    The U.K.'s International festival of creative video and
    electronic media art.
    
    In 1993 VIDEO POSITIVE is back with the most substantial and
    extraordinary program of electronic art ever seen in Britain.
    
    VIDEO POSITIVE 93 presents several newly commissioned video
    installations combined with the welcome restaging of some of the
    best works from around the world.  This is complemented by
    colorful local projects and an equally vigorous and significant
    program of screenings, seminars, live art commissions and special
    events.
    
    Installation Program
    
    The centerpiece of VIDEO POSITIVE 93 is an extensive installation
    program held at Liverpool's premiere galleries (the Tate Gallery
    Liverpool, the Bluecoat, Open Eye and Walker Galleries) and
    several public sites across the city.
    
    The international element involves the presentation of 15
    installations, 8 of which are world premiers, from artists
    including Lei Cox, Agnes Gegedud, Simon Robertshaw, Barbara
    Steinman, Andrew Stones, Cathy Vogan and Richard Wright.
    The Collaboration Program
    This progressive and successful program continues to transform
    Liverpool's public sites with works produced by local people
    which are both incisive and popular.
    
    Coordinated by video artist Louise Forshaw, the thriving
    Collaboration Program has introduced several fresh initiatives in
    1993.  The presentation of 8 installations and an exciting
    screening program involves double the number of events compared
    with previous years.
    
    Screenings
    
    Important European events of the early 90's provide the
    inspiration for a program package which looks at issues of
    British cultural identity within recent video art.
    
    Other highlights have been programmed in conjunction with the
    Film & Video Umbrella, London.  These include new and recent
    computer graphics and animation Video works by Jean-Luc Godard,
    Bill Viola, David Blair, The Wooster Group, The Collaboration
    Program and contemporary programs of music and sound featuring
    work by David Byrne.
    
    Performances
    
    Continuing Moviola's tradition of commissioning collaborations
    which cross artforms, the festival presents a series of live art
    projects which combine performance, music and new technologies.
    
    Seminars
    
    VIDEO POSITIVE 93 has created the ideal atmosphere for an
    expressive and vibrant celebration of the contemporary artform of
    electronic art.  The seminar program provides an outstanding
    opportunity for critical discussion in an international context.
    
    Topics for discussion in 1993 include gender and technology, the
    experience of black artists working with video and new
    technologies, the festival's Collaboration Program  and the
    impact of science and engineering upon electronic media art and
    design.
    
    Special Events
    
    VIDEO POSITIVE 93 also hosts a wide range of miscellaneous events
    and activities including workshops with artists, displays of
    state-of-the-art equipment and technology including  virtual
    reality, workshops for curators, special launches, presentations
    and the Festival Club.
    
    Mailing and Information
    
    For a free color brochure (available March, 1993) and information
    about advance bookings, etc., write to:
    
    MOVIOLA,
    Bluecoat Chambers,
    School Lane,
    Liverpool L1 3BX,
    U.K.
    Tel (UK) 051-709-2663
    Fax (UK) 051-707-2150
    
    28)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    *****************************
    NARRATIVE:
    An International Conference
    *****************************
    
    April 1-4, 1993
    Albany, NY
    
    Sponsored by:  Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and The Society
              for the Study of Narrative Literature.
    
    Co-Sponsors:   Siena College and Russell Sage College
    
    Affiliates:    Skidmore College, Union College, The College of
         Saint Rose, The State University of New York-Albany
    
    Major Speakers:
                   *Houston Baker, Jr.    University of Pennsylvania,
                                          Center for the Study of
                                          Black Literature and
                                                      Culture
    
                   *Don Bialostosky         University of Toledo,
                                            English-Rhetoric
    
                   *Thomas Laquer           Univ. of Calif-Berkeley,
                                            History
    
                   *Carolyn Merchant        Univ. of Calif-Berkeley,
                                            Conservation and Resource
                                            Studies
    
                   *Tania Modelski          Univ. of So. Calif,
                                            English-Film
    
    The conference is an interdisciplinary forum to discuss all
    aspects of narrative theory and practice.  Papers on narrative in
    any genre, period, nationality, discipline, and media (film, art,
    popular culture) will be considered.  The committee especially
    welcomes topics involving inter-disciplinary methods or cross-
    cultural perspectives.  The presentation should be in English and
    the focus should be on narrative.
    
    Submit papers (no more than 10 pgs. [2500 words]) or abstracts
    (at least 500 words) and a short vita.  Proposals for panels of 3
    or 4 papers are encouraged.  Panels of particular interest with
    only 2 papers will also be considered.  Organizers should include
    a statement on the focus of the panel; and papers or abstracts
    for all participants.  Panel organizers may give a paper in the
    session they propose.  We regret that we are unable to return
    submissions.
    
    Alan Nadel, Conference Coordinator
    Department of Language, Literature, and Communication
    Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute
    Troy, NY  12180
    
    29)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _ORTRAD-L_
    
    ORTRAD-L seeks to provide an interdisciplinary forum for open
    discussion and exchange of resources in the general field of
    studies in oral tradition.  All those interested in the world's
    living oral traditions (e.g., African, Hispanic, Native American,
    etc.) or in texts with roots in oral tradition (e.g., the Old and
    New Testaments, the Mahabharata, the Iliad and Odyssey, Beowulf,
    etc.) are invited to join the conversation.  This list should be
    useful for specialists in language and literature, folklore,
    anthropology, history, and other areas.
    
    To subscribe, send the following command to
    
    LISTSERV@MIZZOU1.BITNET or LISTSERV@MIZZOU1.MISSOURI.EDU:
    
    SUB ORTRAD-L your _full_ name
    
    Submissions to the list should be sent to:
    
    ORTRAD-L@MIZZOU1.BITNET or ORTRAD-L@MISSOURI.EDU
    
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    30)-------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _SEMIOS-L_
    
    A new electronic discussion group has been formed for those
    interested in semiotics, visual language, graphic design and
    advertising, deconstruction, the philosophy of language, and
    others curious about the process of communication.  The core
    issue that ties all of these disciplines together is the
    production and interpretation of signs.
    
    To become a part of _SEMIOS-L_, send the following command from
    your computer:
    
    From a Bitnet loation:
    TELL LISTSERV AT ULKYVM SUBSCRIBE SEMIOS-L (Your Name)
    
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    In the first two weeks of operation, _SEMIOS-L_ already had over
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    31)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    SOCHIST on LISTSERV@USCVM
    New Social History List or LISTSERV@VM.USC.EDU
    
    Briefly, this list will address three aspects of what is called
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    1)  Emphasis on quantative data rather that an analysis of prose
         sources.
    
    2)  Borrowing of methodologies from the social sciences, such as
         linguistics, demographics, anthropology, etc..
    
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         traditional disciplines (i.e. the history of women,
         families, children, labor, etc.).
    
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    32)--------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _Interdis_
    
    Welcome to the INTERDIS e-mail discussion list.  The idea behind
    this list is to facilitate national (and international)
    discussions of issues of interest to people working and teaching
    in interdisciplinary contexts.  It is my hope that the list will
    be a source of lively, thought provoking discussion of issues
    relating to integrating perspectives and pedagogical issues
    associated with interdisciplinary work.  It should also be a good
    place to discuss papers, books, films, and exercises from
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    themselves on the list automatically by sending e-mail to:
    
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  • Selected Letters From Readers

     
     

    RE: Foley’s Review of Post-Modernism and the Social Sciences. An Exchange between Pauline Vaillancourt-Rosenau and Michael W. Foley.

     

    Dear PMC,

     

    In a post-modern frame of reference one authors a book and then sets it free to be interpreted by various readers each in his or her own way. Criticism is central to a post-modernism and its pluralism of readings. If you can’t take criticism, or if you don’t wish to defend your ideas, better not present them in the public realm. And this is the problem with Prof. Foley’s review. It isn’t about ideas. It is a series of unsubstantiated insults and mis-information.

     

    Foley’s review does not present a post-modern reading of my book. Neither is he inspired by deconstruction. His review is modern in the worse sense–a singular and unexciting “reading.” It announces that my text is a “repudiation” of post-modernism, assumes his is the only interpretation possible, and implicitly denies the legitimacy of other views. Post-modernism and the Social Sciences has been well received by some post-modernists and criticized by others. It has attracted attention not only in the social sciences but in the humanities as well. It even made it to the stage recently as the Doug Elkins Dance Company (New York) incorporated readings from it into their post-modern repertoire for the International Festival of New Dance, Montreal, November 1992.

     

    Prof. Foley senses my own ambivalence about post-modernism. I make no claim to be a post-modernist but I did attempt to be fair in writing about it. I made every effort to document my conclusions about post-modernism, to indicate where readers could find more information. Of course I did not shy away from criticism of it. But at the same time I had no axe to grind. Nor did I feel the need to defend post-modernism. Perhaps this is why I made no effort to “eliminate” certain post-modern currents from it or, for example, to deny Derrida’s defense of Paul deMan’s early Nazi affiliations. It is not I, but Foley, who puts Derrida in bed with Ayatollah Khomeini! (REVIEW-2.592, par. 5). In a similar fashion on a number of occasions Foley takes the questions I pose for post-modern inquiry and answers for me, only to then turn around, attribute his constructions to me, and criticize his own self-fabricated answers (paragraph 6). Some post-modernists call for the death of the author and elevate the reader but in this instance Prof. Foley’s “interpretation” diminishes his status as reader, not to mention reviewer. Is this a “post-post-modern turn” where the review re-writes the text and then reviews his own creation?

     

    Foley argues that there is nothing much new offered by post-modernism. I would not disagree. Chapter 1 section 1 of my book entitled “Post-Modern Lineage: Some Intellectual Precursors” makes his case. But he missed this and even misinterpreted the section on structuralists altogether. I argue that post-modernism is a collage of many intellectual and philosophical currents. But at the same time, it constitutes a new form of challenge in that it refuses to set up a new paradigm to replace those it deconstructs.

     

    I am bothered by the absence of any depth to this review–brief, one-line dismissals signal an inability to take my book seriously. Foley says I am a “positivist.” He suggests that I “play on conflicts within postmodernism without illuminating them, or ever giving an adequate account of them.” This is insulting and unfair. By their very nature these criticisms are so broad and sweeping that they cannot be contradicted. I wonder, if I agreed with Prof. Foley’s own views would my analysis be “illuminating” and “adequate,” uncorrupted by “positivism.”

     

    Finally, when I discuss the feminist debate around post-modernism, Prof. Foley admonishes that I could have “equally well” referred to the “new social history or the Annales School.” At this point Foley moves beyond criticism to what I view as pure paternalism, lecturing me as to what I should have written about, whom I should have cited. I believe that feminists have raised some qualitatively different and extremely important questions for post-modernists. In fact, I do discuss both the new history and the Annales School in Chapter 4.

     

    I read Prof. Foley as an angry, unhappy and disappointed man (admittedly my construct). He is angry at me, unhappy with post-modernism, disappointed with Princeton University Press. He suggests that Princeton University Press abandoned standards of judgment in publishing my book. Yes, Princeton did publish my book. Yes, the book has done very well. And yes, it was submitted to the same high standards of evaluation as every other book Princeton publishes. But by focusing on this peripheral issue Foley avoids what is essential–ideas, analysis, substance. And this is really regrettable. There is so much to say about post-modernism and the exciting intellectual issues it raises.

     

    Pauline Vaillancourt-Rosenau
    Political Science Dept.
    University of Quebec–Montreal

     

     


     

    Dear PMC,

     

    For those who missed the evidence in the stylistic pyro-technics of Baudrillard and Derrida, Professor Vaillancourt-Rosenau’s outraged response to my review of her _Post-Modernism and the Social Sciences_ attests that there is still life in the authorial persona. But I have never doubted that, postmodernism notwithstanding. What I did dare doubt was the usefulness of Vaillancourt-Rosenau’s account. Her letter scarcely changes my mind; indeed, her multiple mis-readings of my text serve only to reinforce my doubts about her readings of others. (No, I am not angry, Prof. Vaillancourt-Rosenau, nor did I accuse you of being a positivist!)

     

    I have no wish to deny Vaillancourt-Rosenau her intemperate response to my review, not to mention her favorable reviews in other quarters or, for that matter, her royalties. I find it hard to begrudge academics our modest successes. And Vaillancourt-Rosenau is, after all, right about two things: I found her book immensely disappointing, and I have serious misgivings about some of the more extravagant claims of the theorists of postmodernism. The former was not, indeed, a “substantive” complaint; it was practical and formal. It may be summarized in two points: First, in the welter of citations and snippets of proof-texts, the reader finds virtually no sustained analysis of any one figure, so that it would be difficult to tell, for example, that Foucault’s “archaeologies” of prison and asylum, not to mention his later explorations of language and power, have been seminal to the on-going reexamination in social science and philosophy of the social construction of the human world. Second, Vaillancourt- Rosenau regularly blurs the useful distinction between theorists of postmodernism and representatives of postmodern culture. With the world of postmodernism divided into “skeptics” and “affirmatives,” it was my mistake, I must confess, to find Islamic fundamentalism (a “Third World affirmative post-modernism,” p. 143) in the same bed with Derrida (a “skeptic”). Perhaps I should have chosen Foucault, except that he is labeled a “skeptic”in one place (p. 42) and an “affirmative” in another (p. 50). In the topsy-turvy postmodern world, even Prof. Rosenau’s classificatory ardor is defeated occasionally.

     

    In short, for these and other reasons enumerated in the review, I found the book a less than useful guide to both postmodernism and contemporary concerns in the social sciences; in the last few paragraphs I attempted to suggest directions for further inquiry. The issues raised were substantive and worth reiterating. “Postmodernism” is no doubt a protean term, conjuring up a variety of disparate phenomena, depending on the context. Its theorists make prodigious claims, not all of them either unique or credible. In the context of the social sciences, however, postmodernist theories converge with both older and newer theoretical traditions, reinforcing recent explorations of, for example, popular culture and resistance; the dubious and shifting discursive foundations of the modern state system; metaphor, metonymy, and analogy in social scientific doctrine, historiography, and popular political and economic discourse; and the devious twists and turns of patriarchy. There are undoubtedly tensions as well, some of them touched upon by Vaillancourt-Rosenau. Certain postmodernist claims about the disappearance of the “subject” in particular, while they sit quite well with an older social scientific tradition (best represented today, ironically enough, in quantitative, “positivist” approaches), seem to clash with the return to human agents and their “subjectivities” in newer, more process-oriented research in comparative politics and international relations, with recent explorations of the “structure-agent problem,” and with the widespread adoption of “rational choice” models in political science and sociology.

     

    There are thus very important issues to occupy us in the encounter of postmodernism, postmodernist theory, and the social sciences, as Vaillancourt-Rosenau insists. My complaint was and is that they have not been well raised by the book in question. Of this, of course, the interested reader must be the last judge. A reviewer should indeed engage ideas, where possible; and I have tried to do so. But I am enough of a modern to feel a similar obligation, where necessary, to offer the modest warning: Caveat emptor!

     

    Michael W. Foley
    Department of Politics
    The Catholic University of America
    Washington, D.C. 20064
    foley@cua.edu

     

  • Baptismal Eulogies: Reconstructing Deconstruction From The Ashes

    Glen Scott Allen

    English Department
    Towson State University

    e7e4all@toe.towson.edu

     

    Derrida, Jacques. Cinders. Tr. Ned Lukacher. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1991.

     

    Derrida, Jacques. The Other Heading: Reflections on Today’s Europe. Tr. Pascale-Anne Brault & Michael B. Naas. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992.

     

    I. Burials Past & Faster

     

    “The true wretchedness . . . is particular, not diffuse.”1 So begins Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Premature Burial,” one of many Poe tales which has found its way to the movie screen as a British Hammer production, becoming in the transition all lurid technicolor drapes and heaving white bosoms. Of course, the movie version defers the prematurity of the burial as long as possible and finds its climax–as we knew it would–in the crypt with the heroine reacting in hyperbolic horror to the “true wretchedness” of her premature burial. The premature burial.

     

    Or so the film version would have it. One irony (among so many) of the film’s misreading of the story is the slavish attention paid to that little word “The.” Poe’s story in fact begins with accounts of several premature burials, the better to establish ethos for the premise of his story, to grant it “verisimilitude,” (to mix Russian with American horror). Poe knows that, by supplying various examples, the particular will become credible; will even, through the sleight-of-hand of logic, become the exemplar of those examples. The premature burial–the exemplary, or “standard” premature burial.

     

    And yet Poe realized that, while the logos of his story might rest on the general structure of inductive reasoning, its “single effect”–that which Poe believed defined a successful short story–resided not in the conceptual accumulation of generalized (as in “made vague”) instances, but rather in the specific image of the narrator–“man the unit”–undergoing the individualized tortures of being buried alive. These seemingly opposite requirements–that an example be representative, yet somehow unique–are what we might term the paradox of exemplarity. More about this paradox in the section on Derrida’s Cinders.

     

    But in fact the greatest irony of Hammer’s “adaptation” of Poe’s story is that in “The Premature Burial” there is no the premature burial at all; the narrator misreads the signs of temporary confinement for those of eternal interment. And in much the same fashion, the Academy in general (as in “widely but not completely”) have misread–with a haste usually reserved for cholera victims–the “signs” of the death of deconstruction and the interment of Derridean criticism.

     

    In fact, the stampede to denounce deconstruction has been so precipitous as to trample on the venerable traditions of mourning; and this, in a profession where Tradition is the constant specter, the incorruptible monument. The “mourners” at deconstruction’s graveside have skipped right over the Eulogy and proceeded, with undisguised glee, to the Obloquy–the stage of hypercriticism which would normally follow burial by a respectable period of reassessment; a stage generally (as in “popularly”) arrived at gradually, reluctantly and sincerely.

     

    Emeritus Yalie C. Van Woodward blithely writes of deconstruction’s “brief and tormented” history.2 Jonathan Yardley suggests, to everyone who will publish, that deconstruction has breathed its “last gasp.” And in a viciously enthusiastic (and woefully inaccurate) article supposedly “debunking” deconstruction, poet David Lehman argues from the premise that “the fortunes of deconstruction as an academic phalanx have declined,” using as spokesmodels everyone from Robert “Iron Man” Bly to “former” deconstructionist Barbara Johnson.3

     

    While it may seem shooting ducks in a barrel to attack the rusty dreadnaughts of Old Criticism like Woodward and Yardley (and Lehman), in fact the ranks of crocodile mourners are not limited to these scholastic neo-conservatives; they simply gloat the loudest.

     

    After all, “ex” deconstructionist Barbara Johnson did indeed give a talk entitled “The Wake of Deconstruction” at last summer’s School of Theory and Criticism at Dartmouth College. Recent editorials in the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, and the MLA Newsletter speak of deconstruction in the assured past tense. And, however thoroughly the word “deconstruction” is disseminated in the academic and even public discourse, the Yale School rarely uses the “D-word” anymore.4 Even those in favor of a reconstruction of deconstruction have accepted that, as Jeffrey Nealon writes in a recent and extremely useful essay in PMLA, “Deconstruction . . . is dead in literature departments today.”5

     

    Is deconstruction dead and buried? Or merely buried?

     

    In Poe’s story, the examples of premature burials turn on the living too soon surrendering their responsibility for the (apparently) dead, as they consistently and curiously resist all efforts at scrutiny or autopsy. In its social and historical context, “The Premature Burial” might be seen as representing a general (as in recognizable but not necessarily locatable) anxiety of mid-19th century America over the increasingly indistinct boundary between the irrelevant and ritualistic requirements of the past and the insistent and material demands of the present.6 Thus the narrator of Poe’s story searches for the reliable sign of death and the dependable limit of indebtedness; a sign and a limit that will provide a specific, quantifiable answer to the question, When exactly might the past be memorialized, and thus forgotten?

     

    Derrida’s Cinders (1991) and The Other Heading (1992) directly engage this question by separating it into two questions; questions which are perhaps the two most important problems of the emerging 21st century: How do we both “acknowledge” indebtedness to the past and yet free ourselves from its icy clasp? And how do we “negotiate” the seemingly mutually exclusive demands of pluralism and social cohesion?

     

    Derrida frames these questions as the paradox of the past, and the paradox of the example.7

     

    II. Elegiac Cinders

     

    The importance of acknowledging the past is everywhere present in Derrida’s works. In many ways, Cinders is an “exhibition” of Derrida’s ideas about the elusive mechanism of meaning and its relationship to the past. And like an exhibition, one senses throughout the presence of his past influences and works.

     

    The title Cinders is a simplification of the untranslatable feu la cendre8. The book deals with a “specter” which has haunted Derrida for nearly a decade, this “specter” being the phrase il y a la cendre: “cinders there are”–with an accent grave over the ‘a’ of la, thus doubling the sense in which the word means “there”; a phrase which appears first in La Dissemination, and recurs in partial and various incarnations in many of his other works since, most notably the “Envois” section of The Post Card. And ghosts of other prior works enter as the refrain of remembrance (il y a la cendre) weaves its way through a text which is structurally reminiscent of Glas (1974).

     

    On the left hand side of the page are short quotes from earlier works, passages which bear in one way or another on the idea of cinders, burning, residue, invisible remainders. Derrida titles these notes “Animadversions” (observations), both to capture their nature as brief musings, and to acknowledge the French avant garde journal Anima, a forum for the exploration of language which is, appropriately, no more. The animadversions are there to suggest (as in “fanning an ember”) reverberations to the text on the right hand side of the page, which is a “philosophical prose poem” about, around, within the paradox of antecedents, debts; expressions as constant eulogy, incomplete epitaph, dysfunctional nostalgia–all in search of “she,” the cinder.

     

    While some critics might see in this exhibition a “repetition” of favorite Derridean themes, this retrospective approach is most appropriate here. There is a certain melancholic undertone to Cinders; the sort of melancholy resident in works which eulogize the end of one period and inaugurate the beginning of another.

     

    And thus, as Ned Lukacher points out in an often brilliant introduction “Morning Becomes Telepathy,” Cinders is anything but old wine in new bottles. Lukacher grapples with the meaning of the word “cinder” and the phrase il y a la cendre in an “overview” of Derridean sources, influences and concerns. For instance, he brings Hegel’s notion of the Klang, “the ‘Ringing’ at the origin of language” into the discussion, and suggests a connection between this primeval trace as sound for Hegel, and later as “spirit” (Geist) or “flame” for Heidegger. Thus cinders become what is left after a holocaust–“Pure and figureless, this light burns all. It burns itself in the all-burning [le brule-tout]” (42). An all-burning which leaves nothing; nothing, perhaps, but an “oscillation”: “It is the heat within the resonance of this oscillation that Derrida names la cendre” (3).

     

    Cinder is, too, the latest in a long line of terms–trace, differance, trail–with which Derrida has struggled to name “these remains without remainder.” Lukacher suggests an analogy with quarks: “Cinders are the quarks of language, neither proper names nor metaphors” (1).

     

    While Lukacher suggests that quarks keep “a space open into which the truth, or its impossibility, might come,” it is more appropriate to metaphorize them as the the illogical logic of metaphor itself; as that “leap” of human imagination which creates similarities out of distances. Quarks are indivisible from the particles which they “make up.” That is to say, they exist only as the relationship of intersecting energy and matter which appears to us as those particles. They are all event, no structure. Thus cinders are quarks in the sense the term indicates a “site” of meaning which is non-local and a “duration” of meaning which is without origin or end.

     

    Cinders are there; there are cinders. “There” is both assertion of location and of existence. Of location as existence. The ‘a’ (accent grave) of the “there” which “locates” the cinder is also meant to “suggest a feminine register” to the voice of the text, as well as to indicate that the word is not transparent, that it “burns” with the “incineration of the indefinite article.”

     

    The phrase, the word, the text all “burn” also with a plurality of voices. Heidegger particularly haunts these pages. Heidegger “emphasize[d] the delicate nature of the relation between language and truth; between figure and idea, between . . . Dichten (to write) . . . and Denken (to think)” (2)–acts which Lukacher writes are “held apart by a delicate yet luminous difference.” Heidegger referred to this difference as a “rift (Riss),” something like (and unlike, of course) the gap “between” the two components of a metaphor. This “holding itself is a relation,” that is to say, an event borne of, but not resident in the functioning of difference, the mechanics of signification.

     

    This relation is a tension, and this tension is as close as we can perhaps get to “placing” meaning–just as a flame is as close as we get to associating a “thereness” with pure energy. Put in terms of the binary models we must leave behind: meaning is neither something “fissioned” by the breaking up of the metaphysical dichotomy, nor “fused” through the synthesis of the dialectic. The tension, the relation, the residue itself is the event of meaning: elastic, non-local, always uncertain–but always present.

     

    The prose poem section of Cinders is as difficult to “decipher” as anything Derrida has written: personal, self-referential, elusive, allusive, fragile. Everything, that is, which describes the cinders which there are. But it is also as rewarding as any of his other works. In combination with the distinctly different Derridean text The Other Heading, and recent articles urging a reconstruction of Derridean analysis, perhaps the “death” of deconstruction can be exposed as greatly exaggerated.

     

    For instance, Nealon argues in the PMLA that most of the current attacks on deconstruction–in fact much of the anti-deconstruction criticism of the last twenty years–has in fact been based on mis-readings of Derridean thought; misreadings circulated and codified by his earliest American translators. While I won’t rehearse Nealon’s argument in its entirety here, it is central enough to my discussion of the importance of these two works to refer to at some length.

     

    Nealon begins by observing that deconstruction’s critics have typically charged its practitioners with “simply denying meaning or interpretation by showing how oppositions . . . cancel themselves out” (emphasis added). Along with this charge come the ancillary criticisms that it is apolitical, ahistorical, acontextual, and amoral. But it should be clear that the primary charge–that it seeks neutrality–governs all the others, whether the neutrality claimed is historical or moral. And thus at the root of most anti-deconstructive rhetoric is the indictment that it is inherently nihilistic. Anyone who thinks such an attack comically overheated need look no further than David Lehman’s essay.

     

    While Lehman begins quite typically by claiming that the major fault of deconstructive criticism is “those binary reversals that come as second nature to the initiates of the mysteries of deconstruction,” his argument soon begins leaping from deconstruction to Derrida to de Man to conformity to Nazis, as though all of these topics were quite obviously connected at the conceptual hip. “After the de Man affair, deconstruction will never again be a harmless thrilling thing–we have seen how it can be used to fudge facts, obfuscate truths, distort and mislead” (5). Lehman grandly, and ominously concludes that “the political system most consonant with deconstructive principles is authoritarian” (4).

     

    Perhaps the problem of Lehman and neo-conservative critics like him is most grave, at least within the academy, because this strain of “thought” is within the academy–a tenacious moral smugness that is more dangerous than outright conservatism because it presents itself as a “new” humanism. While Lehman “concede[s] that some of the tactics and procedures of deconstruction, if used judiciously, may lead to fruitful ends” (if used judiciously? Fruitful ends?) still he is quick to warn of “[t]he marked absence of moral seriousness” in deconstructive criticism (8).

     

    Perhaps that phrase “moral seriousness” reveals the heart of Lehman’s resentment toward Derrida. There has always been a sense of play about Derrida’s writing which seems to frustrate and infuriate die-hard formalists who believe criticism can only be worth reading if it is “serious,” i.e., hermeneutically sealed.

     

    But Lehman’s prescription rings of the rhetoric of chapels, not classrooms. David Lehman and his familiars seem academic Cotton Mathers, ready to divide critics into the preterite and the damned, using as their standard the presence or absence of “moral seriousness.” (Never was a phrase more ripe for the very sort of “authoritarian” manipulation that Lehman ironically claims resides in Derridean analysis.) Of course, there is an important distinction to be made between neo-conservative critics of deconstruction like Woodward and Lehman, and those critics who engage Derrida and deconstruction on more “constructive” grounds.9

     

    Still, the root charge leveled at Derrida’s work specifically and deconstruction generally (as in a concept if not a body of criticism) most often stems from that word “neutrality” and the echoes of nihilism it summons up.

     

    III. Digging the Neutral Grave

     

    Again, Lehman is a useful representative of this fundamental misreading, arguing that, as “deconstructionists frequently collapse the difference between a thing and its opposite” then what deconstruction produces is “the absence of difference” (1).10

     

    Of course, the word “neutralization” was indeed used by Derrida in describing the “reversal” of dichotomies which often begins the deconstructive reading. However, what was often overlooked in the early translations was what followed: “To remain content with this reversal is of course to operate within the immanence of the system to be destroyed.” More importantly, “to sit back . . . and take an attitude of neutralizing indifference with respect to the classical oppositions would be to give free rein to the existing forces that effectively and historically dominate the field” Dissemination 6; emphasis added). And even when American disseminators of Derridean concepts remarked on the importance of this second step, they seemed at a loss to explain what it meant.11

     

    Yet, while some critics working toward a reconstruction of Derridean analysis have made this observation, still very few (Judith Butler comes to mind as one recent exception)12 have paid sufficient attention to revisioning that term “neutralization.” For example, Nealon himself doesn’t seem to realize that what Derrida meant by “neutralization” is quite significantly different than what he and nearly every American interpreter has meant by the word.

     

    While Nealon differentiates between Derrida’s concept of “undecidability” and de Man’s of “unreadability,” still he quotes the de Manian notion that “A text . . . can literally be called ‘unreadable’ in that it leads to a set of assertions that radically exclude each other,” and then claims that “this definition would, of course, hold for Derrida also” (1272). I believe this to be a key, and again typical error, in that, for Derrida, a text is never unreadable. For instance, Derrida states in “Positions” that “the play of differences involves syntheses and referrals that prevent there from being at any moment or in any way a simple element that is present in and of itself and refers only to itself” (38). And by “itself” he would include, no doubt, the “singular” element of unreadability. Again, the whole notion of “unreadable” or “utterly absent” or “paralyzed” meaning–all terms which de Man used as synonyms for the result of the “neutralization” of oppositions–is simply too reductionist, too rooted in concepts of “particular” meaning; concepts which Derrida works everywhere to deconstruct.

     

    Perhaps the problem here is analogical. The image typically summoned by the term “neutralization” is a maneuver which brings together a particular meaning and its antithesis in a violent collision, resulting in an “annihilation” of meaning. Deconstruction thus becomes the antithesis of interpretation, and deconstructive readings are seen as leaving smoldering holes in a text. But there is all the differance in the world between Derrida’s enriching “undecidability” and de Man’s constricting “unreadability.” And there is every indication in Derridean thought that the “neutralization” of binarisms results not in annihilation, but rather in a state of continual engagement.

     

    In the “turn of dominance” which has been an analytical tool since Nietzsche, the binary poles must first be shown to be, in the traditional discourse, decidedly unequal in “valence.” Thus the genealogical revision (more than reversion) of the terms is an absolutely necessary step in shaking the terms loose from their accumulated cultural denotations; especially, for Derrida, as those denotations grant a greater “moral authority” to one term than the other. And of course the term Derrida came to use for this moral authority was “presence.”13

     

    But Derrida has always asked us to imagine instead that meaning is not “particular”; that it does not reside in “positive and negative” terms, but rather that it is inextricably resident within the tension between terms, between competing cultural forces which always tug towards interpretations of the coupled terms that validate their particular social and historical agenda.14 Thus Derrida’s first move is to “overturn” the struggle by demonstrating how each “side’s” definition of the term is utterly inscribed in the other “side’s” definition. However, even after this first act of revision the two forces are both still engaged–the term’s meaning is still a result of a tension, but what is now a revised tension, a tension freed of “moral authority” based on presence and ideality. Thus the “meaning” of any such coupling is a product of (at least) two competing cultural agencies, and not some “thing” resident in any particular site. Again, what Derrida is working so diligently toward is an understanding of meaning as event rather than structure.15

     

    Even more importantly, for Derrida meaning never doesn’t exist–not at any moment of the deconstructive process. Meaning is elusive, mobile, inevitably non-local–but it is not something which can be annihilated, rendered somehow irrelevant. Thus Derridean deconstruction is consistently and fundamentally anti-nihilistic.

     

    But what of American deconstruction? Is “continental” deconstruction the “pure” form, and our American brand a flawed import?

     

    I am not suggesting we draw up a list of “good” and “bad” deconstructors, nor that we should use the Atlantic Ocean as a gulf separating “true” from “false” deconstruction. However, some forms of criticism which come under the general heading of “deconstruction” seem in fact only tenuously connected to Derrida’s ideas and techniques.

     

    For instance, de Man’s “unreadable” reductions of texts work in a direction quite different from Derrida’s “undecidable” explorations. While de Man is primarily interested in rhetorical “impasses” which render interpretation stalemated, Derrida concentrates instead on mythologies of origin and closure, on those places in any text which “ground” its axioms and conclusions; not as an exercise in “neutralizing” such myths, but rather in an effort to expose and explore their rich semiotic associations. Thus what Derrida has been doing from Of Grammatology on is not comprehensible in any analysis which equates the two practices.

     

    Furthermore, the “manner” of American deconstruction disseminated by Culler, de Man et al is a theory and practice in and of itself, with certain–though perhaps less certain than has been thought–connections to Derrida’s work. But it cannot be taken as an entirely accurate or fundamentally thorough translation of Derrida’s ideas. Thus any criticism of deconstruction as institutionalized by the early writers–and even many to follow–must be treated as criticism of their goals and methodologies, not Derrida’s.

     

    This raises a question: Why hasn’t Derrida distanced himself and his work from these “incomplete” representations?

     

    This is a question Nealon deals with in his essay. He points out that Derrida has always been unwilling to criticize–even in the smallest particular–any of his American “disseminators,” and that he has consistently displayed very little interest in “disciplining” the discourse surrounding his work.

     

    Unless, that is, we can read the insistence in Cinders on reviewing “snapshot” expressions from his past works as an indirect form of protest; protest as restatement; restatement as remembrance. “Cinders are not nothing” (emphasis added). And the something that they are is an intersection of indebtedness to the past–“She, this cinder, was given or lent to him by so many others, through so much forgetting. . .” (41)–and promise for the future, “because each time it gives a different reading, another gift” (25). This hardly sounds like nihilism.

     

    Perhaps Cinders is the first postmodern epistolary romance novel, written to (‘a’ accent grave) his love, Cinder, she–“Who is Cinder? Where is she? . . . someone vanished but something preserved her trace” (33)–complete with a Gothic preoccupation with the grave, the past, the thwarted romantic gesture. Perhaps there is even represented here an “anxiety of affluence,” a nervousness in the presence of so much meaning, an overabundance of meaning which can never be completely exhausted or entirely forgotten.

     

    IV. Baptizing the Other Heading

     

    Deconstruction’s burial is not only premature, it is also crowded; for the new right of the academy represent only a fraction of the new right in American society; a cultural faction whose attack rests, like Lehman’s, on the thuggish and irrational “logic” of guilt by association. The parties which are lumped together as “targets of opportunity” include deconstruction, the Humanities, universities, the MLA, feminism, multiculturalism, and, of course, “political correctness.”

     

    For instance, their polysyllabic frontman George Will wrote recently in Newsweek that the Modern Language Association was a “more dangerous threat to the United States than the Butcher of Baghdad.” An editorial in the Chicago Tribune (October 1991) warned against the deadly and contagious affliction called “deconstruction, a French disease.” Another editorial, this one in the Wall Street Journal called upon all good Americans to beware “the fever swamps like the Modern Language Association . . . [where] Brigades of the politically correct” plot the downfall of Western Civilization. Syndicated columnist R. Emmett Tyrrell opines that the MLA stands for “intolerance and bigotry . . . [which] rides across campuses enforcing right thinking, thinking that is PC”.16

     

    This widespread and virulently reactionary strike in the public and the academic press is expressive of deeply ingrained cultural resistance, even panic in the face of rising voices which were once faint or completely muted. And this cultural crisis–this crisis of cultures–is the context for Derrida’s first semi-explicit political writings collected in The Other Heading, a book which explores the paradox of examples.

     

    The Other Heading includes an introduction (“For Example”) and two sections: the first from a paper Derrida delivered in Turin on May 20, 1990, at a conference entitled “European Cultural Identity,” and the second from a brief interview entitled “Call it a Day for Democracy.”

     

    Here, Derrida is less interested in analyzing the “current” situation in Europe than analyzing the logic “of discourses that assume a certain relationship to the particular and the example” of “Europe and its historical others” (xi). This is meta-commentary, as always. However, though the larger concerns are the same, Derrida’s voice here is somewhat different: more relaxed, slightly less excruciatingly scholastic. But it is by no means political writing in the usual sense.

     

    Derrida always writes in response to a prior text. In this case, that text is a collection of essays by Paul Valery, written for the League of Nations in the 1930s. Derrida begins were Valery began, speaking of the Europe of 1939 as a “Young Europe” which had been “constructed through a succession of exclusions, annexations, and exterminations.” And an odd sense of temporal displacement is further present as, when Derrida delivered this speech, the unification of Germany was only “in sight.” And yet everywhere is emphasized this very probability with his constant use of the qualifier “today”: “There is today the same feeling of imminence, of hope and danger, of anxiety” (63).

     

    What Derrida seeks to begin here is an examination of the New European Subject; the post-colonial, post-cold war, post-unification, post-utopian, post-historical, post-modern subject; a subject immersed in demands for diversity, while still under tremendous pressure from the needs of cohesion.

     

    Valery wrote his essays (Regards sur le monde actuel and Essais quasi politiques, among others) as a member of the Committee on Arts & Letters of the League of Nations, a committee whose ambitious charter called upon it to serve as a “permanent colloquium on ‘European cultural identity’” (xxxiv). Valery believed that the “best example” of a “site” of cohesive cultural identity was “that of the Mediterranean basin,” the “heart” of a New Europe which might serve as an “example” to the rest Europe, to the rest of the world.

     

    Derrida sees in Valery’s use of this example all the trademarks of exemplary reasoning, as “the ‘example’ that it ‘offered’ [was] in fact unique, exemplary and incomparable” (xxv).

     

    And here lies the rub. The word “example” is from the Latin, exemplum for “that which is taken out [emphasis added] of a larger quantity to show the character or quality of the rest.” An example is a “specimen,” something which is either “worthy of imitation” or that “serves as a warning.” An example is a “precedent,” a “prototype,” a “standard.”

     

    But if the example is “taken out” of the context which forms it, is made to stand to one side, apart or above its companions, how, then, is it any longer an “example”? And if it is representative, how does it become “exemplary”?

     

    The word which best captures the paradoxical logic of the example is, for Derrida, capital, in both the economic and political sense. Of course there is play here with cap (French for ‘head’) and capital, head and heading. But the relationships go much deeper than mere glyphic similarity. Such word play works to expose the substrata beneath centuries of assumptions which produce what we “mean” by a capital city, by the head of state, etc. “Europe has always recognized itself as a cape of headland . . . the point of departure for discovery, invention, and colonization, . . . or the very center, the Europe of the middle” (41).

     

    For Valery–as for nearly everyone else who writes in favor of this or that “example” of cultural identity, an example which ought to serve as a “standard”–cultural identity becomes what Naas in his introduction calls “the metaphorization of literal goods and capital into the surplus value, the capital value, of spirit” (5). And Derrida argues that employing this metaphorization, capitalizing on the cultural example becomes “the very teleos of capital, the overcoming of the merely material in a spiritual surplus” (41).

     

    To an American ear, the echoes of Puritanism are clearly audible in any argument of identity and “progress” which seeks the “overcoming of the merely material”; which sees as the highest good cultural investment which achieves “spiritual surplus.” And in fact what Valery argued was the best “example” for European cultural identity in 1939 sounds strikingly similar to what the critics of the MLA et al–what we might refer to as neo-Puritans–argue should be the best “example” for American cultural identity in the 1990s, and on into the 21st century.

     

    While the “Other” heading–or as Derrida often insists on revising the phrase, the heading of the other–refers in Derrida’s speech to those “others” which have served as a colonial mirror to “central” Europe, to the Europe of Empires and Capitals, the “other” shore might just as well refer to the New World, facing the Old in temporal, geographic, and cultural descent/dependence/ independence. The similarity is more than merely situational, or even rhetorical–for the metaphor most often employed in the New Right’s attack on multiculturalism is this very idea of cultural capital.

     

    As Stephen Greenblatt writes in “The MLA on Trial”: “The assault on the profession for betraying the classics is itself a betrayal of the classics. It is an attempt to make them over into dull, safe, and routine celebrations of order, an attempt, that is, to transform them into a certain kind of cultural capital: safe investment, locked away in a vault” (40).

     

    Drawing on this idea of cultural identity as “invested capital,” Derrida warns that the constant danger of any assertion of a singular national identity is that it “presents itself, claims itself.” That is, merely by stating itself, it argues for its validity, its history, its “investment” in the capital of culture, and therefore its claim to future benefits. As Derrida warns, “it is the task of culture to impose the feeling of unity” in order to justify itself. And examples in their very assertion as examples — much as the assertion of cultural identity–imply a universality and are “linked to the value of exemplarity that inscribes the universal in the proper body of a singularity” (xxvi).

     

    Ultimately, Derrida argues that, in any postmodern definition of identity (cultural or otherwise), we must become more adept at not only understanding but incorporating, providing for the other heading, the heading of the Other. “Derrida thus seeks a redefinition of European identity that includes respect for both universal values and difference” (xlvi). Cultural identity–like any of the other terms of identification Derrida has deconstructed–is shown to be a product of what it is not, of how it defines itself “against” or “as different than” its Other. And the moment of identity crisis is the moment of identity definition. “The ends and confines, the finitude of Europe, are beginning to emerge . . . when the capital of infinity and universality . . . finds itself encroached upon or in danger” (32).

     

    But this is not a call for diversity “for its own sake.” In fact, the urge to “pop” diversity is –as any commodified and unopposed doctrine–its own worst enemy: self-negating, homogenizing. And this is, after all, the fear the forces of social conservatism invoke: that multiculturalism in fact seeks uniculturalism, a “homogeneity” which is in all contexts “politically correct.” Thus, ironically, the Right presents itself as arguing from the position of the underdog, the brave resistance, the Individual; from a position of Diversity. “Claiming to speak in the name of intelligibility, good sense, common sense, or the democratic ethic, this discourse tends, by means of these very things, and as if naturally, to discredit anything that complicates this model [of univocity]” (55).

     

    Nowhere is this strategy clearer than in the discourse of “family values.” If we deconstruct the phrase in the economic context of cultural capital, we can see that a call to “family values” is in fact a prescription for the “value family.” And the value or “economy” family would be the one which required the least expenditure of cultural capital, which could be least expensively reproduced and circulated, which could become the “example” or “standard” family; one which made the fewest demands on our culture in terms of pluralism, of adjustment and experimentation; that would be the “best buy” family ideology.

     

    The “family values” (or value family) debate raises what Derrida sees as the greatest new danger in the arena of cultural identity: the consensus.

     

    Consensus is, after all, the political watchword of the 90s. “Consensus politics” summons up a vague image of agreements which are not compromises but rather somehow expressions of an “inner” unity, a “common” faith. But in fact Derrida warns against letting such “normative” code words disguise old cultural hegemony as new cultural identity; norms which create what he terms a “remote control,” the control being in the hands of whoever controls media networks; networks whose strength resides not in discovering and articulating cultural differences but rather in repressing and re-figuring differences to appear as “consumable” or “popular” opinions, consensus opinions.

     

    The question “Today, what is public opinion?” begins the second section of the book. Derrida begins his answer by calling public opinion the “silhouette of a phantom.” That is, transitory, ephemeral (“lasting only one day”); a fluid and constructed “image” of what is supposedly a deep-rooted, widespread attitude; an attitude which nonetheless must be tested and re-constructed almost everyday to sound its strength, gauge its direction.

     

    But where does one locate the “public”? In the past, the word indicated the dis-empowered, the voiceless, the segment of a culture which was anything but the head, which possessed anything but the capital. But “today,” the term grants legitimacy to the “decisions” of the invisible consensus. Invisible because, today, where is the boundary between public and private? What is not public? “The wandering of its proper body is also the ubiquity of a specter”; “one cites it, one makes it speak, ventriloquizes it” (87).

     

    Derrida suggests that this phantom of “public opinion” requires some medium, for a phantom is that precisely because it lacks the “medium” by which to effect actual change in the physical world. The medium here is the daylight of the media: newspapers, TV, telephones: “the newspaper or daily produces the newness of this news as much as reports it” (89). And, Derrida argues, this phantom must always express itself through this medium as a “judgement,” a choice between two alternatives, a favoring of one side of a binarism over the other. Thus the “voice” of public opinion is reduced to a simple yea or nea, an affirmation of choices already made, programmed into it. “Everything that is not of the order of judgement, decision, and especially representation escapes both present-day democratic institutions and public opinions” (92).

     

    Who rules this phantom is whoever best controls the discourse of these judgements, who decides what the binarism will exclude; an act Derrida calls the “new censorship,” a culturally hegemonic strategy “which combines concentration and fractionalization, accumulation and privatization. It de-politicizes” (100). Of course, the Right’s root axiom in America is that only the left speaks from “ideology,” i.e. dogmatism. And the appeal of this attack on “political correctness” is nostalgic: it purports to recall a time when the “correct” mode of the university and the workplace was apolitical, a time before politics “contaminated” the private and commercial spheres.

     

    However, there is, not surprisingly, another problem (or paradox) here. For Derrida also warns against dispersion, against cultivating “minority differences, untranslatable idiolects, national antagonisms” just “for their own sake.” A reasonable question is then: Who is to tell the difference? The difference, that is, between legitimate claims of minorities, idiolects, etc., and those exercises of diversity which are “for their own sake”?

     

    Derrida’s prescription is that “One must therefore try to invent gestures, discourses, politico-institutional practices that inscribe the alliance of these two imperatives, of these two promises or contracts: the capital and . . . the other of the capital.” For Europe, this means “welcoming foreigners in order not only to integrate them but to recognize and accept their alterity,” as well as “criticizing . . . a totalitarian dogmatism that, under the pretense of putting an end to capital, destroyed democracy and the European heritage” (45).

     

    What the entire essay finally works toward is the “impossible” way between (or beyond or aside from) “monopoly [and] dispersion.” Which requires us first of all to think of cultural identity as something other than cultural capital, as a past investment which must gain and never lose interest, which can never be “wasted” on “expensive” experiments with alternative social structures, such as, for instance, non-traditional families. Those acquainted with Derrida’s other writings will find this call for an “impossible” ethics familiar. Derrida argues that the possible alternatives are always those “programmatic extensions” of policies already in place; that decisions which choose from among the possible alternatives are decisions already made, long before: “politics, and responsibility, if there are any, will only ever have begun with the experience and experiment of aporia”; “The condition or possibility of this thing called responsibility is a certain experience and experiment of the possibility of the impossible: the testing of the aporia from which one may invent the only possible invention, the impossible invention” (41).

     

    Such a new conception of identity–again, cultural or otherwise–will not be easy to either articulate or disseminate; not in Europe, certainly not in America. Binarism is so deeply embedded in Western thought, in Indo-European language, that perhaps it is only surprising that we can see through such thinking at all, even momentarily.

     

    But if not conformity, and not chaos, then what? East Germany, Yugoslavia, MacDonald franchises, EuroDisney, the umpteenth Far Flung Shore where cowed natives greet American monster truck rallies called Operation Just Do It with the sincere smiles of future entrepreneurs . . . all these “examples” would seem to provide very little optimism for a successful “impossible” invention of this new cultural identity, an identity which inherently asserts not only its own heading but also that of its other.

     

    How to acknowledge the past, yet transcend it? How to provide examples, yet avoid dominance?

     

    At the end of Poe’s “The Premature Burial,” the narrator counsels the reader against devoting any worry at all to the buried-if-not-dead, the gone-if-not-forgotten, advising us to let the memorialized be forgotten, to let sleeping ” sepulchral terrors” lie, and worry not whether their sleep is eternal or restless: “–they must be suffered to slumber, or we perish” (268).

     

    Clearly Derrida disagrees. Only by being constantly aware of but not in thrall to the past are we aware of the “restless” cinders encrypted in each and every word we use, and can realize the paradoxes of the language (and logic) of exemplarity which expresses and thus molds the way we conceive of our problems, and thus the way we construct our solutions. In Cinders and The Other Heading, Derrida offers compelling evidence that, whatever the result of the urge toward memorialization currently underway in the American academy, Derridean deconstruction is alive and well and quite up to the challenges of the new century.

     

    Notes

     

    1. “The Premature Burial,” in The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, New York: The Modern Library, 1938.

     

    2. New York Review of Books #13, 1992.

     

    3. “Deconstruction After the Fall”, AWP Chronicle, Vol 25 #3, 1992.

     

    4. While fully 95 titles dealing with deconstruction are listed in the relatively under-stocked Johns Hopkins library, perhaps half of the latest include the word “after” or “anti” or “against” in their titles. As for the public press: “deconstruction” appeared recently in The Atlantic Monthly, Chicago magazine, and in a Newsweek article on architect Philip Johnson. It’s even the name of a record label.

     

    5. “The Discipline of Deconstruction,” PMLA, October, 1992, Vol 107 #5, 1266-1279.

     

    6. The latest in burial technology were coffins with alarm bells on top that might be rung by a reawakened victim tugging on a cord which dangled inside.

     

    7. “Paradox” rather than “problem,” as calling something a “problem” automatically implies that one is seeking a solution; a way to repair the problem, some teleological methodology which can be demonstrated to rectify the flaw discovered, and which can then be stored, like a tool, for future use.

     

    8. Literally “fire the cinder.”

     

    9. There are many critics of deconstruction and Derridean analysis whose methods are rigorously scholastic and whose results are rhetorically insightful; critics who have engaged the “political unconscious” at work in the patterns and focuses of Derrida’s own readings, and who have gone on to develop quite distinct “deconstructive” readings, particularly in the areas of feminist and post-colonial literary theory.

     

    10. As Nealon points out, for the real culprits of this particular misreading we must exhume the first American presentations of Derrida’s work: Culler’s On Deconstruction, Norris’s Deconstruction: Theory and Practice, and Deconstruction and Criticism (which included work by Harold Bloom, Paul de Man, Geoffrey Hartman, and Hillis Miller); works which established a deconstructive tradition Nealon criticizes as “commodified . . . simplified and watered down” (1269).

     

    11. For instance, in Displacement: Derrida and After (Indiana University Press, 1983), a collection of essays on the whole supportive of deconstruction, we are told by Mark Krupnick in the introduction that the term displacement “is not theoretically articulated in Derrida’s writing” (1). But far worse than this, Krupnick’s grasp of Derrida’s “neutralization” of the logic of metaphysical dichotomies is so weak that he then goes on to write of a “new (post-Hegelian) dispensation, in the reign of difference (as opposed to identity),” showing himself still completely in thrall to that very (il)logic. Krupnick’s introduction is all too typical of the misreading of and outright deafness to Derrida’s early writings.

     

    12. See for instance “Contingent Foundations: Feminism and the Question of ‘Postmodernism’,” in Feminists Theorize the Political, Judith Butler and Joan W. Scott, eds., New York: Routledge, 1992.

     

    13. It is the very idea of what we mean by this “presence” that Derrida wishes to reverse and displace–but not neutralize: “We thus come to posit presence . . . no longer as the absolute matrix form of being but rather as a ‘particularization’ and ‘effect’” Marges, 17).

     

    14. Of course, the true representation of this dynamic would include many more than just two forces.

     

    15. We see this distinction in Derrida’s definition of differance: “a structure and a movement that cannot be conceived on the basis of the opposition presence/absence. Differance is the systematic play of differences, or traces of differences, of the spacing by which elements relate to one another” Positions, 39).

     

    16. Quoted in “The MLA on Trial” by Stephen Greenblatt, Profession 92, 39-41.

     

  • Cookbooks for Theory and Performance

    Josephine Lee

    Department of English
    Smith College

    jolee@smith

     

    Case, Sue-Ellen, and Janelle Reinelt, eds. The Performance of Power: Theatrical Discourse and Politics. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1991.

     

    Reinelt, Janelle G., and Joseph R. Roach, eds. Critical Theory and Performance. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1992.

     

    One can clearly see the directions in which research in theater and drama is moving by browsing through titles of new books and articles, of new journals that have begun or renewed their life in the last five years, and of papers presented at the annual conferences held by the Association for Theatre in Higher Education (ATHE) and the American Society for Theatre Research (ASTR). Scholarship and criticism in theater and drama have become much more explicitly theoretical, and the theories used are much more interdisciplinary, with New Historicism, feminist theory, and now cultural studies, moving to the forefront. Not only have the old theories of theater and drama lost their exclusive charms; what is considered the primary object of study is no longer what happens in the theater and even less what can be read on the pages of the playtext. Performance has become a much broader, even all-encompassing term, and there is no longer an easy distinction between the theatrical and the real. Though theatricality, acting, and the stage have long provided those working in other disciplines (Sigmund Freud, Kenneth Burke, Erving Goffman, Judith Butler, to name a few) with easy metaphors, it is more novel and refreshing to have those who have worked more closely with theater turn their attention to events which take place off as well as on the stage.

     

    Two recent collections, The Performance of Power and Critical Theory and Performance, act as methodological cookbooks illustrating this “nouvelle cuisine” of performance studies. Both offer a variety of recipes for the ways in which current critical theory might intersect with drama, theater, and performance. Reading either would give one a good idea of what, professionally speaking, is in demand: what is considered nutritious, desirable, appetizing, successful. This is not to say that either book is geared toward the novice; on the contrary, negotiating the ambitious and rather dizzying range of essays presented in these books demands at least some sophistication. But at the same time a certain didacticism can be read, both explicitly and implicitly, in both books. For those who are desirous of success in a field increasingly focused on academic professionalism, the books promise at least a cursory sense of competence with what one needs to interact, publish, and establish oneself.

     

    The editors of both books, to their credit, make this didacticism clear. Janelle Reinelt and Sue-Ellen Case, the editors of The Performance of Power state explicitly how their book might work as an “entry-level text–a how-to for beginning to apply such considerations to theatrical texts and practices” (xix). Critical Theory and Performance also turns itself into a teaching text by supplying careful introductions, summarizing theoretical viewpoints, identifying seminal texts, and defining key terminology, all the while advertising the excitement of applying the “new theory” to drama, theater, and performance.

     

    Thus it is worth looking more closely not only at the individual essays included in these books, but also these organizing principles and agendas which inform them. My criticisms of both books are directed primarily at the latter. This is not to deny that the books do contain individual articles which are noteworthy in their own right. Joe Roach’s work on the “artificial eye” of Augustan theater, Spencer Golub’s on the iconization of Chaplin in postrevolutionary Russia, and Tracy Davis’s readings of Annie Oakley in particular show the exciting results of critical theory, meticulous scholarship, and intelligent writing. And even the more tentative essays included here do provide useful models for the appropriate ways in which experimentation is allowed to take place, and deviation from norms is allowed to occur.

     

    Yet I would focus on some of the distinct disadvantages of embracing the power structures inscribed within certain kinds of academic discourse. Although these two books clearly show evidence of how the “new theory” provides the fuel for some exciting work, they also make plain that dimension of what is inevitably disagreeable and frustrating about scholarship. With the eagerness to take on the terms of the “new theory” comes the occasional oversimplification of theory into formula, a willingness to teach rather conventional lessons of academic professionalism, and to that end, a deployment of confused and sometimes misleading arrangements of methodological categories.

     

    Particularly revealing are the ways in which the books create theoretical space both through the choice of essays, and the headings they assign to them. The personal taste and prejudices of the editors seem less important than their attempts to negotiate the complex expectations of the academic profession. Both books shun the old historical periodizations and cultural distinctions, and instead follow divisions loosely guided by post-structuralist theory, bearing the headings “Materialist Semiotics,” “After Marx,” and “Critical Convergences.”

     

    Where such headings become troubling is where the articles which follow them are not elucidated by them. The first two sections in The Performance of Power, for instance, are labelled “Materialist Semiotics” and “Deconstruction.” None of these terms seems all that clear to begin with, and the very different choices made in each of the essays, of subject matter and line of interrogation, makes the terminology even more confusing. For example, both “Materialist Semiotics” and “Deconstruction” cover a great range of topics: Kim Hall on the discourse of blackness in the Jonsonian masque, Sarah Bryant-Bertail on The Good Soldier Schwejk and the apparatus of political theater, David Savran on the Wooster Group, J. Ellen Gainor on imperialist Shaw, Geoffrey Bredbeck on Renaissance sodomy, and Jeffrey Mason on John Augustus Stone’s 1892 Metamora. Each of these essays is less wedded to the others by persistent theoretical questioning than by an appeal to older, tried-and-true foundations of historical research. Although the political cast gives the task a new urgency, the methodology remains based on close textual readings bent on unearthing historical and textual evidence for interpretation. Clearly, this is still effective. But though the quality of the essays is high, it remains unclear what they are doing in these theoretical categories. Not surprisingly, the exception is when one of the editors of this volume, Sue-Ellen Case, makes more of an effort to investigate questions of theory and methodology in her own contribution to the “Deconstruction” section. Her essay “The Eurocolonial Reception of Sanskrit Poetics” is less a reading of specific plays than a first attempt at investigation of the “strategies of concealment, suppression, and displacement” that take place in the works of theater critics, historians, and practitioners who, in constructing Sanskrit theatrical traditions, inevitably collude with “colonial imperial practices” (124).

     

    The same uneasiness haunts Critical Theory and Performance. Although its introduction is designed to answer much more explicitly theoretical questions, its categorization of essays too renders unclear what “deconstruction” for the theater is, and what distinguishes it from “semiotics.” Here both terms are placed into a single category: “Semiotics and Deconstruction.” That two such different theoretical articulations should seem so much alike in practice remains unexplained here as well. The articles included in this section of Critical Theory are all centered on contemporary productions: Jim Carmody explores the transplantation of The Misanthrope to 1989 Hollywood, David McDonald writes with a director’s view of his own productions of David Hare’s Fanshen, and John Rouse examines the Wooster Group, Heiner Muller, and Robert Wilson. Such a choice might provide a perfect opportunity to discuss the problems of historical reconstruction of the theatrical event, and the implicit claim for the authoritative presence of spectatorship: central issues for poststructuralist theory. But such a conversation is lacking in both the essays and introduction, as is any sustained discussion of postmodernist theater practice.

     

    Again, a too-easy conflation of theoretical terms in the “Hermeneutics and Phenomenology” section of Critical Theory and Performance puts both essays included here at a disadvantage. The insights of Thomas Postlewait’s “History, Hermeneutics, and Narrativity” are more useful in conjunction with the earlier section on “Theater History and Historiography.” Postlewait’s thoughts on how the “challenge for historians . . . is to understand better how the models and discourse of narrativity organize the writing process” Critical Theory 363) work beautifully to help frame earlier essays, such as Tracy Davis’s fascinating study of Annie Oakley and her “ideal husband,” and to support the skepticism of both Rosemary Bank and Vivian Patraka towards the dualistic discourse of political theater. The essay which is paired with Postlewait, however, is Bert State’s “The Phenomenological Attitude.” State’s eloquent essay deserves accompaniment from others involved with the practice of phenomenological criticism or perhaps studies of audience reception. As it is, States’s essay exists in a vacuum, as a kind of ghost theory from the past, and one is tempted to pass it over for the more glittering theories of the other sections.

     

    The “Psychoanalysis” section of Critical Theory and Performance seems rather bare as well. Although it contains two essays which are interesting in their own right, one by Elin Diamond on theatrical identification, and the other by Mohammad Kowsar on Lacan’s reading of Antigone, the pairing does not work. I was struck by how empty this section seems in light of what disciplines such as film studies have been able to do with Freud and Lacan. That psychoanalytic theory has had a profound effect on theory and performance is evident throughout the book, and other essays could easily have been redistributed to give this section more weight. In particular Sue- Ellen Case’s later article, with its metaphor of the “coupling” of theory and history in some “primal scene,” might have been placed here instead of in the final section entitled “Critical Convergences.” For that matter, Herbert Blau’s piece, also in this final section, would have worked as well or better in “After Marx.” Eliminating this final section would also help avoid the troubling implication that well-known critics such as Case and Blau deserve their own special section and the last word on as well as in critical theory and performance.

     

    But a troubling reliance on the star system runs throughout Critical Theory and is implicit in The Performance of Power as well. Though neither book fully succumbs to what Gay Gibson calls the “blockbuster” approach of academic conference panels Power 258), both do make clear who the well-known scholars in the field are, and what they are interested in. More than once, certain essays seem to have been included for the sake of capturing the authoritative presence of the writer, rather than for scholarly or methodological reasons. Nina Auerbach’s essay “Victorian Players and Sages” is an uneasy choice for The Performance of Power; although Auerbach ends with Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, her interest is more thematic and literary, linking great works with other great works, Wordsworth with Bronte heroines. Janice Carlisle’s piece, which immediately precedes Auerbach’s, sheds far more light on the nature of Victorian theatricality. In light of all that Richard Schechner has done to encourage new approaches to the theater, his essay on “Direct Theater” is disappointing. Schechner makes the mistake of describing significant media events in a “You Are There” style, and removing them from their complex historical and political contexts. Some of his casual comparisons, such as that which he makes between the 1970 anti-Vietnam “carnival” held in Washington, and the 1989 protests by Chinese students in Tiananmen Square, can be downright insulting.

     

    There also seems to be a marked tendency to insist on the relevance of well-known theorists for theatrical studies. When Marvin Carlson considers the possible uses of Bakhtin’s terms “dialogism” and “heteroglossia” for theater and performance, his conclusions are so optimistic that he out-Bakhtins Bakhtin. This eagerness to employ a theoretical vocabulary leads one to suspect that in the essays as well as the introductions, theoretical approaches are sometimes absorbed rather than questioned too closely. In the section labelled “Cultural Studies,” for instance, the first essays seem models of careful scholarship and sensitivity, a blend of traditional scholarship and new theoretical positions. It is not until James Moy’s article that the position of enlightened cultural critic is challenged. Moy finds what he calls a “new order of stereotypical representations” of Asians in plays hailed by others as breaking new ground. Moy’s objections, although not altogether agreeable, are argued with disconcerting vigor; his voice is polemical, challenging readers to dispute as well as applaud his efforts.

     

    Overall, the most successful section in either book is the grouping in Critical Theory and Performance entitled “Feminism(s).” Here essays work with and against one another in ways both satisfying and thought-provoking. Of particular interest is Kate Davy’s essay, which persuasively argues the inability of lesbian performance to be served by using the strategy of camp, and Jill Dolan’s work, which questions what she calls the troubling “sanctimonious structures of politically correct lesbian identifications” (266), and looks for ways in which less attractive representations of gender and power might be reconciled with feminism. Jeanie Forte’s examinations of the theatrical female body, and Ellen Donkin’s work on Sarah Siddons as split subject, are also part of the focused and engaged set of theoretical questions that feminist critics explore inside and outside the theater.

     

    In contrast, the other sections in Critical Theory and Performance seem rather tentative as articulations of theoretical positions. In the “After Marx” section in particular, the essays seem curiously restrained, and the heated debates anticipated in the introduction do not materialize. Most of the essays call for revision and reform, but do so in a tone of academic disengagement. Both Bruce McConachie’s perceptive examination of the term “production” a la Raymond Williams, and Philip Auslander’s interesting comments on stand-up comedy as baby-boomer refuge, make rather subdued conclusions. Jim Merod chooses a more polemical set of questions on theory and the academic profession, but his remarks seem directed at a very different audience; his section on jazz does not offer any insights into performance or theory more stirring than “it may be that music is the lingua franca of all people and all culture and that jazz is its most common discourse” (193). Most immediately and enjoyably provocative in this section is David Roman’s essay, which challenges the liberal view of AIDS as a scientific reality and the resultant rational/disinterested liberal response to the epidemic.

     

    The Performance of Power avoids some of the problems which are accentuated in Critical Theory and Performance by not billing itself as a “theory” book, and preserving an emphasis on text and production. To this end, the book moves away from categories evoking poststructualist theory into headings such as “Revealing Surveillance Strategies” and “Constructing Utopias.” The book does not, however, treat the theater as a privileged aesthetic space of high culture; rather, it affirms that theatrical performance participates fully in the dynamics of power that characterize all forms of discourse. Power in the theater is not just what is represented within some fictionalized stage world, but also what is inscribed in the relationships between performers, spectators, and societies in the act of performing.

     

    Happily, the book is suspicious of power in academic circles as well. The Performance of Power gives sustained attention to the power dynamics played out in academic departments, the classroom, and conference panels, in what Sue-Ellen Case calls “the production of knowledge at the site of the academy as performance” Critical Theory 422). The book begins with a narrative account of the specific conferences from which the idea for the collection took its shape, and ends with a section on the state of the profession, with a series of essays calling for the redistribution of power, more interdisciplinary research, and the need for revitalization of both research and pedagogy. While these final essays are vocal about the need for change as well as the changes that are already taking place, they express their complaints in rather too moderate and reasonable voices. I miss the angry and impassioned call for more radical institutional reform, and a more sustained self-questioning of the writer’s own complicity in the preserving the status quo.

     

    Still, the power structures of the academy do come under fire in The Performance of Power, in ways that are oddly absent in Critical Theory and Performance. The latter volume has a much more cautious, “rules-of- the-game” feel to it. Billed on the back cover as “the first comprehensive introduction to critical theory’s rich and diverse contributions to the study of drama, theater, and performance,” it promises to teach state of the art academic professionalism to a field long accused of insularity and backwardness. Such an advertisement may go unchallenged; the other books, articles, and collections which might claim to be seminal in this field were also written by those very “leading critics and practitioners” who were “specially commissioned” for this book.

     

    The Performance of Power and Critical Theory and Performance reveal much about the current demands of the field; to the skeptical and resistant reader, they will reveal even more. Even though these books leave many crucial questions of practice and methodology unanswered, they are important and necessary reading for anyone who wishes to engage critically with theater, drama, and performance studies; the choices made in both books are worth studying closely. To call something “deconstruction” is neither arbitrary nor whimsical, even when the term is unexplained or misapplied; it is by means of such labellings that a sub-discipline attains recognition and credibility within larger circles of discourse. We who study theater and drama have been relatively late in jumping onto the theory bandwagon. But now that we are on board, we must engage with the dynamics of power, authority, and value that are imposed by the new conventions as well as the old. Thus, professionally speaking, there is much to be gained through reading these books, even if only one or two of the individual essays are relevant to one’s own particular areas of interest. Whether one ultimately dismisses the “nouvelle” performance studies as mere passing fashion, or finds that it actually tastes good, to be active in the discipline today means at least sitting down to this sort of table. And I, for one, hate to eat alone.
     

  • Hitchcock: The Industry

    James Morrison

    Department of English
    North Carolina State University

     

    Kapsis, Robert E. Hitchock: The Making of a Reputation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.

     

    After more than twenty years, if we date its inception at the publication of Robin Wood’s Hitchcock’s Films (1965), the Hitchcock industry is still burgeoning. On and on they come in unstoppable waves, these dense treatises on The Master’s high vernacular or low comedy, on films re-released or securely canonized. Even if we dismiss those books that are patently “popular,” like Donald Spoto’s biography, or those that give Hitchcock only a sustained sidelong glance, like Slavoj Zizek’s Looking Awry, we are still left to contend with some two dozen ample volumes–this in the field of film studies that is itself barely twenty years old. The latest spasm of production alone has yielded at least three books, each from a university press: Stefan Sharff’s on Hitchcock’s High Vernacular from Columbia, Thomas Leitch’s Find the Director from Georgia, and now Kapsis’s volume from Chicago. What this largely academic enterprise lacks in the glittery trappings of, say, the mass-market Malcolm-X-drive–no Hitchcock caps as yet, no Hitchcock breakfast cereal–it makes up for with a certain scholarly self-consciousness. One is not surprised, then, to see at last a book about the industry itself.

     

    Kapsis’s thesis is simple: The evolution of Hitchcock’s reputation since the late fifties has been intricately connected to general permutations in film aesthetics during the same period. The first chapter lays the study’s theoretical groundwork by adapting the sociologist Harold Becker’s concept of “art-worlds” to the field of film. Chapters two through five trace Hithcock’s reputation from its initial phases, where Hitchcock is understood as “mere entertainer” or “master of suspense,” through the efforts of Hithcock and his partisans to reshape his reputation into that of a “serious artist,” culminating in the director’s canonization in academe. Final chapters consider the effect of the “Hithcock legacy” on the thriller genre itself as well as on the career of Brian De Palma, then compare the making of Hitchcock’s reputation to that of the reputations of Hawks, Capra, Lang, Clint Eastwood, and, in the “art-world” of music, Vladimir Horowitz. The particular strategies Kapsis’s work values are not close-analysis or theoretical expansiveness (nor the rhetorical flourishes that usually accompany them) but comprehensive scrutiny and empirical doggedness. These last his work achieves, and the attendant clarity of his style would be unimpeachable if clarity were an end in itself, if relentless comprehensiveness guaranteed genuine comprehension. Clearly, the book’s subject has the potential to bring into focus key issues in contemporary film studies, from much-debated ones like the status of the auteur to little- discussed ones like the process of canon formation. But in spite of the value of some of its research, the book misses its most important opportunities.

     

    The first problem is one of methodology. Kapsis negotiates Becker’s conception of the “art-world” with a version of reception theory he traces from Jauss through Wendy Griswold’s work. His first key assumption, then, derived from Becker, is that cultural products “are influenced by or imbedded in the immediate organizational, legal, and economic environments in which they are produced” (5); his second is that “‘meaning’ is produced or ‘fabricated’ by the interaction between reader and text” (8). In spite of the earnest conviction of these observations, neither is likely to strike occupants of the film-studies trenches as urgent news from the battle-front. What may be novel, though, is the sense in which Kapsis intends his inflections. In the first quotation, for example, “immediate” is the operative word, and refers not just to studios or audiences as “environments,” but even more “immediately,” to literal facets of production–e.g., conversations on the set during filming. Moreover, the “meaning” that gets produced, through whatever means, is seen to be a product of films’ embeddedness in these environments. Thus, elements of Hitchcock’s style that other critics have more conventionally seen as modernist gestures or personal insignia are conceived as Hithcock’s “practice of including unusual shots or sequences in his films for their calculated effect on the more serious critics” (25). A less romanticized vision of the auteur than that implied here is hard to imagine; but what’s an “unusual shot”? Who are the “serious critics,” and how do they get to be “more” serious than the others?

     

    In registering such points, I mean to suggest that the seemingly “progressive” aspects of Kapsis’s methodology are built upon an extremely traditional base and become, therefore, themselves questionable. In spite of the presumed emphasis on shifting patterns of reception, Kapsis begins with a survey of Hitchcock’s career that would be perfectly at home in any coffee-table picture-book: “Both Rope and Under Capricorn] exploited technical means at the expense of narrative flow and neither one generated much business. It would seem that Hitchcock had temporarily lost touch with his audience” (25). In a study that claims to examine changing critical assumptions, it is not beside the point to ask what a “narrative flow” is, how “technical means” can disrupt it, and what this might have to do with audience response. In any case, the usual version of audience response to these films is that audiences found the first bombastic and the second dull. Should a current study simply reproduce this received narrative? More to the point: the “technical means” Hitchcock is exploiting in these films involve historically unprecedented play with the long-take sequence-shot. Indeed, promotion for the films emphasized the sequence-shot and the moving camera as novelties to draw audiences–“Come see Ingrid Bergman in the longest take in movie history!”–who still found the films bombastic and dull. The failure of this effort to manipulate reception complicates Kapsis’s claim that such efforts began late in Hitchcock’s work. More generally, his unreflective reproduction of standard surveys of Hitchcock’s career markedly undermines his later attempts to examine the assumptions on which such surveys might be based.

     

    In fact, although Kapsis approvingly quotes Griswold to the effect that a cultural object “has no meaning independent of its being experienced” (9), he is prone to categorical assertions about the nature of certain films of Hitchcock. For example, he sees Psycho and Vertigo as “essentially anti-romances, violating many of the conventions and rules that were associated with the Hithcock thriller in the late fifties” (56) and later finds that Lesley Brill “correctly” (56) makes the same claim in The Hitchcock Romance (Princeton 1988). If the purpose of the study as a whole is to show how “changes in critical discourse over the past few decades have shaped the ‘meaning’ of Hitchcock’s works” (122), Kapsis’s own analyses are perhaps obliged to present themselves as interpretive acts that have similarly been shaped by prior discourses. Yet the normativity of his point here is startling in the context of his presumed methodology. Here the films are assumed to have certain attributes that audiences simply did not welcome; or, elsewhere, particular films simply were poor and were rightly recognized as such by audiences; or else particular films were really one thing but were incorrectly perceived by audiences as something else; and so on. In this instance, in any case, it seems clear enough that the “essential” quality Kapsis discovers in these films is to be distinguished from the provisional “meanings” other critics locate there.

     

    If Brill is “correct” to find patterns of romance at the foundation of Hitchcock’s work, Robin Wood is apparently quite wrong to see Marnie as a fully-realized masterpiece (Wood’s category, not mine) instead of as the shoddy bag of goods most critics had earlier seen. Initial reviews of this film which Kapsis sees as the turing point in Hitchcock’s reputation history emphasized what they claimed was its technical ineptitude–ugly back-projection, awkward red-suffusions of the image, clumsy zoom-shots. Wood’s landmark revaluation of the film sees these elements as part of a complex design. But Kapsis, whose posture is ordinarily one of professorial equanimity, will have none of it. Presenting Wood as a dyed-in-the-wool auteurist (and missing thereby Wood’s inheritance from the work of F. R. Leavis), Kapsis lengthily quotes Wood’s argument and then, rather than engage it, blusters in an unwittingly comic rehearsal of thirty-year-old misconceptions of auteurism, “Wood’s point once again is that Hitchcock can really do no wrong” (128). In fact, Wood’s point is that the devices work in his analysis of the film and that they are part of Hitchcock’s German Expressionist heritage but are now perceived as anachronistic by popular audiences. In other words, Wood’s point is more attuned to shifts in viewers’ assumptions about film style than is Kapsis’s inarticulate rejection of it. More to the point, technical “deficiencies” are in no way isolated to Marnie in Hitchcock’s work. The Lady Vanishes, for example, makes absurdly obvious use of miniatures and Notorious contains examples of back-projection at least as obtrusive as any in Marnie. Given these facts and Kapsis’s thesis, the question he should be asking is why these “deficiencies” became an issue in the reception of Marnie when they did not in the reception of the earlier films.

     

    Instead, Kapsis treats the reader to a protracted examination of the film’s production file, which body of knowledge “simply fails to support” (131) Wood’s argument. According to the production files, as Kapsis reads them, it seems Hitchcock “sought external reality but technical mishaps ensued” (129). In turn, this information “points to how the auteur critics’ expectations of finding artistic purpose and consistency in the works of their favorite auteur directions [sic] could lead to exaggerated claims about a film’s implicit meanings” (129). It is worth noting that Wood himself deals explicitly with such critical issues at the outset of his study, albeit in a fairly standard New Critical way: “What concerns (or should concern) the critic is not what a film is ‘really intended’ to be, but what it actually isHitchcock’s Films 13). Wood even goes on to quote Lawrence’s “Never trust the teller–trust the tale,” an epigram in which, to judge from the fact that he first misquotes it then wrongly attributes it to Joseph Conrad, Kapsis himself does not put much stock. In the context Kapsis had appeared to be trying to establish, in any case, the notion of an “erroneous” (130) reading of a text is a troubling one. Wood’s valuation of organic coherence is here simply opposed to Kapsis’s modulated empiricism where the real issue had formerly seemed to be the social, aesthetic or other causes of such interpretive differences. For Kapsis, the issue is (as usual) simple: “Wood’s polemical agenda led him astray” (130). Similarly, treating feminist reinterpretations of Marnie, Kapsis hopes to determine which are “most faithful to the Marnie text” (139), obviously contradicting his earlier presumption that meaning is contingent on reception.

     

    Kapsis’s treatment of auteurism, in general, further illuminates methodological problems in his study. His version of auteurism is monolithic and simplified, and he posits auteurism as both cause and effect in the making of Hitchcock’s reputation. Perhaps assuming (wrongly, if so) that the implications of auteur theory have been played out fully in film studies, Kapsis treats the topic at its basic level by implication, and his references to it are dispersed broadly across the text. One of the results of this is an elementary form of repetition characteristic of Kapsis’s style. Each time he mentions auteurism, he does so as if introducing the topic but, at the same time, as if it had already been adequately explicated. Hitchcock’s reputation as a “serious artist” is strengthened “during the 1970s when the auteur theory dominated film studies” (122); the growing pedigree of horror movies is “a trend traceable to the rise of auteur theory in the late 1960s” (162); it was “during the early sixties that . . . auteur critics actively sought to elevate Hitchcock’s stature” (216); Hitchcock’s standing “improved in the sixties as the auteur theory came to dominate both journalistic and academic discourse in the cinema” (228); and so on.

     

    This atomization of the topic makes it nearly impossible to extrapolate from the argument a clear view of what Kapsis thinks auteurism is, but in any case he gives no sense of the roots of auteurism in structuralism, of the crucial debates among early auteurists or of its complex evolution, or indeed of the very aesthetic of auteur theory. Kapsis’s schematic conception of auteur theory consists of two elements. First, “according to these critics, the individual ‘auteur’ was the sole source of a film’s meaning: the artist’s personal vision transcended ‘reality,’ ‘history,’ and ‘society’” (224-25). Second, in “advancing their views, the auteur critics constructed a new pantheon of directors wherein certain directors were singled out for special praise while the rest were demoted or ignored” (216). The first of these claims is redolent of a popular take on auteurism, deriving from a reading not so much of Bazin, Rivette, Chabrol and Rohmer or Godard (to say nothing of Levi-Strauss!) but of Pauline Kael. In fact, cine- structuralism (as it was sometimes called in the seventies) insists on the impossibility of “transcending” “history” and so on; it is, indeed, because all forms of human communication are seen in this model as rigidly controlled by predetermined structures that the auteurists find it possible to attend in the first place to genre films, which in this context are no more “formulaic” and therefore no less “serious” than any other predetermining structure. Yet so unaware does Kapsis seem of the crucial connection between auteurism and structuralism that he regards genre criticism as opposed to auteurism rather than as a crucial component of it: “the auteur viewpoint rather than a genre orientation framed much of the critical discourse on Topaz” (105). If auteur theory means nothing more than seeing “the director as a major source of meaning” (228), then American film criticism has been auteurist from its inception to the present.

     

    Kapsis’s conception of the auteurist canon, or “pantheon,” is even more disturbing because of its implications for his concpetion of canonicity itself in the project as a whole. For Kapsis, taste seems to be a purely whimsical phenomenon. Thus, according to Kapsis, the first generation of auteurists slap together an apparently arbitrary “pantheon” while the next generation simply “countered the established pantheon with one of their own choosing” (217)–with no effort made to account for or even discuss the choices. Why are “certain directors” singled out for “special praise”? Because they are auteurs. How do we know they are auteurs? Because they have been singled out. Favoring Hitchcock, Hawks, Ford, Lang, and Welles, Kapsis tells us, the auteurists “dismissed as second- or third-rate” Huston, Wyler, Stevens, Zinneman, and Wilder. Kapsis is partially right to suggest that the first group is valued because “despite having worked within the old Hollywood studio system, [they] had somehow managed to retain in their work a personal vision” (217). However, he does not even attempt to account for the “dismissal” of the others (nor to prove that dismissal, especially pertinent in the case of Wyler); nor indeed could he do so in the terms of his simplified account of auteurism. The auteurist dismissal of Huston, for example, is predicated on structuralist assumptions. Because they see Huston as naively believing he can “transcend” genre, by among other ways adapting idiosyncratic literary texts to film, the auteurists reject him.

     

    Kapsis’s work yields no mechanism by which to examine the social or aesthetic causes of cultural change. He is interested only in the effect of cultural change (and even that in only a simple way), and thus does not ask, as he observes shifts in Hitchcock’s reputation, how and why what Pierre Bourdieu would call the rearrangement of cultural capital takes place. Bourdieu’s monumental work Distinction provides what are currently the definitive ways of discussing the sociology of cultural value, and Bourdieu’s notion of cultural capital and its relation to social capital is one Kapsis might profitably have engaged, especially given Kapsis’s intent to inflect film studies with modes of thought from sociology. Specifically, Bourdieu argues that the “bourgeois” aesthetic is to be distinguished from the “popular” aesthetic by way of the latter’s demand for participatory interaction and the former’s distanciation, its separation from ordinary, non-aesthetic dispositions. Such a distinction bears obvious relevance to a discussion of a mass entertainer’s being co-opted by or crossing over into “serious” art, but Kapsis proceeds as if such distinctions were self-evident. With no such framework in which to function, then, repeated references to texts that “straddled the line between popular genre movies and films with a more elitist intent” (246) can only seem windy and vacant.

     

    The author’s conception of “reputation” itself is impoverished by inattentiveness to– paraphrasing Bourdieu–modes of appropriation of art-works across cultural strata. Kapsis’s study uses as its chief evidence journalistic reviews and critical articles, with occasional references to box-office figures. Much work in reception theory, of course, challenges the validity of such evidence as a gauge of a film’s reception, and many of the most interesting studies have relied on other kinds of evidence, such as advertising, non-critical journalism, letters to editors from “average” citizens, or public-relations documents. (Janet Staiger’s Interpreting Films [Princeton 1992] will serve as a model in reception studies for years to come.) Arguing that Hitchcock’s reputation is reshaped from that of professional ghoul to that of “serious artist,” Kapsis begs key questions about levels of culture: Who says when an artist is “serious”? Once Hitchcock is canonized, is his work then unavailable to popular responses? In Kapsis’s version, once the auteurists lay claim on Hitchcock, his days as a “mere entertainer” are over. But his simultaneous canonization in Blockbuster Video stores (as the only director, until lately, to have his own category) or on cable TV, flanked by Patty Duke, Donna Reed and other luminaries of Our Television Heritage suggests otherwise. Yet Kapsis’s version of the Hitchcock reputation remains, like most of his categories, cosily unitary. The British may still hold Hitchcock to the standard of his “early British thrillers” because they “lack the training in film studies of their American counterparts” (157), but we Americans know better.

     

    The appeal of reception studies is its capacity to situate texts within very specific cultural contexts. Not only is Kapsis inattuned to links between cultural practice and social categories, however, he is indifferent to the strata across which a reputation may be defined (that is, a “reputation” is not only one thing at any one time) and the molecular responses to which it is subject. Thus his work is as thoroughly insulated from authentic cultural analysis as the formalism it was meant to replace.

     

  • Constructing an Archipelago: Writing the Caribbean

    Susan J. Ritchie

    English Department Ohio State University
    sritchie@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu

     

    Benitez-Rojo, Antonio. The Repeating Island: The Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective. Durham: Duke University Press, 1992.

     

    Antonio Benitez-Rojo’s Repeating Island: The Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective is a marvelously ambitious rereading of Caribbean literature, letters, and culture, deftly translated here by James Maraniss. But what makes the Cuban author’s book a work of particular interest and importance to postmodern studies is the powerful, shifting, and paradoxical framework he has established for articulating the “certain way” of the Caribbean. For Benitez-Rojo’s chief interest is in the ethnological but nonetheless inessential character that might justify the reference to so many diverse islands, peoples, languages, and histories as “the Caribbean.” His “Caribbean” is a constructed, postmodern, and yet finally coherent sociocultural archipelago.

     

    Benitez-Rojo thus engages with the very difficult question of how to perform a cultural study that is postmodern and constructivist but which nonethelessless respects cultural specificities. He puts it this way: “How do we establish that the Caribbean is an important historico-economic sea, and, further, a cultural meta-archipelago without center and without limits, a chaos within which there is an island that proliferates endlessly, each a copy of a different one, founding and refounding ethnological materials like a cloud will do with its vapor?” (9). Both the value and danger of this work result from the energy and skill with which the author sets often contradictory theoretical apparatuses after this problem and into productive frenzy.

     

    The readings are propelled by a roughly Deleuzian conception of an ordering, productive machine that is the Caribbean itself; the very machine from which Caribbean texts seek to escape in their search for non-violence. He calls this machine the “Plantation,” and it is in his attention to the Plantation that he produces the readings that are one of the real gifts of this text. The Plantation system is for Benitez-Rojo the producer of the similarity of differences that makes up the islands of the Caribbean: “the Plantation proliferated in the Caribbean basin in a way that presented different features in each island, each stretch of coastline, each colonial bloc. Nevertheless . . . these differences, far from negating the existence of a pan-Caribbean society, make it possible in the way that a system off ractal equations of a galaxy is possible” (72).

     

    His most complete identification of the Plantation takes place in an introductory chapter that examines the history of the Caribbean in terms of the Plantation, and in his examination of his two historical texts: Bartholome de Las Casas’ 1875 history of what he still referred to as the Indes (Historia de las Indias), and Fernando Ortiz’s 1940 essay on the role of sugar and tobacco production in the shaping of Cuba (part of Contrapunteo cubano del tabaco y el azucar). Benitez-Rojo carefully teases out from Las Casas’ text the author’s guilt for having been an original “encomendero” who both justified the Spanish conquest of Cuba and promoted African slavery as the most efficacious means of running sugar plantations. Las Casas, then, is one of the architects of the Plantation–the larger system of exploitation that would come to determine Caribbean culture. Las Casas, though, is no simple bad guy: Benitez-Rojo’s accomplishment is to show how his work also helps discursively to organize the region’s anti-colonial impulses.

     

    Through a scrupulous Freudian reading of Historia” Benitez-Rojo suggests that Las Casas’ text both contains and represents a “rupture” in the “discursive practice that justified the conquest” and that this rupture creates one of the region’s first nationalistic arguments in its imagination of “a providential space in which Europeans, aboriginal peoples, and Africans might live industriously according to religious and civic principles, and where violence toward the Indian and the Negro would be condemned equally by the earthly power of the crown and the Church’s spiritual judgment” (86). The rupture is represented by an enigmatic moment in this historical text: a fantastic description of a plague of ants that reads more like fable than history. Noting the uncanniness of the passage, Benitez-Rojo uses Freudian analysis to show how the fable both disguises and re-presents the actual object of Las Casas’ fascination and guilt: a revolt by plantation slaves. The reading is valuable for its careful attention to the Cuban anti-colonial nationalistic sentiment and to the Plantation’s dual fascination and phobia, its duplicitous posture of defense and exploitation, as regards African culture.

     

    As Benitez-Rojo continues to trace the cultural productions of the Plantation-machine in more detail, he takes pains to identify it as a machine born not of postmodernism, but of the Caribbean itself. So while he characterizes Las Casas’ resistance to the colonial binary of master/slave as “an involuntary flourish of postmodernity” (98), his point is finally that these texts offer something more culturally specific. This concern animates his examinations of Ortiz’s often literally fantastic and fabulous discussions of sugar and tobacco production in Cuba, which is less revealing of that historian’s text than it is of Benitez-Rojo’s attempts to ground his own investigations in the explicitly Caribbean. He finds in Ortiz his own precursor: a proto-scholar of the Plantation: “When Ortiz says that ‘to study the Cuban history is fundamentally to study the history of sugar and tobacco as the visceral systems of its economy’ he is suggesting to us ‘another’ mode of investigation whose prototype would be the ‘Contrapunteo’” (158).

     

    Benitez-Rojo’s only ungenerous reading similarly projects his own conception of the Plantation on to the work of earlier authors. He criticizes the poet Nicolas Guillen, known for his poems about sugar workers, for his Marxism–and also, it would seem, for his failure properly to understand Benitez-Rojo’s own description of the Plantation well over a half a century before it was articulated. It is strange, he writes, “that Guillen, with his profound understanding of the Plantation, should have fallen for the ingenious pattern of thinking that the mechanical transposition of a European doctrine–as Marxism-Leninism is–to a Caribbean island could be successful as a socioeconomic project; I mean, concretely, that an island plantation, Cuba, for example, could ever produce sugar ‘without tears’” (131). The irony, of course, is that Benitez-Rojo himself is unapologetically supportive of applications of Anglo-European postmodern theories to the Caribbean.

     

    Benitez-Rojo is better when he speaks of how he shares this struggle with the West with other Caribbean writers. The Plantation is responsible for the essential paradox of the Caribbean writer: he or she is most Caribbean when most Other. As Benitez-Rojo says of the work of Alejo Carpentier, it “offers itself as a doubly spectacular spectacle: at once directed toward the West in terms of an excess of invention and professional competence (to make an impression, to follow the current), and also directed to the reading in the meta-archipelago, beneath a ritual language, which, in its repetition, tries to interpret two performances of the impossible: to be a Caribbean person and to be there in the Caribbean” (241). Hence in his comparison of the fiction of Carpentier, Wilson Harris, Fanny Buitrago and Edgardo Rodriguez Julia, it is Carpentier, whose style bears the greatest resemblance to Western literature, who is celebrated as the most Caribbean. Benitez-Rojo’s eloquent explanation for Carpentier’s appropriation of a largely French naturalism for his own novels is that “It’s obvious that the Path of Words between Europe and America becomes much more assured when one goes out parallel to some famous explorer” (184).

     

    Benitez-Rojo does not always trace clear patterns of connection between these sorts of micro-insights about literature and his larger theoretical statements. Indeed, some of his finest moments are also the most disconnected or incidental to any central agenda or design. One of the many oddities of this book, though, is how, despite the apparently loose theoretical bricolage of his own practice, Benitez-Rojo suggests that the Caribbean and its Plantation can best be approached and understood by way of a single theoretical stance: that of scientific chaos theory. Chaos theory, as we have learned in the wake of its recent boom, describes the scientific attempt to study complex natural patterns and behaviors that previously had been thought too noisy or too random to succumb to empirical and statistical prediction. And for Benitez-Rojo, as for other scholars of postmodern culture, what has proved most appealing about chaos is not its highly technical and repetitive mathematics but its seductive thematics and terminologies.

     

    Indeed, some of the images generated by chaos theory work well for Benitez-Rojo as descriptions of the turbulent character of Caribbean culture. Like the phenomena that chaos scientists study, his Caribbean text is constantly aswirl in bifurcation and paradox–products of a turbulence which allows equally for radical disturbance and creative productivity. The appeal of chaos as an analogy for postcolonialism is evident: chaos provides a model for the interconnectedness of places and phenomena, yet allows even within that interconnection for the possibility of radical disruption. Like much postmodern theory, work in chaos has described how the local might rupture universalizing metanarratives. The “butterfly effect,” for instance, describes the process whereby seemingly small events, compounded through interdependent feedback loops, can have a dramatic effect on other parts of the system. (The name indicates the statistical conceivability that a group of butterflies flapping their wings in one part of the world could produce a storm in another hemisphere.)

     

    But despite the thematic appropriateness of chaos theory, I am uneasy with Benitez-Rojo’s appropriation of it for the analysis of culture. Chaos theory, with its interest in the order of disorder, dabbles in the description of the most mystical of all natural forces: that which in spite of entropy, resists disorder. The end point of scientific chaos theory is a statistical science of wholeness, a goal that seems strikingly at odds with what is otherwise Benitez-Rojo’s confidence in the power of difference. Indeed, his steadfast belief that the cultural diversity of the islands is fully capable of resisting even the homogenizing effects of a postmodern global culture of consumerism is quite marked and controversial: “I see no solid reasons,” he writes, “to think that the culture of the Peoples of the Sea is negatively affected by the cultural ‘consumerism’ of the industrial societies. When a people’s culture conserves ancient dynamics that ‘play in a certain kind of way,’ these resist being displaced by external territorializing forms” (20).

     

    Being more suspicious than Benitez-Rojo about the essential character of difference, I am nervous about the practice of once again using a Western science as a means of understanding the history of the colonized world; I worry about how his specific examination of Caribbean texts is sandwiched between discussions of chaos theory as if the Caribbean were some kind of real-world manifestation of Western empirical predictions. Of course, Benitez-Rojo insists that his use of Chaos theory remains on the level of metaphor: “If I have seized hold of certain models belonging to Chaos, it has not been because I think that these can manage to signify fully what’s there in the archipelago; rather it’s because they speak of dynamic forms that float, sometimes in unforeseen and scarcely perceptible ways within the Caribbean’s huge and heteroclitic archive” (269). But while he is interested in understanding the “certain way” of being–the ordering principle that characterizes the otherwise chaotic and disjointed Caribbean–surely even a thematic distinction must be made between that resistance to disorder that we call “culture” and the resistance to disorder that biologists often call “life” itself.

     

    Benitez-Rojo’s tendency to understand the cultural specificity of the Caribbean as the product of a “natural” necessity, even while he treats literary texts as strictly social constructions, makes for a strange and troublesome discontinuity in his analysis. One can accept his basic stance on Caribbean literary texts, which, he says, propose “themselves as vehicles to drive the reader and the text to the marginal and ritually initiating territory of the absence of violence” (25). But his characterization of Caribbean culture is more difficult. The identification of the specificity of the culture, what he refers to throughout the book as the “certain kind of way” of the islands, is a highly naturalized, romantic, and even racist process. Thus when he depicts the moment in which he personally reached the age of reason, and understood in a single epiphany what it was to be Caribbean, as the day he witnessed two older Black woman “with an ancient and golden powder between their gnarled legs” pass under his balcony in “a certain kind of way,” and that “I knew then at once there would be no apocalypse . . . the Caribbean is not an apocalyptic world” (10), he makes knowledge of the specifically Caribbean dependent on capturing Black women within a male gaze. To praise E. Duvergier de Hauranne’s understanding of the islands, he compliments Haurranne’s 19th-century traveller’s description of Black women walking through a market in Cuba. “It’s clear,” Benitez-Rojo insists, “that Huaranne, a foreigner, saw that these Negresses walked in ‘a certain kind of way,’ that they moved differently than European women” (79).

     

    Perhaps it is unfair to expect Benitez-Rojo to transcend the racist sexism of his own cultural text. But these sections of the book are unsatisfactory in other ways as well. Again the terminology of chaos theory seems to impose itself rather awkwardly. Benitez-Rojo ends up describing the Planation as a “strange attractor”–in chaos lingo, a point of regularity within expected randomness (269). But the Planation is no strange attractor; it is the colonial machine in motion. And the exploitation that it has engendered is precisely not the result of natural distribution, as Benitez-Rojo himself suggests in his more Deleuzian moments. After all, he is no ethnographer, but a self-reflective and self-acknowledged product of the very Caribbean he describes, a student of culture doomed, as he discusses in his final chapter, to use alien tools of analysis. A generous reading might recall Benitez-Rojo’s own assertion that the Caribbean text attempts to “neutralize violence” by referring “society to the transhistorical codes of Nature” (17). But this reasoning away of racism is unsatisfactory, for one quickly recognizes that nowhere does Benitez-Rojo account for the ideological or social consequences of this or other particular constructions of Nature. The result is that the unstated mission of a truly Caribbean literature remains the naturalization of some, but not all, of the island’s people through the very act of representation. Thus, for example, when Benitez-Rojo critiques Nicolas Guillen’s poem “West Indes, Ltd,” his vague dissatisfaction that it is too Western appears as the critique that in it, “one does not feel the vital presence of the Negro’s desire” (129).

     

    I do not mean to suggest that the troubling paradoxes of Benitez-Rojo’s practice should be cleanly resolved or contained. But his reluctance to chart the make-up of certain key social constructions leaves his work, for me at least, something less than a full engagement with the problematics of postmodernity. For there is often no compelling reason to assume that the fragmentation he enacts is really “postmodern” at all. He acknowledges that Caribbean discourse, like the islands themselves, “is in many respects prestructuralist and preindustrialist, and to make matters worse, a contrapuntal discourse that when seen a la Caribbean would look like a rumba, and when seen a la Europe like a perpetually moving baroque fugue, in which the voices meet once never to meet again” (23). And one of his recurring points is that even if postmodernism might provide a strategically interesting way of addressing Caribbean culture, within the postcolonial context, it will always remain an ill-fit. Yet I am not troubled by the presence of the premodern in the texts, social or literary, but by his description of his own methodology as postmodern. In the terms of classic Derridean symptomology, what is alarming is that Benitez-Rojo’s own postcritical methodology should produce text that so closely matches that of the precritical. “It’s no surprise,” he writes, “that the people of the Caribbean should be good boxers and also, of course, good musicians, good singers, good dancers, and good writers” (22). One wonders: did he need chaos, or even the Plantation, to perform these readings that stick, after all, fairly closely to the text? Perhaps not, but the methodological dynamic of the Plantation is evident in the progression of readings, where repetitions and difference do create a sense of the “endless combat that must necessarily remain undecided within the problematic interplay of confrontations, truces, alliances, derelictions, offensive and defensive strategies, advances and retreats, forms of domination, resistance and coexistence that the Plantation’s founding inscribed in the Caribbean” (111).

     

    If I have expressed some serious reservations about this work, the daring with which it displays and enacts its own paradoxes makes it to my mind indispensable to the ongoing project of postmodern cultural studies. And while I have been critical of Benitez-Rojo’s use of the postmodern, perhaps he deserves the label all the more for his own awareness that for him, the postmodern is only an ill-fitting interim strategy with, finally, a single virtue: the “virtue of being the only [paradigm] to direct itself toward the play of paradoxes and eccentricities, of fluxes and displacements; that is, it offers possibilities that are quite in tune with those that define the Caribbean” (271). That Benitez-Rojo would be so restless with a paradigm of restlessness recommends him absolutely.

     

  • Sustainability and Critique

    Philip E. Agre

    Department of Communication
    University of California, San Diego

    pagre@ucsd.edu

     

    Wright, Will. Wild Knowledge: Science, Language, and Social Life in a Fragile Environment. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992.

     

    Attend any public hearing about a local environmental controversy, and almost the first thing you’ll notice is a clash of contrasting discourses. Some participants, particularly from industry, will speak the language of technical reason: risk factors, powers of ten, bureaucratic procedures, the costs and benefits of industrial facilities. Many other participants, particularly from the communities around those facilities, will speak the language of experience and democracy: stories of past misfortune, fears about a world that doesn’t make sense to them, and the right to control their own lives (see Cone et al. 1992, Downey 1988, Gismondi and Richardson 1991, and Killingsworth and Steffens 1989). Beneath each discourse, typically, is a highly evolved practice of orchestrating or subverting the established mechanisms of social legitimation, as well as a worked-out view of scientific knowledge and its place in society. Community by community across the United States–and increasingly around the world–organizations such as the Chemical Manufacturers Association equip factory owners with rational arguments and soothing rhetoric at the same time as organizations such as the Citizens’ Clearinghouse on Hazardous Waste equip community activists with coalition-building tactics and a nearly absolute rejection of experts and their expertise (Greider 1992). Immediately evident in these encounters is what we would be fully justified in calling a crisis of reason, occasioned in thousands of separate instances by concerns about the sustainability of industrial society.

     

    This is the political background against which Will Wright has written his ambitious new book, Wild Knowledge. Wright’s goal is a critique and reconstruction of both scientific knowledge and institutional legitimation around the ecological imperative of sustainability. The fascination of Wright’s enterprise is immediately apparent: understanding and practicing the notion of sustainable society requires us to reopen some long-standing and painful questions about the relation between society and nature. In what sense are human beings part of nature? To what extent is human history conditioned by natural history, and what role does human history play in the biological and physical evolution of the earth? Wright’s concern is not the substantive answers to these questions–he does not assess the reality of global warming, much less the utility of any given regulatory approach to preventing it. Instead, he wishes to dig deeply into the concepts of humanity and nature in order simply to make intelligible the notion of a social-natural history (cf. Cronon 1991), and in particular the notion of sustainability as an attribute and a goal of social action.

     

    His book defies classification. If it stands in any single tradition, it is the feminist and otherwise radical critique of science by authors such as Merchant (1980) and Easlea (1980). Although it is reasonably lucid and self-contained, it will probably not be appreciated by anybody who is not already sympathetic to such ideas; for example, one must pretty much accept a priori that science and technology, as a mindset, are the cause of our environmental problems–and not, in particular, the cure for them. His book is not a work of historical or otherwise empirical inquiry, but rather a wholly–even austerely–conceptual analysis. And although it addresses central issues of social theory, its treatment of that tradition is shaky, as will become clear in a moment. Nonetheless, Wright’s book is important and challenging, and required reading for anybody with a conceptual interest in environmentalism as social practice.

     

    Let us now consider Wright’s argument in roughly the order in which he presents it. His point of departure is the argument in his previous book, The Social Logic of Health (1982), in which he points out that the notion of “health” transcends the bounds of any particular scientific-medical theory of disease, and as such stands as the always-available social-natural grounds for contesting the legitimacy of medical institutions and their practices and expertise. Alternative health-care practitioners (midwives, acupuncturists, herbalists, and others) may not have an easy time acquiring official sanction for their activities, but they do have, in discursive and social terms, somewhat solid ground for demanding it. Wright’s method is to extend this argument to environmental issues, with “sustainability” playing the same role as “health.” Like “health,” “sustainability” deeply intertwines “social” and “natural” issues. Indeed in many areas, such as occupational health, the two concerns combine, bringing biology and politics into much greater proximity than either of them is, at present, capable of acknowledging.

     

    Wright argues that scientific and social knowledge are artificially distinct categories, and that they are indeed actually incoherent unless conceived as continuous with one another. The critical issue for Wright is language– the language within which science, technology, religion, and social theory are framed and through which social institutions are legitimated. Science in particular has, since Descartes and Newton, understood itself as speaking a special, mathematical language. As a result, the scientist, qua subject of scientific inquiry, understands knowledge as the asocial, ahistorical mathematical representation of reality. All the same, Wright observes that when scientists and philosophers are called upon to provide some justification for science, they appeal to its “success” in technological terms. But the religions of traditional cultures have their own kind of success, namely success in sustaining the social-natural relations by means of which these cultures reproduce themselves in their natural settings. These two types of success are complementary: industrial technology has not proven sustainable, and religious worldviews have been unable to make room for the benefits of technical innovation.

     

    This is a good point to stop and listen to Wright’s own prose, whose style is of a piece with the nature of his project:

     

    Both religion and science have incorporated a fundamental reference to language into their respective ideas of knowledge, implicitly recognizing that knowledge is inherently an issue of the formal structure of language. But both have distorted that formal reference, interpreting it instead as a substantive appeal to a particular form of language, and so referring the idea of knowledge to a sacred, magical form of language rather than to the formal structure of language. For religion this magical language has always been the ordinary, traditional language of daily life, where knowledge of the magical words gives knowledge of the sacred social-natural order, with its necessary moral commitments to traditional acceptance and ritual. And for science this magical language is mathematics, where the magic of perfect observation gives knowledge of the external natural order, with its necessary technical commitments to individualized criticism and efficiency.(112-13)

     

    Many readers may demur; exactly what kinds of science and, more importantly, what kinds of religion are supposed to fall within these generalizations? Does Wright subscribe to the outdated anthropological stereotype of traditional cultures as uncritical and ahistorical? It is hard to tell. Throughout the book, words like “science,” “religion,” “language,” “legitimation,” “sustainability,” “nature,” and “reality” recur constantly without ever being fully unpacked into a definite embedding in a disciplinary practice or literature, much less a concrete empirical reference. The book is composed in sentences of thirty-odd words organized into long paragraphs, each of which systematically develops a definite point involving a particular set of the book’s key words. The effect sometimes resembles Buddhist scripture, with a hypnotically unfolded internal consistency which could easily be mistaken for a verbal game unless it is applied in the context of an actual practice.

     

    But let us continue. To motivate the underlying politics of scientific knowledge, Wright recounts the by-now familiar early history of science understood as mathematical observation and knowledge. Early theories of gravity, for example, were consciously understood in their day as positions in a political contest. Although the concrete political reference of these theories has fallen away, the politics of scientific subjectivity remain. Wright’s argument for the incoherence of this form of subjectivity turns on the notion of “mathematical observation”:

     

    For science knowledge is an issue of the observing human mind, and yet the human mind is typically influenced by social and cultural ideas, ideas that involve values and beliefs and that are not strictly and neutrally derived from objective nature. Thus scientific observation must establish a neutral and objective connection between mind and nature, a connection systematically purged of all contaminating social influences. . . . Such an objective connection can be made through observation, but only through a special kind of observation, a kind that is uniquely focused on nature and without social content. This is mathematical observation, the only kind of observation that can directly connect the rational mind with objective nature. Mathematics is found to be the special, necessary lens through which nature must be observed, since nature is defined as being exactly a structure of mathematical entities and relations. . . . For scientific knowledge, then, the idea of the mind is connected with the idea of nature through the idea of mathematics. . . . The mind must become mathematical if it is to achieve valid knowledge, and so the idea of objective nature imposes a mathematical structure on the scientific image of human beings, as the detached, receptive subjects of scientific knowledge.(75)

     

    Given the impossibility of actually attaining these direct correspondences between a purified mathematical mind and a manifest mathematical world, Wright refers to this notion of mathematical observation as a kind of magic, comparable rhetorically if not logically to the magical systems of traditional religions. But this argument goes by too quickly. Many scientists would object that Wright’s notion of mathematical observation elides the whole substance of actual scientific practice based on experiments and replication. The point is not that experiment directly observes the mathematics of nature, only that it allows for defeasible inference of it, subject to replication and extension of the results by others in similarly equipped laboratories elsewhere–perhaps in wholly different cultures. Wright’s proposed alternative, that

     

    human beings must be conceptualized as having a formally necessary but substantively contingent relationship with their world, a relationship through which knowledge is always formally possible but also always possibly mistaken (173)

     

    is more or less what scientists refer to as the “falsifiability” of theories. But Wright is not mistaken, exactly; the point is that he is not so much presenting an argument as referring to one that has been made with greater thoroughness by a variety of authors, for example Latour (1987), who conceive of physical phenomena not as independent realities objectively glimpsed, nor as idealist entities arbitrarily constructed, but as conjoint social-natural entities stabilized in highly organized social-natural settings.

     

    Beyond this internal claim against the coherence of scientific subjectivity, Wright follows numerous other authors by appealing to the reintroduction of consciousness into physical theorizing by quantum mechanics. But here again he is moving too quickly, inasmuch as the long-established and newly resurgent “many worlds” model of quantum phenomena (Everett 1957; cf. Drescher 1991) accounts for the evidence without giving any special role to consciousness or treating observation as anything but another form of physical interaction.

     

    Wright’s complaint, in short, is that the mathematical language within which scientific knowledge is framed deprives that knowledge of its human qualities: its social embedding; its historical specificity; its reference to broader human concerns, particularly the concern for the social-natural sustainability of human social and technical practices; and its susceptibility to critique on these grounds. Whatever the difficulties in his argument for this point, his proposed solution is altogether intriguing: scientific knowledge, he feels, should be reunderstood as a matter of human beings saying things in human language –not an artificially restricted mathematical subtype of language, but language as such, in the fullness of its rhetorical, political, and historical character. He would have us attend to the language of environmental discourse, taking this language seriously as culture and as political practice foundedly ultimately on the value of sustainability (cf. Killingsworth 1992, Wynne 1987).

     

    In this view, he follows in a long tradition that understands language as the essence of humanity, in the sense that languages carry cultural modes of cognition within them, transcending particular individuals and providing for the continuity of cultural traditions through their role in individual socialization. Indeed, Wright overstates the originality of his argument in this regard. Consider, for example, Wilhelm von Humboldt’s theory of language (see Brown 1967), from which a great deal of modern linguistics and anthropology has descended. Humboldt held that human languages have a significant degree of autonomy from their speakers inasmuch as those speakers have only a limited formal understanding of how their language works. Furthermore, he held that languages develop in two clear stages. The first stage corresponds to the founding period of any given nation, during which the people collectively evolve a language suited to the trials of making a living from their particular landscape. Once that language acquires a stable form, the second period begins as that form starts to solidify; rather than being improvised to suit the functional needs of productive work, it is now handed down intact as an organically interconnected system of autonomous linguistic forms. For the philologists in Humboldt’s Germany, this theory motivated the project of reconstructing ancient modes of consciousness through the figurative spadework of historical linguistics. Language was ecological, tied to the earth, in the sense that it developed as an organic part of the ancient nation’s sustainable natural-social relations to its local geography and ecology.

     

    To be sure, Wright’s theory differs from Humboldt’s in a variety of ways. Wright’s social-ecological project is not nostalgic; his argument for sustainability does not require that we revert to lost folkways. Quite the contrary, sustainability is to be achieved through two requirements: that institutional legitimation be continually referred to consciously formulated understandings of sustainability; and that this reference be endlessly open to contest and critique. He wishes knowledge to become “wild” in the sense of being formally open to this kind of unbounded critique. In particular, Wright’s theory, unlike that of the German tradition from Herder down to Gadamer, is not hermeneutic: the key to sustainability is not locked away in language but rather articulated in institutional legitimation and critique. Nonetheless, he greatly underestimates the extent to which cultural theory has struggled with the relationship between culture and technical reason (see Sahlins 1976).

     

    What is more, Wright also underestimates the struggles of social theorists to reconcile nature and culture (for the particularly fascinating case of Lukacs see Feenberg 1986), and in so doing to formulate simultaneously adequate conceptions of both individual agency and social organization:

     

    Through [its various accounts] of individual motivations, social theory created different strategies for social legitimation and social explanation. In all of these versions social theory has accepted the scientific version of objective nature, as the valid basis for reason and knowledge, and thus social theory has revolved around the idea of the autonomous scientific individual. Because this individual is logically asocial but empirically social, social theory has generally focused on the relationship between the individual and the society, with the individual being in various stages of tension and conflict with society. This tension is inevitable, and it makes social order somewhat problematic, at least theoretically. This is the famous problem of social order: individuals "are naturally" free and society imposes external constraints on them, constraints that both inhibit freedom and enable individual rationality, fulfillment, and so on. (134-35)

     

    This formulation oversimplifies through its ascription to “social theory” of an altogether regressive “scientific” theory of individual subjectivity. The fact is that theorists such as Elias (1982 [1939]; cf. Mennell 1989) have invested great effort in overcoming such distinctions. The anthropological conception of culturally specific consciousness is already a considerable departure from the “scientific” individual, and the theories of embodied social practice of Elias, Bourdieu, and others go further. Nonetheless, deep difficulties do remain. Wright proposes to resolve them through an appeal to language as the formal matrix of institutional legitimation. In reducing social order to questions of legitimation, he faces a considerable challenge.

     

    But he is nothing if not courageous. He sees a deep connection between language as the locus of human sociality and sustainability as the goal of human institutions. Inasmuch as social action, sustainable or otherwise, is organized at a trans-individual level through the framework of language, he views language itself as providing for its own perpetuation through the formal conditions it establishes for the simultaneous conduct of legitimation and critique.

     

    [L]anguage is more about involved mediating and surviving than about detached representing and mirroring. . . . language necessarily structures the way we think about ourselves and our world, since language is actively striving to sustain its own possibility, through human knowledge and actions. . . . language can sustain itself, actively, only through the organizing and legitimation of social institutions, which means through versions of knowledge and reason as legitimating, organizing endeavors. (179)

     

    Knowledge serves the formal goal of language, the goal of sustaining the social-natural possibility of language through organized, legitimated human actions. . . . Language must be seen as formally directing human actions, through efforts at knowledge, toward its inherent, formal goal, the goal of sustaining the possibility of such human actions. (187)

     

    [I]ndividuals would be understood as formally motivated by language, where language, unlike scientific nature, is already understood as participating in this formal, goal-oriented structure, and thus they would be understood as motivated by the same formal mechanisms that generate knowledge, social life, and social legitimation. Individuals would be understood as formally motivated to act in such a way as to sustain their own human possibility, the possibility of social life. (188)

     

    In other words, Wright’s point is not that human language directly encodes sustainable productive practices–except perhaps in traditional cultures, which however are unable to accommodate significant environmental shifts due to the inflexibility of this encoding and the religious delegitimation of critique. On the contrary, his point is that language provides the formal resources with which conscious human beings, by their very nature as social and therefore linguistic beings, are able to legitimate and criticize institutions by appealing to the imperative of sustainability.

     

    The precise protocol by which legitimation and criticism must proceed, though, is unclear. Perhaps the appeal to sustainability must be mediated by some general account of truth:

     

    Specific cultural actions must be legitimated in terms of conceptions of "truth" and "reality," but the validity of these conceptions must in turn be evaluated in terms of the formal criteria of sustainability.(193)

     

    It seems implausible, however, that a conception of truth and reality could itself determine whether a system of social practices is sustainable. So perhaps it is also permissible to appeal to sustainability directly:

     

    The reference for all issues of legitimacy would be sustainability, and thus the only legitimate criticisms would be those that could argue for or demonstrate ecological failures on the part of the established practices.(210)

     

    But this position cannot be entirely right either, given the likelihood that several institutional orders might be ecologically sustainable in a given historical situation, and that of those institutional orders would be enormously preferable to others on non-ecological grounds.

     

    Be this as it may, Wright does not prescribe any particular set of institutions but rather an unfolding history in which institutions lose their legitimacy through social-natural shifts in the practical conditions of sustainability. He says that

     

    actions that are legitimate under certain social-natural conditions may not be legitimate under later, changed social-natural conditions, conditions that result from the effects of those legitimated actions.(193-94)

     

    Shifts in the conditions of sustainability presumably also include exogenous environmental changes, scientific discoveries about eco-social system dynamics, and technological innovations. In any case, periods of institutional legitimacy through sustainable practices alternate with periods in which this legitimacy is lost and newly appropriate institutions arise. Note that this is not a particularly materialistic theory of history; the social effectivity of accurate understandings of sustainability is more or less assumed.

     

    Moreover, the periodic institutional shifts are understood, strikingly, in terms of forms of individual identity. In particular, institutions themselves are largely understood in terms of the dimensions of social difference (race, gender, class, sexuality, et cetera) that these institutions recognize. The established institutions of any given period will reckon insider/outsider distinctions in particular terms. Although dissent as such would always be valued as such, the established distinctions of a given period will find their justification in the social-natural facts of sustainability.

     

    Although Wright presents this prospect optimistically as the formal celebration of difference, I think that it inadvertently identifies one of the profound dilemmas in environmental thinking. He says, for example,

     

    In this conception the idea of equality refers to an institutional guarantee, in the name of rationality, that all individuals can maintain effective local control over their chosen lives, and that any disruption of that local control must be legitimated in the name of a shared ecological rationality.(217)

     

    This may sound reasonable, but its flip side does not: if the sustainability of social practices provides their ultimate justification, then it also provides the ultimate justification for whatever marginalization–or even outright oppression–these practices might entail. I can easily imagine someone arguing that toleration of homosexuality, for example, is inconsistent with ecological sustainability.

     

    Can this be right? The difficulty, I would conjecture, lies in Wright’s implicit model of social institutions. Wright, as I have remarked, differs from Humboldt and the rest of the anthropological tradition is that he locates social identity in language as such and not in particular languages. Differences among people, likewise, are not understood as culturally specific but as universal. Such a view effectively suppresses cultural difference and thereby eliminates the possibility of geniune “otherness” among human beings and their respective forms of knowledge (see, for example, Grossberg 1988: 382).

     

    In the end, Wright’s model of institutional legitimation, shaped in the image of our “global” environmental difficulties, is “global” itself. Society itself becomes, in one sense or another, one large institution:

     

    [T]he social order must be seen, formally, as an organization, or metaorganization, with its own inherent, formal goal, and that legitimating critical access is the only organizational strategy that is rational and ecological.(213)

     

    But in the real world of 1992, the legitimation of global institutions for the regulation of putatively sustainable practices has very little to do with democracy, or indeed with genuine sustainability The Ecologist 1992). The challenge for an argument such as Wright’s, in my view, is to unpack the notion of “institutions” and their legitimation in a way that recognizes the diversity not only of individuals but of local forms of knowledge.

     

    References

     

    • Brown, Roger Langham. Wilhelm von Humboldt’s Conception of Linguistic Relativity. The Hague: Mouton, 1967.
    • Cone, Kathy, Luis Quinones, Robert Salter, Brian Shields, Luis Torres, and Janice Varela. “The language of land-use conflict: New Mexicans talk about public lands, environmentalists, and ‘People for the West!’” The Workbook 17 (1), Spring 1992: 2-6.
    • Cronon, William. Nature’s Metropolis: Chicago and the Great West. New York: Norton, 1991.
    • Downey, Gary L. “Structure and practice in the cultural identities of scientists: Negotiating nuclear wastes in New Mexico.” Anthropological Quarterly 61 (1) 1988: 26-38.
    • Drescher, Gary. “Demystifying quantum mechanics: A simple universe with quantum uncertainty.” Complex Systems 5, 1991: 207-237.
    • Easlea, Brian. Witch Hunting, Magic and the New Philosophy: An Introduction to Debates of the Scientific Revolution 1450-1750. Brighton: Harvester, 1980.
    • The Ecologist 22 (4), July/August 1992. A special issue entitled Whose Common Future?.
    • Elias, Norbert. The Civilizing Process. Trans. Edmund Jephcott. New York: Pantheon, 1982. Originally published in German in 1939.
    • Everett, Hugh. “`Relative state’ formulation of quantum mechanics.” Reviews of Modern Physics 29, 1957: 454-469.
    • Feenberg, Andrew. Lukacs, Marx, and the Sources of Critical Theory. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986.
    • Gismondi, Michael, and Mary Richardson. “Discourse and power in environmental politics: Public hearings on a bleached kraft pulp mill in Alberta Canada.” Capitalism Nature Socialism 2 (3), 1991: 43-66.
    • Greider, William. Who Will Tell the People?: The Betrayal of American Democracy. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992.
    • Grossberg, Lawrence. “Wandering audiences, nomadic critics.” Cultural Studies 2 (3), 1988: 377-391.
    • Killingsworth, M. Jimmie, and Dean Steffens. “Effectiveness in the environmental impact statement.” Written Communication 6 (2), 1989: 155-180.
    • Killingsworth, M. Jimmie. Ecospeak: Rhetoric and Environmental Politics in America. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1992.
    • Latour, Bruno. Science in Action: How to Follow Engineers and Scientists Through Society. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987.
    • Mennell, Stephen. Norbert Elias: Civilization and the Human Self-Image. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989.
    • Merchant, Carolyn. The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology, and the Scientific Revolution. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1980.
    • Sahlins, Marshall. Culture and Practical Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976.
    • Wright, Will. The Social Logic of Health. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1982.
    • Wynne, Brian. Risk Management and Hazardous Waste: Implementation and the Dialectics of Credibility. Berlin: Springer-Verlag, 1987.

     

  • Consuming Megalopolis

    Jon Thompson

    Department of English
    North Carolina State University

     

    Celeste Olalquiaga. Megalopolis: Contemporary Cultural Sensibilities. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992.

     

    Even while proclaiming an interest in the vast and gaudy landscape of kitsch rejected by high culture, a good deal of postmodern criticism remains highly theoretical, committed to analyzing written texts and content to refer to the world of mass culture rather than actually study it. One of the strengths of Celeste Olalquiaga’s Megalopolis is that it investigates a wide variety of contemporary practices, many of them invisible to less perceptive eyes, seeing them all as social texts that say much about contemporary existence. Megalopolis is written in a clear, often lyrical style that finds its inspiration in the weird but compelling landscape of postmodernity, a landscape of telephone sex advertisements, malls, docudramas, SF movies Blade Runner and RoboCop, but also low-budget 50’s and 60’s futuristic fantasies), AT&T advertisement campaigns, comic books, cyborgs, World Fairs, Latin American or Latino home altars, snuff films, atrocity art, postmodern junk art, Brazilian carnival parades and the Chilean punk subculture.

     

    Given her thesis that we are living in the ruins of modernity, and that identity and history, as traditionally understood, have virtually ceased to exist, Olalquiaga ranges across this “culturescape” of fear and loathing and desire with considerable authority and aplomb. Yet her argument is not primarily negative. Against those who have argued that postmodernity is a kind of endlessly recurring capitalistic nightmare, she sees other possibilities. Central to her argument is the practice of consumption. To Olalquiaga, consumption has been a misunderstood activity, wrongly associated with passivity, unfreedom and tyranny, making the human subject an object worked upon by the imperatives of capitalism. It is this notion of consumption that Olalquiaga wants to rehabilitate:

     

    Avoiding a rationale for consumption based on functionality (that is on possible use), postmodernism sponsors consumption as an autonomous practice. . . . The purpose of this book is to describe how such an apparently finite project as postmodernism, understood as the glorification of consumption, does in fact enable the articulation of novel and contradictory experiences."(xvii)

     

    Running through her analyses of contemporary practices, whether they are Latino home altars or low-budget SF movies, is this pivotal point: in a world dominated by the corporate message that commodities make the man, consumption can be an ironic activity, even an ironic mode of self-consciousness. If done right, consumption can involve a recognition of commodity fetishism itself, and thus a recognition of the entire way in which capitalism as a system attempts to co-opt and control subjects.

     

    This argument is extended across five brief, but suggestive, chapters. Chapter one, “Reach Out and Touch Someone,” examines the fate of the body in postmodern societies. Despite the cult of the body in the West, Olalquiaga contends that what we are witnessing is not its triumphant deification, but instead its demise, what she calls “the vanishing body.” State-of-the-art projective technology (videos, TV, computers, etc.), postmodern architecture, hi-tech prosthetics, the ongoing fascination with cyborgs, AIDS, and of course electronic sex: for Olalquiaga, all of these developments point to the inescapable condition of “psychasthenia,” or the inability of an organism to locate the boundaries of its own body. The fragmentation and disappearance of the body means that increasingly, identity is not dependent upon organic being.

     

    This case is further developed in Chapter two, “Lost in Space,” in which Olalquiaga argues that the technology of instant communication precipitates the loss of temporal continuity: “The postmodern confusion of time and space, in which temporal continuity collapses into extension and spatial dimension is lost to duplication, transforms urban culture into a gigantic hologram capable of producing any image within an apparent void” (19). Quite literally, then, the body is lost in space. One symptom of this near disembodiment is the space age iconography of the 50s and 60s, and its recent “reincarnation” in retro fashion. Whereas once this space-age iconography expressed some hope in regards to technology and its effects, the postmodern version is ironic at best. Retro fashion now is “a parodic attempt to breach some contemporary fears, most notably the replacement of the organic and human by the technological” (34).

     

    In Chapter three, “Holy Kitschen: Collecting Religious Junk from the Street,” Olalquiaga turns her gaze to religious kitsch, particularly the religious kitsch that has been recycled by artists. This raw material is not merely faddish, but is instead used to fashion artistic artifacts that sacralize the secular and replace a transcendental emphasis with a political one (for example, the sanctification of contemporary femininity). For Olalquiaga, this “colonization of religious imagery” (53) does not involve a domestication of either its ethnicity or its politics. Rather, “the absorbed invades the appropriating system and begins to constitute and transform it” (53). Thus “Holy Kitschen” symbolizes the transformative possibilities of all marginal elements absorbed into appropriated systems.

     

    Chapter four, “Nature Morte,” performs an autopsy, as it were, upon the postmodern fascination with melancholy, corpses, ruins, decay. Examining a variety of artistic practices (photography, dioramas, multimedia exhibits, fiction, atrocity art, postmodern junk art, and fake science exhibits), Olalquiaga explores the ways in which the bizarre and the grotesque allow for the recovery of a sense of death that is lost to our culture. Yet this melancholic aspect of postmodernism is not elegiac: “More than a lamentation for what is lost, this melancholic sensibility is deeply embedded in the intensity of the loss–not seeking to reconstitute what is gone, but to rejoice in its impossibility” (58). As a self-conscious form of naturalism, this nature morte aesthetic recognizes deadliness as the only coherent expression of postmodern experience, and thus exposes the reifying effects of “deadly discourses” (69), that is, the discourses or systems that pretend to an objective status.

     

    If postmodernity has become a kind of giant, grotesque mortuary, as Olalquiaga suggests in Chapter four, this vision receives considerable qualification in her fifth Chapter, “Tupincopolis: The City of Retrofuturistic Indians.” The primary object of analysis here is “Tupincopolis,” a Brazilian carnival parade exhibit of an imaginary retrofuturistic Indian metropolis, a cross between the exoticism and flamboyance of Indian primitivism and the postmodernism associated with the world of Japanese high-technology. What interests Olalquiaga is the way in which the composition of elements within the parade works to humorously carnivalize both postmodernism and primitivism. The parade thus comes to represent the “third world’s” creative re-accentuation of “first world” ideology, particularly its mythical identification with technology-as-progress and its persistent mythologizing of Latin Americans as primitive. Tupincopolis, then, provides a paradigm for cultural change in the postmodern age. Rejecting models of cultural change that emphasize imposition, Olalquiaga maintains that cultural change is not “a matter of simple vertical imposition or ransacking, but is rather an intricate horizontal movement of exchange” (76).

     

    In one sense, Megalopolis can be read as a sustained meditation on the failure of modernity and the cultural mutations that are filling its void within postmodernity. Olalquiaga elaborates this position by developing a number of related themes throughout the book. Like Baudrillard, Olalquiaga privileges the notion of simulation. Where modernity depended upon the notion of contexts, of objects and events seen and understood within specific and recognizable environments, postmodernism collapses the boundaries between reality and representation. “Intertextuality” replaces “indexicality”: “Simulation here will be understood as the establishment of intertextuality instead of indexicality. In other words, rather than pointing to first-degree references (objects, events) simulation looks at representations of them (images, texts) for verisimilitude” (6). Within postmodernity, subjects live their lives at a second remove: things tend to be lived through representation rather than directly. Experience comes to us now as highly encoded, increasingly available only through electronic representation; yet this vicariousness is experienced as real.

     

    Megalopolis describes a world in which an image culture shatters the verbal culture of modernity, reconstituting “language” and power hierarchies. Artificiality and extreme emotion fill in, or more accurately, become substitutes for the relentless allusiveness and emptiness of this decontextulized, thoroughly intertextual world. In a world deprived of affect, the postmodern sensibility “continually searches for intense thrills and for the acute emotionality attributed to other times and peoples” (40). Images, icons, styles, and subcultures are endlessly recycled. For Olalquiaga, postmodernism becomes personified as a sort of thief. Like its production-less economies which reassemble rather than produce, it filches, pilfers, and steals. Postmodern culture is thus vicarious, voyeuristic, cannibalistic, and at times, “melancholic” (to the extent that it is doomed to merely repeat the styles and icons associated with a modernist culture). Space age retro, for example, “provides the melancholic parody” (34) of the cold efficiency of a high-tech existence. While one may wonder if “melancholic parody” is an oxymoron or is, as she suggests, a necessary way of coping with cultural fears and anxieties, Olalquiaga wants to make another point: to her, the endless circulation of simulations suggests that cultural imagery is endlessly adaptable to new contexts and desires–and this ability is to be celebrated rather than simply mourned as a sign of the loss of cultural specificity. And it is this emphasis on self-conscious, knowing celebration that defines for Olalquiaga postmodernity’s finest achievement as it continues on in the ruins of modernity.

     

    In the final analysis, it is difficult not to agree with Olalquiaga’s micro readings, many of which are brilliant in their sheer interpretive power. Disagreeing is doubly difficult inasmuch as from the very first page she explicitly allies herself with, and celebrates, illusions, inconsistency, and contradictions as inescapable facts of postmodern life. Yet it seems to me that Olalquiaga’s theoretical argument is vitiated by its hyperbolic rhetoric. (“If the fragmentation of contemporary identity is reproduced in referential absence and the pleasures of pain are induced by a pornographic technology, it should come as no surprise that the body has been rendered totally vulnerable” [10].) All too often a particular truth is generalized into the universal condition: bodies are already cyborgs, cities are the wastelands of modernity (what of the cities that are not romantically ruinous?), the nature morte aesthetic describes the deadliness and decadence of postmodern existence (at least in the U.S. and Europe) in which subjects are compliant bodies, “not seeking to reconstitute what is gone” (58), embracing the impossibility of physical or cultural integrity, happily adrift in the detritus of obsolescent technology. Olalquiaga’s argument for a creative consumerism is suggestive, but in its unqualified form it comes perilously close to suggesting that shopping can be redemptive, that shopping is itself a kind of postmodern heaven. To this reader anyway, the notion of creative consumption as a way of life or end seems limiting, since no matter how the commodity is revalued, the socio-economic system that delimits the horizons of so many remains in place (not to mention the fact that many people simply cannot afford the acts of creative consumption Olalquiaga valorizes). After carnival, the disenfranchised go back to whatever lives they led before carnival.

     

    In its widest extension, this point may be elucidated by examining the title of the book. Megalopolis: Contemporary Cultural Sensibilities. The blurb on the back of the paperback edition glosses megalopolis as “the biggest of cities, but also a city in ruins”; yet the subtitle, “Contemporary Cultural Sensibilities,” points to a broader base of experience, one unrestricted by urban experience. Olalquiaga’s argument is comprised of a good many claims which undergo this same slippage–claims which have their basis in the urban experience but quickly become indicative of contemporary existence, everywhere. Time and again, her rhetoric transforms insights true of many North American and European cities, and their cultures, into general statements about the human condition at large. Because of their seemingly universal scope, these statements can command, at best, qualified assent. “Between a future in ruins and a past that is but a costume for another personification,” writes Olalquiaga, “contemporary culture is stuck in an allegorical present, unable to return nostalgically to the past or advance hopefully into the future” (35). Is all of contemporary society really stuck in this cultural time-warp? And is Brazil’s “good” postmodernism (its carnivalization of hi-tech postmodernism) the only truly viable alternative? Is our world really one megalopolis? Is the entire world really enmeshed in, critically or otherwise, Olalquiaga’s postmodernist illusions? To my mind, Olalquiaga uncovers the questions crucial to any serious analysis of contemporary culture, but she doesn’t always answer them.

     

    Despite these limitations, few books can compare with Megalopolis‘s trenchant, lucid, and sensitive readings of Western urban cultures, and the practices and structures of feeling that constitute them. Like the best science fiction, a form repeatedly invoked by Olalquiaga, Megalopolis changes the way you think about contemporary urban culture.

     

  • Deuteronomy Comix

    Stuart Moulthrop

    School of Literature, Communication, and Culture
    Georgia Institute of Technology

    sm51@prism.gatech.edu

     

    Stephenson, Neal. Snow Crash. Bantam Spectra, 1992. 440 pp. $10.00 paperbound.

     

    Late in his critique of the cyberpunk vogue, Andrew Ross turns his attention to what may be its ultimate expression–Cyberpunk: the Role-Playing Game. Here, he suggests, we may find the national pastime and true mythology of Cyberpunks-in-Boy’s- Town, a socializing ritual for aspiring dystopians. “The structure of the game,” Ross observes, represents “an efficient response to the cyberpunk view of survivalism in a future world where the rules have already been written in the present. True to the adaptational educational thinking from which roleplaying games evolved, the education of desire proceeds through learning and interpreting the rules of the play, not by changing them” (160). The game of Cyberpunk, as Ross sees it, offers not the differance of deconstruction, not the paralogies of postmodern science, not even the “euretics” of an Age of Video. It promises a new world order that looks suspiciously familiar, a bored fast-forward into a “future” that is actually a repeat loop grafted neatly onto the past.

     

    Yet as Ross points out, William Gibson’s own myth of artistic origins stands at odds with this circularity. In an early short story, “The Gernsback Continuum,” Gibson’s protagonist suffers semiotic hauntings, visions not so much from Spiritus Mundi as off the covers of Amazing Stories. Much like the nation itself in the grip of Reaganoma, Gibson’s sufferer finds himself caught in a pernicious revision of history. His 1980 is steadily replaced by another 1980, one that seems to have been projected from 1925. He finds himself falling into the American future imagined by his grandparents, a world of flying-wing airliners, shark-finned bubble cars, and perfect Aryan citizens of Tomorrowland. The only thing that saves the poor man from complete psychic collapse is dystopian therapy: a crash diet of pornographic video and hardcore journalism, which reminds him that the utopian visions of science fiction’s Golden Age have no claim upon the world as we know it.

     

    If we can read “The Gernsback Continuum” as an origin story for cyberspace fiction, then this kind of writing seems to set itself against the old utopian project of science fiction, insisting that we move not “back to the future” but instead (as the New Wave once had it) straight on from the confounded present. Novels like Gibson’s Neuromancer, Bruce Sterling’s Islands in the Net, and Rudy Rucker’s Wetware describe social upheavals triggered by rampant extension of current technological development. They thus offer an important corrective to the militarist saga-mongering of Star Wars and other forms of recycled space opera. Yet the cultural politics of science fiction do not arrange themselves in neat dialectical patterns. The utopianism of the Gernsback era had its moment of sincerity before it was commandeered by Hollywood jingoes; and as Ross demonstrates, the dystopian refusal of the cyberpunks turns all too easily into an apology for the military-entertainment complex.

     

    This seems clear in what may be the culmination of the cyberspace project, Gibson and Sterling’s alternate history novel, The Difference Engine. Though these writers had earlier fled the Gernsback Continuum, in this work they fall headlong into the clutches of a far more evil empire, Great Britain’s circa 1855. In the world of The Difference Engine, Lord Byron has somehow avoided exile and death at Missolonghi, and under his dictatorship the Industrial Radical party has set up a savantocracy using gear-driven mechanical computers for panoptic social control. As an exploration of “difference” on the level of technics, the book is admirable. But in its very project The Difference Engine falls back into the same mode retro which the younger Gibson once condemned. Ursula LeGuin remarked a long time ago on the affinity of certain American science fiction writers for the ethos of the British Raj. Fleets of battle cruisers, voyages of discovery and conquest, the inhuman Other: all are fetishes of the 19th century transferred to the 21st or beyond. In their own way, Gibson and Sterling take us back to that racist, jingoist “future” at full steam; and of course this reversion is entirely consistent with the dystopian logic of cyberpunk. The Difference Engine moves to the rhythms of Catastrophism, that nastiest form of Darwinian theory which argues that natural (or social) history consists of punctuated equilibriums. According to this doctrine, all organisms and organizations follow a sequence running from irruption through expansion to apocalypse. All things must pass, suddenly and dramatically. We thus leave the Gernsback Continuum only to end up in Darwin Land, an imaginary space where chaos and autopoeisis replace any vision of social or human potential.

     

    It may be that all attempts to imagine the future launch us inevitably back into the past; all our engines of difference may work toward the same purpose, namely the justification of class and economic interests on which technophile culture depends. Yet the concept of cyberspace–a social order founded on broadband communication, hypertextual ediscourse, and systematic simulation– suggests at least the possibility of a genuine cultural divergence. In the final analysis Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash does not deliver on this vision any better than earlier works of its kind; but if The Difference Engine represents the fruition of the cyberspace/cyberpunk enterprise, then Snow Crash may represent a limit case. This is a novel in which cyberpunk very nearly becomes something more interesting.

     

    In his epilogue, Stephenson explains that Snow Crash was originally intended as a graphic novel or upscale comic book, though it changed during its development into a more traditional print product. Yet in at least one sense of the phrase, Stephenson’s novel is indeed a comic book: that is, its main narrative concern lies with the struggle of Hiro Protagonist and his sometime ally Y. T. (for “Yours Truly”) against the sinister machinations of an Evil Emperor Wannabe, one L. Bob Rife. Mr. Rife, who seems to amalgamate H. L. Hunt, L. Ron Hubbard, and H. Ross Perot (with hints of Bob Dobbs and Fu Manchu), aspires to World Domination. But this is by way of afterthought, since his first priority is control of information:

     

    When they used to hang rustlers in the old days, the last thing they would do is piss their pants. That was the ultimate sign, you see, that they had lost control over their own bodies, that they were about to die. See, it's the first function of any organization to control its own sphincters. We're not even doing that. So we're working on refining our management techniques so that we can control information no matter where it is--on our hard disks or even inside the programmers' heads.(108)

     

    L. Bob Rife, “Lord of Bandwidth” (who sounds chillingly like Perot in this passage), has made the ultimate cybernetic connection between “the animal and the machine,” as Norbert Wiener used to say. If information is proprietary, and if he can control it on his company’s hard disks, then why shouldn’t he be able to secure it in his programmers’ heads? It turns out that L. Bob has perfected a technology for turning human brains into the equivalent of hard disks, using a virus that restructures the cerebellum. So the epos of Snow Crash unfolds (at least initially) as a straightforward Manichaean contest between the champions of free discourse and the conspirators of mind control. Like all the cyberspace novels, its main theatre of operations is the cybernetic frontier, the interface between mechanical information systems and the human mind.

     

    But it would be unfair to describe Snow Crash as just another superhero/supervillain faceoff, even though it unabashedly tells the story of how our Hiro saves the world. Snow Crash is “comic” in another sense as well. Like Gibson and Sterling, Stephenson conjures up a post-traumatic world order. The setting for Snow Crash is a postnational, postrational America, a chaosmos of strip malls and housing developments known as “burbclaves.” But these entities differ radically from the suburbs of today. After the de facto collapse of the U.S. government (for reasons never stated but easy enough to guess), the nation fragments into Franchise-Organized Quasi-National Entities (FOQNEs), which are suburban city-states functioning as sovereign countries: The Mews At Windsor Heights, The Heights at Bear Run, Cinnamon Grove, New South Africa. In Stephenson’s world, the post-cold-war collapse of communism has generalized into a global implosion of community. Here one’s social allegiances lie not with governments but with franchises. Police and judicial services are provided by chain outfits (MetaCops Unlimited; Judge Bob’s Judicial System) and defense becomes the purview of corporate mercenaries (General Jim’s Defense System, Admiral Bob’s National Security). The Mafia handles pizza delivery. Individual citizens affiliates with their chosen burbclaves. Hiro carries the bar- coded passport of the original meta-nation, Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong, enabling him to seek asylum in any of thousands of convenient locations worldwide.

     

    This vision of the near future has its shadowy sides, but unlike Gibson and Sterling, Stephenson eschews the darkness of film noir in favor of black humor. Snow Crash may be the first genuinely funny cyberpunk novel, invested with the same dire zaniness that animates Dr. Strangelove, Gravity’s Rainbow, andElektra Assassin. Stephenson has Kubrick’s eye for the absurdity of terror weapons, Pynchon’s knack for turning jokes into profundities (and back again), and Miller and Sienkiewicz’s taste for apocalyptic dementia. His comic genius puts him on a par with all these worthies. Yet Stephenson’s black humor has been upgraded for the new world order, in which the focus of evil is not a General Ripper, Captain Blicero, or Colonel Fury (who have been displaced by General Jim and Admiral Bob) but L. Bob Rife, Lord of Bandwidth, keeper of the information highway. The application to our times seems clear enough. Now that we no longer have to fear the Bomb quite so much, we can try to stop worrying and love the NREN.

     

    It might be appealing to read Snow Crash as self-satire or camp, a novel of liberation that liberates us from the pretentiousness of liberation novels. Stephenson’s main inventive principle does seem to be a species of irony. We might call it metastasis, a trope of displacement that sets everything in the book beside itself. “Meta” worlds abound in Snow Crash: an Afrocentric burbclave called Metazania, a police franchise called Metacops, and above all The Metaverse, which is Stephenson’s version of consensual hallucination or cyberspace. The Metaverse is metastasis (or metathesis) in its highest form: an alternative to the Meat-verse of physical reality, a rather large world made cunningly to serve the information trade. Functionally the Metaverse is very similar to Gibson’s cyberspatial Matrix–it is a virtual universe in which human agents can manipulate representations of data within a consistent spatial metaphor. But no doubt because he writes from the nineties instead of the eighties, Stephenson does a much better job of imagining the texture of this virtual environment. Gibson’s Matrix is usually a vague or abstract affair, evoked as “lines of light” or some other stylized geometry. The Metaverse, by contrast, features a fully elaborated urban landscape. Its primary attraction is a great Street embracing the 10,000-kilometer equator of a bigger-than-Earth sized virtual planet. This whole business, down to the size of digital living rooms and the gait of digital strollers, is mediated by rules “hammered out by the computer-graphics ninja overlords of the Association for Computing Machinery’s Global Multimedia Protocol Group” (23). Anyone who has regular dealngs with today’s ACM may find this the funniest joke in the book.

     

    But there is finally something troubling about the Metaverse, something which suggests a limit to Stephenson’s metastases, a point at which the novel fails to send itself up. The purpose of irony is generally held to be difference or antithesis, a play of double senses that undercuts the ostensible message. Yet as we have seen, any difference that makes a difference is hard to come by in cybernetic fiction. The same might be said of Stephenson’s metaworld. It is, after all, dominated by a grand boulevard or Street. So the architecture of the Metaverse is strikingly like that of the old Meatverse–both are strip developments organized as a linear array of reduplicating sites laid out in apparently endless paratactic sequence. They are both what one commentator has recently called “Edge Cities,” phalanges of development driven by an impulse to extend along a gradient of relative economic opportunity (see Garreau).

     

    This fundamental linearity is underscored by the primary drama that unfolds in the Metaverse: a prolonged chase scene on virtual motorcyles in which Hiro and his adversary move along linear vectors at thousands of kilometers per hour, but where they remain more or less within the confines of the Street. This chase scene is duplicated on a larger scale in the non-virtual sections of the book, where Hiro makes a long roadtrip from Los Angeles to Alaska through the Pacific Coast megalopolis, the actual Edge City of the early 21st century. The primary difference between the Metaverse and physical reality thus seems to be not logical or ideological but merely economic:

     

    In the real world--planet Earth, Reality--there are somewhere between six and ten billion people. At any given time, most of them are making mud bricks or field-stripping their AK-47s. Perhaps a billion of them have enough money to own a computer; these people have more money than all of the others put together. Of these billion potential computer owners, maybe a quarter of them actually bother to own computers, and a quarter of these have machines that are powerful enough to handle the Street protocol. That makes for about sixty million people who can be on the Street at any given time. Add in another sixty million or so who can't really afford it but go there anyway, by using public machines, or machines owned by their school or their employer. . . . That's why the damn place is so overdeveloped. Put in a sign or a building on the Street and the hundred million richest, hippest, best-connected people on earth will see it every day of their lives.(24)

     

    So Stephenson’s cyberspace offers no practical alternative to the world of the burbclaves and the shattered mosaic of (dis)enfranchised society. The Metaverse is simply a happy hunting ground for next-generation yuppies: those rich, hip, well-connected legions of Young Virtual Professionals. Stephenson’s meta-move is essentially delusive–and to recognize this is to reach the point at which Snow Crash unfortunately stops being quite so funny. In Stephenson’s imagining, the computer is not an engine of difference after all, but only an alternative medium for the same hegemonic institutions, the same uncritical devotion to linear thinking. Nothing is “free” in the Metaverse. Hiro is able to operate with unusual liberty because he was one of the original designers of the system, but even he has to pay his way by marketing gossip and low-level industrial espionage. Social and economic conditions in the Metaverse mirror those that take place elsewhere in Stephenson’s world, and events in virtual reality follow the same relentless logic as actual events. Which brings us to the most important aspects of Snow Crash: its plot, its medium, and the interaction between the two.

     

    To say that the book presents a contest between good and evil, tyrants and defenders of liberty, is to miss an important subtlety. What this book is really about is a struggle against viral language. The evil genius L. Bob Rife uses two apocalyptic weapons in his campaign to dominate the human race. The first is a cybernetic virus called Snow Crash, which infects digital processors in much the same way that current computer viruses do. However, Snow Crash causes infected machinery to display a version of itself in binary form, multiplexed into random on-off bursts or “video snow.” Adept computer programmers who have internalized the conversion of binary code to units of expression can become infected with Snow Crash if they view the apparently random display–making the crucial (and fortunately fantastic) connection between the machine and the animal. Once infected, the programmers’ brainstems malfunction and they fall into a vegetative coma. Snow Crash also has a non-cybernetic twin, a biological virus spread through prostitution and illegal drug use (of course), whose effects on the brain are less destructive but similarly sinister. People infected with the biological Snow Crash become capable of speaking in tongues and of understanding an Adamic command language which bypasses rational functions. They turn into programmable human robots, cultist zombies in the thrall of L. Bob Rife.

     

    To defeat these (literally) mind-boggling threats, Hiro Protagonist and his allies have to overcome both the biological and the cybernetic versions of the Snow Crash virus. Along with a great deal of mindless violence, this task involves Hiro in historical research (performed hypertextually in the Metaverse) concerning a historical referent for the Biblical story of Babel. It turns out that Snow Crash began as a “metavirus” which caused the infected brain to infect itself with other viruses. This evil agency was apparently transmitted to ancient Sumer from a source in outer space. The antidote to the Sumerian outbreak was “the nam-shub of Enki,” an incantation that literally “changed the speech in men’s mouths” (202), breaking down the neural connections that enabled victims to understand glossolalia, thus rendering them invulnerable to further incantatory programming. After the Babel event, as Stephenson tells it, the linguistic faculty was shifted from the brainstem into the cortex, where it diversified into all the variations of post-Adamic language. Babel was thus not a divine punishment for human overreaching, but a liberation from the first great campaign of cybernetic tyranny.

     

    It was also, crucially, the beginning of bibliocentrism as we know it. According to Stephenson’s myth (which reads like a cross between After Babel and The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross), a group of Hebrew scholars led a reform of literary practices throughout the Semitic world. Stephenson identifies these figures with the Deuteronomists of Biblical history, important figures in the cult of the Torah. Stephenson credits the Deuteronomists with “a sort of informational hygiene, a belief in copying things strictly and taking great care with information, which as they understood, is potentially dangerous. They made data a controlled substance” (374). Needless to say, this doctrine and the nam-shub of Enki hold the keys to defeating L. Bob Rife. The Sumerian incantation reverses the effects of the biological virus, and the concept of informational hygiene saves the Metaverse from the digital form of Snow Crash. It inspires Hiro to write SnowScan, an anti-viral program that searches for the Snow Crash code, eradicates it, and puts in its place the following message:

     

    IF THIS WERE A VIRUS
    YOU WOULD BE DEAD NOW
    FORTUNATELY IT'S NOT
    THE METAVERSE IS A DANGEROUS PLACE;
    HOW'S YOUR SECURITY?
    CALL HIRO PROTAGONIST SECURITY ASSOCIATES
    FOR A FREE INITIAL CONSULTATION(428)

     

    Subsequent consultations, of course, are on a fee-for- service basis. Hiro’s antiviral program replaces a virus with an advertisement, thus redeeming the Metaverse in every sense of the word–and incidentally converting Hiro from a penniless genius into a Meta-Bill Gates. In effect, Hiro becomes the founder of New Deuteronomy, Inc.. His security service will purify the Book of Protocols according to which the Metaverse is constituted by ensuring that it is replicated exactly on every iteration, free of impurities that might harbor invasive or opportunistic memes. As David Porush has suggested, Snow Crash can thus be read as the triumph of book culture over the threats of cybernetic programming and viral language: in other words, a true liber/ratio.

     

    But we began by observing that liberation in the fiction of cyberspace is usually not what it claims to be. To go boldly toward the virtual frontier often leads us where we have all been before: in this case right to the heart of western logocentrism, the holy Book. To a certain classically liberal way of thinking, there is no doubt nothing wrong with such a recursion. If one assumes that the function of art is to trace out great circles, reliably returning to what we have always already known, then a book like Snow Crash deserves praise as proof that literacy can survive the assaults of popular culture and computing, that it can thrive in a world of comic books and cyberspace. But to a more critical reader– perhaps one like Ross who wants to save the concept of the alternative or utopian in science fiction —Snow Crash must be a disappointment.

     

    The letdown is all the more severe because Stephenson makes it clear that the novel we now have before us started out to become something distinctly different. Stephenson says that he and the artist Tony Sheeder first intended to create a graphic novel using computer-generated images. This leads one to wonder why the nature of the project changed as it evolved. What aspect of the conceptual structure of Snow Crash demanded expression in print? That question becomes all the more salient if one considers another curious remark in Stephenson’s epilogue: “I have probably spent more hours coding during the production of this work than I did actually writing it, even though it eventually turned away from the original graphic concept, rendering most of that work useless from a practical viewpoint” (440). This statement is extremely suggestive, especially in the context of a novel that explores the connection between the animal and the machine, the meat and the meta. What would have happened if Snow Crash had turned out not to be a conventional novel, but had emerged instead as some form of metafiction– perhaps in electronic form?

     

    The conjecture I am about to make possibly represents a misreading of Stephenson’s remark about his computer work on Snow Crash; but even as misreading, the conjecture opens up an interesting set of questions. Why does Stephenson describe his electronic work as “coding”? If all he set out to do was produce digital graphics, then presumably he would have spent his time drawing, scanning, transforming, and editing bitmaps. The products of this work would have been images, not alphanumeric strings or “code.” Unless one sets out to create one’s own computer-graphics tools (an unlikely intention for a Macintosh user like Stephenson), then the work involved in graphics production should not involve many hours of code writing. What else might Stephenson have been up to?

     

    Suppose that the abortive digital format for Snow Crash was not a series of printed panels intended for conventional bound publication, but instead a network of screens linked together by some graphic navigational scheme–in other words, an electronic hypertext. If this were the case, then the change of media, the reversion to the more traditional format of the book, might be very important indeed. It might suggest that Snow Crash is in more than one sense a defense of the book and its ethos: not just the story, but the embodiment of a New Deuteronomy. It might thus provide a limit case for the fiction of cyberspace, a point at which it is possble either to stay within print culture or to explore alternatives.

     

    Whether or not he ever had other notions, Stephenson has taken the more conservative option, which is indeed the preference of the cyberpunk genre as a whole. Nor can he really be blamed for this choice. Snow Crash as written would not make a very good hypertextual fiction. Not only is the book’s world overwhelmingly two-dimensional and linear, its plot demands an exact and unvarying sequence of events. There are several complications and partial reversals, but all of these serve the general underlying logic, which specifies that Hiro must vanquish Rife and his henchmen and Save The World. This headlong rush toward singular closure is what a comic book is all about, after all–even when, as in the Death of Superman, that singular outcome annuls the usual order of things. Had Stephenson been programming Snow Crash as what Michael Joyce calls a “multiple fiction,” he would have had to allow for more than one outcome. He would have had to present permutations of the story where everyone’s linear ambitions–hero’s, villain’s, anti-hero’s –come to confusion. In short, Stephenson would have had to imagine outcomes where the defenders of the Book do not triumph, where informational hygiene does not win out, and the Metaverse goes unredeemed.

     

    So why didn’t Stephenson do this? Perhaps it never entered his head: I have no real evidence that Stephenson ever considered producing a hypertext. Nonetheless, it seems clear that this book could not have been written in that medium. Literary structures like multiple fiction are not altogether consistent with informational hygiene, the conception of data (or language) as a controlled substance. If the power of the book resides in its cult of exact replication, then to admit the possibility of narrative variations is at least implicitly to threaten that old word order.

     

    Of course, writing in an electronic mode does not necessarily promote utopian or post-hierarchical forms of disourse. Consider William Gibson’s recent foray into digital composition, his conceptual artwork Agrippa. Far from opening up to permutation, this text actually erases itself after a single reading, locking the reader out of its imaginary space (see Quittner). As Joyce points out, even multiple fictions as we now know them usually consist of “exploratory” texts in which the range of variation is strictly limited, hence at some level deceptive. So perhaps the hypertextual enterprise must also go where everyone has gone before, namely to a Disneyverse of delusive referendum where every apparent difference traces back to some determinist engine. Yet as Henry Jenkins has shown, there are signs even in non-interactive contexts that a more “participatory” cultural front may be emerging. Ambiguous or polysemic forms like the graphic novel (as in Moore and Sienkiewicz’s abortive Big Numbers) imply a fraying or complication of traditional, monolinear narrative. Forms like hypertext suggest that the language virus may be capable of even more radical outbreaks. For if our narrative forms embrace inconsistencies and contradictions, then they are no longer adequate defenses against memetic invasion. If the protocols of the imaginary world advertise their own contingency, then what is to stop someone not authorized by the Association for Cosmological Machinery from further interventions–which are in fact facilitated by the ease of copying and modification inherent in electronic media?

     

    The best way to pre-empt such uprisings is to keep throwing the Book at us, which is what Neal Stephenson and most other writers in the cyberpunk line continue to do. Both in its medium and its message, Snow Crash militates against any departure from traditional discursive authority. Like virtually all mainstream cyberspace writers (and in contrast to figures like William S. Burroughs and Kathy Acker), Stephenson delivers our favorite kind of linear entertainment: a “slam-bang-overdrive” sort of fiction, as Timothy Leary duly blathers on the back cover. As a form of entertainment, this sort of novel is always essentially self-serving; but what it serves up in this case is an unfortunately limited view of the possibilities for virtual culture.

     

    So long as we continue to imagine cyberspace and other forms of artificial reality from within headlong vehicles such as Snow Crash, we will always find ourselves somewhere on the Street. The Street, we might remember, only looks like a straight line. In fact it is a circle that runs all the way around the planet and comes back to the place it began, back to the same old future so neatly packaged for us in dystopian novels and films. The Street, Gibson reminds us, finds its uses for everything. But perhaps we should now ask, of what use is the Street?

     

    References

     

    • Garreau, Joel. Edge City: Life on the New Frontier. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1991.
    • Gibson, William. Neuromancer. New York: Ace Books, 1984.
    • Gibson, William. Burning Chrome. New York: Ace Books, 1985.
    • Gibson, William and Bruce Sterling. The Difference Engine. New York: Bantam Spectra, 1990.
    • Jenkins, Henry. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge, 1992.
    • Joyce, Michael. “Selfish Interaction or Subversive Texts and the Multiple Novel.” The Hypertext/Hypermedia Handbook. Ed. E. Berk and J. Devlin. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1991. 79-94.
    • LeGuin, Ursula K. Introduction to The Left Hand of Darkness. New York: Ace Books, 1980.
    • Porush, David. “Why Cyberspace Can’t Be Utopian: The Positive Discourses of Irrationalism in an As If Universe.” Presentation. Society for Literature and Science Conference, Atlanta, GA: October 9, 1992.
    • Quittner, Josh. “Read Any Good Webs Lately?” Newsday. June 16, 1992.
    • Ross, Andrew. Strange Weather: Culture, Science, and Technology in the Age of Limits. New York: Verso, 1991.
    • Rucker, Rudy. Wetware. New York: Ace Books, 1988.
    • Sterling, Bruce. Islands in the Net. New York: Morrow, 1988.
    • Wiener, Norbert. Cybernetics: The Science of Control and Communication in the Animal and the Machine. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.

     

  • Introducing Mail Art: A Karen Elliot Interview with Crackerjack Kid and Honoria

    Honoria
    honoria@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu

     

     
    Hubener: Karen Elliot is the founder of Plagiarism and the
         1990-1993 Art Strike.  Crackerjack Kid has been active in
         mail art since 1978 and is the editor of Eternal Network,
         an illustrated mail art anthology scheduled for publication
         in 1993 by University of Calgary Press.  Honoria, a.k.a.
         Mail Art Kisses for Peace, Touriste, and Fake Picabia
         Sister, hails from Austin, Texas where she is the MailArt
         editor of ND Magazine.  All three artists are active
         networkers who use both the international postal system and
         electronic mail links to distribute information, concepts,
         and sometimes a surprise wrapped in an enigma.
    
    Karen Elliot (hereafter KE): Well, Crackerjack Kid, they say you
         compare mail art to Crackerjack candy--that you like putting
         a surprise in everybody's mailbox.  Who have you surprised
         lately, and who in turn surprises you most often?
    
    Crackerjack Kid (hereafter CJK): I could say that nothing in mail
         art surprises me anymore, but it does.  D. Peepol of Akron,
         Ohio once mailed a lunch bag of black, sooty, perfumed dust
         and while I was opening it, the contents spilled over my lap
         onto the furniture and floor.  A small tag remained in the
         sack with the startling announcement: "These are the last
         mortal remains of my dear aunty Sarah."  Shmuel in
         Brattleboro, Vermont is only an hour down the road from me
         and yet s/he regularly sends add-on objects like driftwood,
         pistachios, walnuts, cryptic coded postcards, and most
         recently, a 3-D paper monoplane which arrived in an official
         plastic USPS "body bag."  Among the most unusal items I've
         mailed are navel stamps and a sourdough bread baguette I
         carved into a phallus.  I stuffed it into an oversized
         Crackerjack box for the John Bennett and Cathy Mehrl mail
         art marriage show.
    
    (H)  One of the weirdest pieces of mail I received was a pop-up
         hand made splatter-painted paper sea skate from Kevin in
         Atlanta.  Somehow our correspondance evolved into sending
         each other fish.  It became pretty  challenging after the
         first dozen or so fish images.  He even sent me some cut out
         ads for efficiency apartments.  I sent him a photo of dried
         out, ugly as sin, cat-fish heads hanging on a Texas barbed
         wire fence.  I found a souvenir of Florid, a wooden paddle
         in the shape of a fish, the toy kind with a rubber band and
         ball attached.  I haven't sent it to him yet because our
         corresponding  fishing hole gradually dried up.  I still
         send him a bait fish every now and then and when he's in the
         mood (maybe now, after artstrike) he'll get a reel and
         flop some more fish on the postal scales.  Another long term
         correspondent in Indiana sends naive brightly colored
         drawings on envelopes with each letter.  One of them was
         called mother bar-b-ques the cat.  These don't have the
         verbal  shock value of Cracker's examples but if you saw
         them you'd agree on their dramatic weirdness levels.  But
         let me tell you about the most relaxing piece of mail I ever
         received.  It was from a correspondent in Oregon, a
         liscenced massage therapist.  He suggested flirtatiously
         that he and I engage in a mail fantasy.  I told him I was a
         prude but would have a fantasy as long as it wasn't a sex
         fantasy.  I told  him I could use a licensed massage
         fantasy.  He wrote back asking what scent of oil I wanted
         and what music.  I answered rose with a hint of citrus and
         that Mozart clarinet thing and he sent me a full body
         massage description in anatomical detail ending with a
         secret for turning on the parasympathetic nervous system and
         a $5 off coupon.
    
    (CJK) Both Honoria and I could go on forever about wacky mail
         because the sacred and profane are so commonplace in the
         mail art mailstream.  There aren't any rules guiding what
         can and can't be sent.  Short of mail fraud, mailing bombs,
         drugs, or dirt from Canada, most everything gets posted.
         There was a mail art show in California with a conceptual
         theme titled, "Test the Post Office."  Objects mailed
         included an addressed water filled balloon.  Someone sent a
         fifteen feet long garden hose with over a hundred one cent
         stamps on the hose surface.  A sly mail artist tested the
         honesty of the postal system by laminating and addressing a
         ten dollar bill; it arrived safely for the show in Los
         Angeles.
    
    (KE) You're planning on opening mail art here in this studio loft
         in SoHo.  So am I right to assume you're having a "mail art
         opening?"
    
    (H)  Oh, most definitely!  The public will open the mail that's
         accumulated at this address over the past three months.  We
         decided to let the public take the unopened mail art off the
         walls and replace it with their own offerings.  There are
         tables all over the studio with materials for making mail
         art.  Our show, is just one of several dozen other mail art
         shows and projects which simulateously carry on every month.
         You can get the newest mail art show listings by writing to
         Ashley Parker Owens (73358 N. Damen, Chicago, IL 60645).
         Her "Global Mail" is a newsletter of international mail art
         events that's published three times yearly in January, May,
         and September.  There are numerous other trade zines,
         bulletins, and mainstream magazines which regularly post
         mail art show listings, but I'm most impressed by the sheer
         volume of projects and shows in her publication.  By the
         way, PMC readers can reach CrackerJack Kid via email (see
         list at end of interview).  He also edits a mail art zine
         entitled Netshaker.  Annual subscription is $12.00 payable
         by check or money order at PO Box 978, Hanover, NH 03755.
    
    (KE) But where are the people you invited?  Aren't mail art shows
         supposed to be public events--places where mail artists can
         have a "coming out" and expose their secret, intimate,
         hidden mailstream corresponDANCES!
    
    (CJK) Well Karen, I like how you accented Dances because that's
         just what mail artists do, they DANCE to an off-beat,
         underground chant called "Gift Exchange."  Someone once said
         mail art was Christmas in the mailbox everyday of the year,
         but we're here to let the public cut in on the dance.  Our
         show in part recalls the first mail art exhibition, The New
         York Correspondance School Show" curated in 1970 by Marcia
         Tucker at the Whitney Museum.  That show incorporated the
         work of 106 people, all individuals who had mailed art to
         Ray Johnson.  The irony was that Johnson's work wasn't
         present because he asked his correspondents to submit their
         work to him instead.  We've  invited everybody in New York
         City to this show who has the last name Elliot, or
         Johnson--in honor of you and especially Ray Johnson who is
         the father of mail art.  Of course anybody else is welcome
         to send mail art too.
    
    (KE) Holy Akademagorrod!  Didn't Ray Johnson do that once--I
         mean, call everybody named Ray Johnson in the NYC phonebook
         to a New York Correspondance School Party?
    
    (H)  Not exactly Karen, but Ray Johnson did have a "Michael
         Cooper, Michael Cooper, Michael Cooper Club."  There were
         two Michael Coopers who knew each other, and there was a
         third Michael Cooper that Johnson knew.  Johnson arranged to
         have all the Coopers meet each other.  Johnson has arranged
         a lot of meetings.  His mail art goes back to the
         mid-forties and quite a few people in the art and non-art
         world have had at least a mailing or two, fragmentary
         riddles that add to his mythic legend.
    
    (KE) What does he mail?
    
    (CJK) Cartoon characters like his bunny head, correspondence,
         mailings from previous works, and multilayered collages.
         Ray Johnson is a pun shaper who finds words within words and
         he's a master of wit who often mixes images with texts.  But
         the best way to experience Ray Johnson is to interact with
         him by dropping something in his mailbox.  His address is 44
         West 7 Street, Locust Valley, New York 11560.
    
    (H)  Also, a lot of pictures of Ray Johnson are sent throughout
         the network with invitations to intervene upon them.  I
         received Ray Johnson's high school picture once from Italy.
         I cut it in half and put it in two TV sets and sent it back.
         How many Ray Johnson bath tubs are there?  That's a very
         popular project.  You usually add yourself to the zeroxed
         pile of networkers taking a bath with Ray Johnson.  One
         imagines the rubberstamp pad ink dissolving off the artists
         making a colorful bathtub ring.
    
    (CJK) Ray Johnson is also notorious for his institutional
         inventions.  In the 1973 "Death Announcements" section of
         The New York Times, Johnson announced the demise of his New
         York Correspondence School, which was shortly thereafter
         reborn as Buddha University.  Numerous Johnson inspired Fan
         Clubs grew under the rubric of the NYCS.  I mentioned the
         Michael Cooper Club, but there was also the Shelley Duvall
         Fan Club, Marcel Duchamp Fan Club, the Blue Eyes Club and
         it's Japanese equivalent, "the Brue Eyes Crub."  Johnson's
         network of mail art contacts has expanded in recent years to
         include phone calls which range from informative to
         mysterious.  Ray called me one evening two months ago to say
         that the first New York Correspondence School meeting took
         place in a Manhattan Quaker Meeting House.  I was telling
         Ray how spirited mail artists interested me, mail art that
         shakes, rattles, quakes, and rolls--artists who I'm fond of
         calling "netshakers."  Johnson said his meeting at the
         Quaker House was just a meeting of friends, but he hoped
         that the people whould go into religious convulsions and do
         Quaker shaking.
    
    (KE) I understand Johnson's importance to mail art, but is there
         an association between Ray Johnson and the selection of this
         space for your mail art show?
    
    (CJK) Yes, in an oblique way I chose the NYC location over the
         Emily Harvey Gallery and Jean Depuy loft because this is
         where Fluxus master George Maciunas lived for awhile.
         Maciunas and Ray Johnson knew one another.  From 1960-61
         Maciunas ran AG Gallery at 925 Madison Avenue, a performance
         space not far from where we are now.  It's been said that
         SoHo started due to Maciunas's establishment of the first
         SoHo cooperative building at 80 Wooster Street.  Johnson
         performed a "Nothing" at Maciunas's AG Gallery just before
         it closed in July 1961.  Maciunas is credited as one of the
         founding members of Fluxus.
    
    (KE) What's Fluxus?
    
    (CJK) Dick Higgins, Alison Knowles, George Maciunas and a small
         group of artists started a new "tendency" or intermedia
         perception--George Maciunas named it Fluxus.  Fluxus implies
         "the state of being in flux, of movement, ephemerality,
         playfulness, and experimentalism.  This fluxattitude
         resulted in numerous publications, feasts, and Fluxfests.
         One of those performances occured here when Maciunas married
         Billie Hutching on February 25, 1978.  Wedding guests and
         the "wedding train," performed Flux Cabaret.
    
    (KE) So Maciunas and Johnson were both Fluxus artists?
    
    (CJK) Yes, although if Maciunas were alive today, I doubt he or
         Johnson would agree on any close interconnection through
         their work.  Neither Mail Art or Fluxus are movements as
         much as they are tendencies.  Maciunas, unlike Johnson or
         most of the Fluxus artists, had an anarchistic, utopian
         vision whereas Johnson's mail was actually correspondence
         art, an intimate, personal exchange between an individual or
         small group of people.  It was the American Fluxus artist
         Ken Friedman who took mail art out of the personal realm and
         into the international paradigm in which Fluxus artists were
         engaged.  Friedman's 1973 Omaha Flow Systems  established
         the mail art ethic for shows like this one we're having.
         Friedman brought his Fluxus background to mail art in the
         pursuit of open, democratic, interactive exhibitions which
         encouraged viewers to participate.  Interaction with
         audiences has always been a Fluxus characteristic.
    
    (KE) Let's return to mail art shows for a minute.  What shows
         have you entered, Honoria?
    
    (H)  My favorite mailart activity is entering mail art shows by
         submitting small pieces of art at the request of another
         networker in response to their chosen theme.  I ended up
         painting hundreds of postcard sized figures and skeletons in
         response to the shadow project(s) commemorating the people
         vaporized by the WWII atomic explosion on Hiroshima.  I put
         some of them on a black poncho and wore them to a Day of the
         Dead celebration in Austin and danced to cojunto music.  You
         never know where mailart will go or send you.  I used to
         work in an isolated and local competitive market (fine) art
         environment.  Now I feel the flow of art & ideas in and out
         of my studio room is part of a huge global art studio where
         we get together to gossip, philosophize, show each other new
         unfinished work, and communicate fresh ideas. The mailartist
         to mailartist communication uses all kinds of shortcuts that
         artist-to-general public, or even informed art historically
         astute public will not get.  Our jargon, in-jokes and
         creative playfulness are as slippery as freshly licked glue
         on the back of a 50 cent stamp about to be placed on a
         recycled envelope bound for Japan.  For instance, everyone I
         know outside the network thinks plagiarism is a naughty
         deceit.  Within the network Plagiarism is an art movement.
         In fact, there have been festivals of plagiarism.  Recycling
         other artists images is a basic concept in mail art.
    
    (CJK) Appropriation, sorting, and shuffling written texts is also
         a very corresponDANCE kind of improvisational jazz you'll
         find in the mail art network.  Indeed, name sharing and
         detourning strategies began surfacing in mail art back in
         the early 1970s.  Dadaism, Nouveau Realisme, Futurism,
         COBRA, Fluxus, and Situationalism have all played varied
         influential roles in the mail art mailstream.
    
    (H)  Now Karen, just between us girls, I want to know if you've
         been catching this drift?  I've noticed a renewed interest
         in the actions and representations of women in the network.
         Jennifer Huebert (POB 395, Rifton, NY 12471) just collected
         mail from women networkers who attended congresses in 1992.
         I'm looking forward to reading other people's views.  In a
         huge network full of pseudonyms and correspondents who don't
         speak each others languages I think it's odd, but fun, to
         examine the yin/yang aspect of it all.  One networker is
         named manwoman.
    
    (CJK) Yeh, I know ManWoman!  S/he's a Canadian Pop Artist, a
         musician, poet, and a shaman who has an on-going project to
         restore the sacred, mystical significance of the ancient
         swastika--before it was denigrated by National Socialism.
         S/he believes in dreams and can analyze their symbolic
         significance.  When I told ManWoman that Cathyjack and I
         were trying to have a child, S/he sent me a fertility chant
         which, low and behold, WORKED within a week after I received
         it in the mail. That makes ManWoman more than just a
         charming individual--S/he's a very kind, gentle soul, a
         sage.  There's a certain charismatic aura and mystery in
         meeting such people through the mail--pseudonyms like
         ManWoman and Michael VooDoo help to create an unpredictable,
         unusual postal pantheon.
    
    (H)  I have deduced from my correspondence that some mail artists
         perceive Honoriartist as a male.  Maybe it's due to my
         fertile imagination (although to my knowlegdge my mail has
         never been responsible for a pregnancy) plus my connections
         and art collaborations with transvestites.  Then there's all
         this  collaborating going on between many artists.  However,
         in the process of the historification of mailart someone
         will get interested in who is actually who and what sex they
         are.  I am quite content 2 be both or more.
    
    (KE) I can certainly understand reasons for creating fictive
         monikers, but judging by both of your comments it seems that
         fact is often stranger than fiction in mail art netland.
         Now, on to a final question or two.  Readers of PMC  have
         seen sporadic Networker Congress and Telenetlink Congress
         listings in their electronic forum throughout 1992.  You
         (C.J. Kid) and Reed Altemus have called attention to
         yourselves as facilitators of these congress events.  What's
         this congress biz all about?
    
    (CJK) 1992 was the year of the World-Wide Decentralized Networker
         Congress, otherwise known as METANET, or NC92.  The
         Networker Congresses were first proposed by Swiss conceptual
         artist H.R. Fricker in "Mail Art: A Process of Detachment,"
         a text presented in March 1990 for my book Eternal Network:
         A Mail Art Anthology (to be published in Dec. 1993 by
         University of Calgary Press).  In early 1991 Fricker met
         with fellow Swiss artist Peter W. Kaufmann and together they
         drafted an invitational flyer entitled, Decentralized
         World-Wide Networker Congress 1992.  The congress call went
         out to anybody, "Wherever two or more artists/networkers
         meet in the course of 1992, there a congress will take
         place."  The Networker Congresses, like the Mail Art
         Congresses of 1986, grew into a huge forum of 180 congresses
         in over twenty countries.
    
    (KE) Sounds like an enormous project.  How was it organized?
    
    (CJK) H.R. Fricker and Peter W. Kaufmann sought active, creative
         input from networker artists on six continents.  American
         artists Lloyd Dunn, Steve Perkins, John Held Jr., Mark
         Corroto, and I joined Fricker and Kaufmann early (summer
         1991) in the development of the NC92 concept and served as
         active "netlink facilitators."  Final drafts of the
         Networker Congress invitations included netlink contacts
         from Africa, South America, North America, Asia, Europe and
         Australia.
    
    (KE) Is it fair to assume that the networker artist has grown out
         of the mail art phenomenon?
    
    (CJK) I think so.  The Networker Congresses were based on the
         acknowledgment that a new form of artist, the networker, was
         emerging from international network cultures of the
         alternative press, mail art community, telematic artists,
         flyposter artists, cyberpunks, cassette bands,
         rubberstampers and stamp artists.  The year-long collective
         work by networkers of NC92 represents the first major effort
         among artists to cross-over and introduce diverse
         underground networks to each other.  Until this moment
         countless marginal networks, often operating in parallel
         directions, were unaware of one another.  Mail artists that
         network have a sense of what intermedia and interactivity
         involve--it's a consciousness which branches outward.  One
         could say that mail art's evolution was based upon
         intermedia--the mailstream merging of zines, artist stamps,
         rubberstamping, correspondence, sound sculpting with audio
         cassettes, visual poetry, and artists' books.  Communication
         concepts have been the medium and message that mail artists
         use to bind together these divergent forms of expression.
         Today, forms like stamp art have become genres unto their
         own, with proscribed criteria often veering towards
         normative art standards more than the spirit of a process.
         I read somewhere in Lund Art Press that the most successful
         intermedia forms eventually cease to be intermedia.  These
         creative forms evolve into the qualitative characteristics
         of techniques and styles and will finally become established
         media with names, histories and contexts of their own.
         Indeed, the rarity of mail may come to pass with the
         continued escalation of postal rates.  This may encourage
         more qualitative standards within the mail art network.
    
    (KE) Well Cracker--Can I call you Cracker? (Crackerjack nods his
         head)--what's wrong with qualitative standards?
    
    (CJK) Hey Karen, didn't you know that when you're really good
         they call you crackerjack?  Really though, for me, the
         thrill of the process is being inventive, taking yourself
         somewhere you haven't been before.  It can certainly go
         stale if you don't know when to let go, when to hold back
         from too much mail.  Burnout in mail art is rampant.  I'm
         not a statistician, but to get a focus on what my mail art
         activities involve each year, I set about tallying all my
         in-out going mail for 1992.  It revealed some startling
         figures to me.  Not including hundreds of email message,
         I've sent out over 1,150 mail art works and have received
         1,250 pieces in return.  These figures state that I usually
         answer most of the mail that I receive.  It also shows that
         with all of my international mailings, I spend, on the
         average, about $1.20 postage on each item of mail art I
         send.  That makes for an expensive passion!  I might want to
         cut back.  I might want to reconsider the investment of my
         time and energy, or I might decide to conserve the time,
         energy, and money for those I feel return the same
         intensity, joy, and playfulness of dialogue.  The bottom
         line is that there are personal criteria for entering and
         leaving mail art.  You definitely receive what you are
         willing to give and you quickly find out what your threshold
         for tolerance is.
    
    (KE) Let's return to the networker congress concept.  What kinds
         of congresses were there in 1992?
    
    (H)  I was invited to a place I'd never heard of called Villorba,
         Italy by a long time correspondent, Ruggero Maggi, who sent
         me some wonderful kisses when I did my kiss show.  I went to
         congress with the Italians and wow, am  I glad I did.  Long
         philosophical talks on the lawn of the beautiful Villa
         Fanna, videos of many networkers, performances, poetry,
         hours of exchanging, making, sending artworks, food, wine,
         joy, laughter, howling at the moon, walking barefoot in
         mudpuddles....  Well, you can just imagine it took the wind
         right out of my mid-life crisis.  This congress was
         dedicated to the great mail artist  A. G. Cavellini and they
         just made his archive into a museum.  We just don't have
         time to get into Cavellini and the philosophy of "don't make
         Art make PR" and self-historification etc..
    
    (CJK) Among the scores of other congress themes were John Held
         Jr.'s Fax Congress, Jennifer Huber's Woman's Congress,
         Miekel And & Liz Was's Dreamtime Village Corroboree, my own
         Netshaker Harmonic Divergence, Rea Nikonova and Serge
         Segay's Vacuum Congress, Bill Gaglione's Rubberstamp
         Congress, Mike Dyar's Joseph Beuys Seance, Guy Bleus's
         Antwerp Zoo Congress, and O.Jason & Calum Selkirk's Seizing
         the Media Congress.  There were also numerous, on-going
         networker projects including Peter Kustermann and Angela
         Pahler's global tour as "netmailmen performers."  Throughout
         1992 Kustermann and Pahler travelled, congressed, lectured,
         recorded a diary, and hand-delivered mail person-to-person.
         Italian mail artist Vittore Baroni helped create and record
         a networker congress anthem, Let's Network Together, and
         American mail artist Mark Corroto produced Face of the Congress networker congress zine.
    
    (KE) So how do you think all these NC92 congresses worked?  Did
         they succeed or fail?
    
    (CJK) I think they were remarkable!  Most of the organizers of
         NC92 congresses have been active international mail artists.
         They have emerged from the networker year of activities with
         a deeper awareness of intermedia involvement in global
         network communities, and a realization that "I am a mail
         artist, sometimes."  While many mail artists visited friends
         in the flesh, others, unable to travel, "meta-networker
         spirit to spirit" in the NC92 Telenetlink Congress, a
         homebased telecommunication project conducted with
         networkers using personal computers and modems.  Serbian and
         Croat mail artists established networker peace congresses,
         one such congress taking place in a village where a battle
         raged around them.
    
    (KE) Our on-line readers would probably like to know what your
         Telenetlink Congress was about.  Can you briefly state your
         objective?
    
    (CJK) My objectives were to introduce and eventually netlink the
         international telematic community with the mail art
         mailstream.  I began forming an email list of
         telecommunication artists which I compiled from responses to
         my numerous NC92 Telenetlink postings on internet, BBS',
         electronic journals, and Usenet Newsgroups.  I began
         Telenetlink in June 1991 by participating in Artur Matuck's
         global telecommunication project Reflux Network Project.
         There I served as an active netlink between the telematic
         community on one hand, and the mail art network's
         Decentralized World-Wide Networker Congress, 1992.  Where
         these two projects intersected there were informal on-line
         congresses in which the role of the networker was discussed.
         Conceptual on-line projects such as the Spirit Netlink
         Performance drew in crowds of participants at the Reflux
         Network Project link in the Sao Paulo Bienale.
    
    (KE) Haven't mail artists and telematic artists interacted
         through collaborative projects using mail and e-mail?
    
    (CJK) It comes as no surprise that pioneering telematic artists
         like Fred Truck, Judy Malloy, and Carl Loeffler were once
         quite active in mail art's early years, but efforts to
         combine both mail art and telematic forms were never fully
         approached.  My Telenetlink project was the first home-based
         effort to interconnect the telematic and mail art worlds.
         By netlinking both parallel network worlds, I found many
         common tendencies; internationalism, interest in intermedia
         concepts, respect for cultural diversity, humor,
         ephemerality, emphasis upon process art rather artifact,
         humor, global spirituality unencumbered by religious dogma,
         utopian idealism, experimentalism, and interest in
         resolution of the art/life dichotomy.  Prior to Telenetlink
         there were mail artists such as Mark Block (U.S.), Ruud
         Janssen (The Netherlands), and Charles Francois (Belgium),
         whose efforts were aimed at introducing mail art through
         their own private Bulletin Board Services, but netlinking
         mail art and the telematic community through mainframes on
         internet hadn't been explored.  Fewer than four dozen mail
         artists are actively using computers to explore
         communicative art concepts, but that number is rapidly
         changing now that computer technology is more affordable.
         Still, some mail artists view their form as more intimate,
         tactile, expressive, and communicative than
         telecommunication art.  Other mail artists regard computers
         with mistrust, suspicion, even fear.  Likewise, I have heard
         telecommunication artists view mail art as a primitive,
         slow, outmoded, form of expression.  I prefer to think of
         telematic art and mail art as useful tools for creative
         communication.  It's not a matter of one form being superior
         to another.  I think the time is right for mail artists and
         telematic artists to get acquainted--to netshake--to
         telenetlink worlds.  Here's a list of telecommunication
         artists who use mail art and email as intermedia forms.  I
         think this is the best way Honoria, Karen Elliot, and I can
         help PMC readers learn about mail art--to experience the
         direct contact.
    
    (KE) Well, I think that's a good way to come full circle in this
         discussion.  To know mail art and telematic art is to
         experience it.  Thanks Honoria and Crackerjack for opening
         up some possibilities to interconnect network communities.

     

    Telenetlink contacts

     

        Reed Altemus:

    IP25196%PORTLAND.bitnet

        George Brett:

    ecsvax!ghb@uncecs.edu

        Burning Press:

    au462@cleveland.Freenet.edu

        Anna Couey:

    couey@well.sf.ca.us

        Crackerjack Kid:

    Cathryn.L.Welch@dartmouth.edu

        Keith DeMendonca:

    keithdm@syma.sussex.ac.uk

        FaGaGaGa:

    ae705@yfn.ysu.edu

        Pete Fisher:

    Pete.Fischer@stjhmc.fidonet.org

        Joachim Frank:

    joachim@tethys.ph.albany.edu

        Bob Gale:

    bgale@well.sf.ca.us

        Matt Hogan:

    m91hogan.acs.syr.edu

        Honoria:

    honoria@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu

        Hubener:

    72630.2465@compuserve.com

        Judy Malloy:

    jmalloy@garnet.berkeley.edu

        Artur Matuck:

    am4g+@ANDREW.CMU.EDU

        Paul Rutkovsky:

    prutkov@mailer.cc.fsu.edu

        Scot Art:

    Scot.Art@f909.n712.z3.fidonet.org

        Uncle Don:

    DPMILLIKEN@amherst.edu
     

  • Toward a Theory of Hypertextual Design

    Kathleen Burnett

    Communication, Information & Library Studies
    Rutgers University

    burnet@zodiac.rutgers.edu

     

    While the study of the temporal and spatial distanciation of communication is important to the concept of the mode of information the heart of the matter lies elsewhere. For the issue of communicational efficiency . . . does not raise the basic question of the configuration of information exchange, or what I call the wrapping of language.

     

    –Poster, 8

     

    Hypertext/Hypermedia

     

    What distinguishes hypermedia from other modes of information is not that it is computer-driven–after all, the browsing and retrieval mechanisms of Vannevar Bush’s memex were non-electronic–nor that it is interactive, since the entire history of oral communication, whether electronically mediated or not, might be characterized as interactive; nor even that it includes navigational apparatus such as links and nodes, which might better be thought of as symptoms than causes, or buttresses rather than groundwork. What distinguishes hypermedia is that it posits an information structure so dissimilar to any other in human experience that it is difficult to describe as a structure at all. It is nonlinear, and therefore may seem an alien wrapping of language when compared to the historical path written communication has traversed; it is explicitly non-sequential, neither hierarchical nor “rooted” in its organizational structure, and therefore may appear chaotic and entropic. Yet clearly, human thought processes include nonlinear, nonsequential, and interactive characteristics which, when acknowledged by traditional information structures, are not supported. In fact, one might characterize the history of information transfer as a tyranny against such characteristics, that is, a tyranny against the rhizome.

     

    Hypermedia might be understood as one manifestation of the struggle against this tyranny. In current parlance, hypermedia is used to describe both applications which make use of navigational tools such as links and nodes to form “texts” or databases, and the organizational principles of such “texts” and databases. Hypertext is also used to denote these same meanings. When a distinction is drawn between the two, it normally focuses on content–“hypertext” is used to refer to hyper-structures consisting exclusively of written texts, while “hypermedia” denotes similar structures built around multiple media. Others have noted the artificiality of such a delineation. “Text” is also used as a synonym for a “written work” or “book” which may or may not be limited to alphanumeric characters. A “text” may included charts, graphs, illustrations, photographs, and other visual media in its expression of meaning. Why then should a “hypertext”–which has the potential for incorporating an even wider range of expressive media (sound, animation, etc.)–be limited to alphanumeric characters in its expression?

     

    A more useful differentiation might be drawn along structural rather than contextual lines. Hypertext demonstrates “traits that are usually obscured by the enforced linearity of paper printing”; it is text–only more so–because it participates in a structure that resonates asynchronous and nonlinear relationships. Hypertext is a kind of weaving–“text” derives ultimately from the Latin texere, and thus shares a common root with “textile”–a structuring with texture–web, warp, and weave, allowing for infinite variation in color, pattern and material; it is the loom that structures the “text-ile.” Hypertext is the organizational principle of hypermedia. Hypermedia is the medium of expression of a given hypertext structure. When that medium mirrors the singularity of the print medium of alphanumeric text, it may be properly called either “hypertext” or “hypermedia”; when the medium reflects an “intertwingling” (Nelson 31) of what we understand as separate “media” in the analog sense of the term, it should perhaps be referred to as “hypermedia,” but might equally be acknowledged as “hypertext.” Neither hypertext nor hypermedia is an object, rather the former is a structure, and the latter a medium, of information transfer.

     

    Historical Context

     

    All electronically mediated exchange participates in hypertext, though the degree of participation varies enormously. Some electronically mediated exchange is “hypertextual” only to the degree that it is virtual–that it consists of a series of switches or codes (binary or otherwise) which are, in and of themselves, unreadable (and, therefore, nontextual), and which contain “pointers” to their reconstruction as meaningful exchanges. The switches or codes are “nodes” which are “linked” to a “textual” form which, at any given moment may exist only “hypertextually.” Electronically mediated exchange is therefore paradigmatically different from other modes of information precisely because it participates in the organizing principle of hypertext.

     

    In The Mode of Information, Poster proposes a concept which plays on Marx’s theory of the mode of production:

     

    By mode of information I similarly suggest that history may be periodized by variations in the structure in this case of symbolic exchange, but also that the current culture gives a certain fetishistic importance to 'information.' Every age employs forms of symbolic exchange which contain internal and external structures, means and relations of signification. Stages in the mode of information may be tentatively designated as follows: face-to-face, orally mediated exchange; written exchanges mediated by print; and electronically mediated exchange.(Poster 6)

     

    Poster’s periodization suffers from the coarseness of any totalizing metaphor. While he stresses the trans-historical nature of his classification of symbolic exchange, the metaphor is only as effective as it is historically informed. As outlined, the third stage–written exchanges mediated by print–is not only Western in its bias, but fails even within this bias to recognize a rather large chunk of history–the manuscript period (circa 4th century AD through the mid-fifteenth). An examination of the influence of the mode of information on social structure can only be enriched by the recognition of the impact of mass-production, in the form of the mechanized reproduction of written language, on that structure. It is impossible, however, to understand the full significance of this impact, either historically or theoretically, unless its contextualization is carefully discerned. For example, contrast these two very different experiences of the introduction of the hand-press and its effects on social stratification.

     

    The pre-Reformation Church was able to maintain a restrictive social stratification largely because of its ability to control the production and comprehension of written communication–those who could read and write belonged to a privileged elite, while those who could not had to be satisfied with acquiring their information from those who did. Through most of the Medieval period and well into the Renaissance, the Church was able to control the size and membership of the elite through two mechanisms: Latin education and limited distribution of written communication. The latter was facilitated by production limits imposed by the rigorous and time-consuming process of hand-copying, which in turn limited the supply of reading material. Without supply, the demand for education was kept to levels that the Church could manipulate and control. The introduction of the hand-press in the mid-fifteenth century was accompanied by a precipitous erosion of that control which led decisively to the Reformation. Once reading material could be produced in large quantities in a relatively short period of time–500 to 1000 copies of an average-length manuscript could be produced by a printer owning two hand-presses within the space of less than a month, as compared to the production of a single copy of a manuscript, which could take up to a year–in other words, once the non-elite were able to acquire material to read, they began to do so. Printers, recognizing the commercial potential of this new market, began to produce material in the vulgate, which in turn expedited exponential growth in the educated population, since it facilitated the process of self-education. As this population grew, demands for equity in education across social classes escalated. The earliest signs of this movement are evident in the growth of the popular and self-help literature markets, and the introduction of mass communication, across time and distance, over which the Church could ultimately exercise little effective control (Eisenstein).

     

    Contrast this experience with that of the introduction of a hand-press in colonial Massachusetts in 1660 for the express purpose of propagating the gospel among the Indians, who had no written language. The social stratification which existed within the tribe prior to the introduction of the press was anchored in the individual’s ability to communicate with the spiritual realm and was maintained through oral mediation of the ritual culture. After the introduction of the press, the very foundations of that stratification were undermined. A schism developed between those who subscribed to the gospel, and thus to the notion of a single god, and those who continued in the old beliefs. Since the introduction of the very act of written communication was inextricably tied to the new religion, many who did not endorse the Christian faith simply refused to acknowledge the new mode of information.

     

    Clearly the introduction of the hand-press in this context did not have the effect of popularizing written communication that it had in western Europe on the eve of the Reformation. While differences in the social structures of the two cultures might be cited as the major contributing factors in this differentiation, the privileged status of chirography in pre-Reformation Europe clearly at least served to buttress the social structure of that culture, while the absence of any form of written culture in the case of the Native American tribe equally served to buttress a quite distinct social structure. Both structures were undermined by the introduction of a new mode of information, but in very different ways. While a totalizing metaphor may be put to effective use in an account of this differentiation, Poster’s four-stage delineation is simply too coarse to serve. Clearly, a distinction must be drawn between a culture which partakes only of oral exchanges and one in which oral exchange is coupled with some form of written exchange. Equally clearly, a similar distinction needs to be drawn between written exchanges mediated by chirographic writing and written exchanges mediated by typographic writing. The latter of these could be further subdivided into two stages: the first mediated by hand-press reproduction, and the second by machine-press reproduction. The importance of this latter distinction is borne out by the study of the growth of literacy in nineteenth-century Europe following the introduction of the mechanized press (cf. Altick and Eisenstein).

     

    Between Poster’s third stage–written exchanges mediated by print–and his fourth–electronically mediated exchange–lies much of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, for although he does at one point acknowledge the nineteenth century origins of electronically mediated information systems in the telegraph and photography (19), his analysis of such systems is limited to the telephone, television advertising, databases, computer writing and computer science. The inclusion of the machine-press production stage suggested above accounts for a large share of the information technology of the nineteenth century, but the end of that century and the first half of the next, it seems to me, several quite distinct modes of information transfer have emerged which may help to provide a bridge from written exchanges to electronically mediated exchange and, particularly, to multimedia exchange mediated electronically.

     

    We might group the various non-computer modes of information available in the twentieth century in a variety of ways; I would like to propose one such classificatory scheme based, as is Poster’s, on the wrapping of exchange:

     

    verbal media:
    telegraph, radio, telephone
    visual media:
    visual arts media (painting, sculpture, etc), photography
    combinatory media:
    offset printing, film, television, video

     

    The first group fits neatly into Poster’s progression, since it participates in the wrappings of language. Historically, it is characterized by progressively orally mediated electronic exchange, which might be seen as an inversion of the pattern found in the Poster’s earlier stages. The fit of the second and third groups into Poster’s schema is more problematic because, despite his statement that the study of the mode of information “must include a study of the forms of information storage and retrieval, from cave painting and clay tablets to computer databases and communications satellites” (7), his pre-electronic mediation stages are all decisively characterized by their participation in the wrappings of language. Nonetheless, visual means of communication and information transfer have always existed–from cave paintings to religious icons to Gothic cathedrals to paintings, sculpture, and other visual arts media. The information-poor, one might even argue, have historically relied on the visual media as their primary mode of reproducible information transfer. Certainly this was true in Western Europe before the growth of literacy, and even today scholars point to the democratizing effect of television.

     

    Also evident in the development of twentieth-century modes of information is a ever-increasing trend toward synchronous combinatory media. This January, AT&T announced the release of its first videophone, the latest manifestation of a trend which began with film and has progressed through television, video, and in the last few years, developments in multimedia computing. The design of synchronous combinatory exchange is necessarily unlike that of written exchange. The organizing principle of combinatory exchange in its simplest form is synchronicity rather than sequence (which is essential to all forms of written exchange). Both forms are linear to some degree– both rely on a time-line of expression. In written exchange, linearity is an overt feature of the expression. In the case of synchronous combinatory exchange, linearity is only covertly present since the elements of a synchronized combinatory expression must be aligned in time. In an analog environment this alignment creates a singular linear expression. In a digital environment, on the other hand, the expression may be multiple, may consist of a multiplicity of lines.

     

    While historicism clearly must inform such a totalizing metaphor as Poster’s “mode of information,” Poster’s objective is equally clearly trans-historical:

     

    the stages are not 'real,' not 'found' in the documents of each epoch, but imposed by the theory as a necessary step in the process of attaining knowledge. In this sense the stages are not sequential but coterminous in the present. They are not consecutive also since elements of each are at least implicit in the others. The logical status of the concept of the mode of information is both historical and transcendental. In that sense the latest stage is not the privileged, dialectical resolution of previous developments. In one sense, however, a sense that Marx anticipated, the current configuration constitutes a necessary totalization of earlier developments: that is, one cannot but see earlier developments from the situation of the present. The anatomy of the mode of electronic information . . . necessarily sheds new light on the anatomy of oral and print modes of information . . . . I prefer to consider the present age as simply an unavoidable context of discursive totalization, not as an ontological realization of a process of development.(6-7)

     

    Theorizing

     

    From within this context of discursive totalization, other possibilities suggest themselves. In A Thousand Plateaus (1970), Deleuze and Guattari propose a different history of written exchange. “Writing,” they claim, “has nothing to do with signifying. It has to do with surveying, mapping, even realms that are yet to come” (4-5). Their history is delineated in terms of types of books. There are three types of books, the first being historically the earliest and the third the most recent, but all three are coterminous in the present. The first type they describe as the root-book. The root-book “imitates the world, as art imitates nature: by procedures specific to it that accomplish what nature cannot or can no longer do” (5). The second type is the radicle-system, or fascicular root book. “This time, the principal root has aborted, or its tip has been destroyed; an immediate, indefinite multiplicity of secondary roots grafts onto it and undergoes a flourishing development” (5). The approximate characteristics of Deleuze and Guattari’s third book type–the rhizome–clearly indicate a departure from the book as printed codex to electronically mediated exchange:

     

    1. and 2. principles of connection and heterogeneity; 3. principle of multiplicity; 4. principle of asignifying rupture; and 5. principles of cartography and decalcomania.(7-9)

     

    The significance of this taxonomy for this discussion is that its classification, unlike Poster’s, is entirely media-independent, gaining its meaning, so to speak, from a delineation of structure or design.

     

    The root-book roughly corresponds to written communication prior to the development of the paste-up technique (which Deleuze and Guattari refer to as assemblage; 4) in the early part of the twentieth century. Its history is one of linear production. In its earliest form, the writing of the root-book was synonymous with its publication. Today, the production of the root-book is still characterized as a linear process consisting of five steps: 1. writing of a manuscript; 2. submission/editing of the manuscript; 3. the composition of the manuscript in type; 4. the proofing of the type sheets; and 5. the dissemination of the publication. The production process for the radicle-system book is much lengthier, requiring the addition of at least two additional steps, the first, the mock-up or layout stage normally falling between the second and third root-book steps; and the second, the paste-up stage falling between the third and fourth steps in the production of the root-book. In its earliest manifestations (and still today in the certain fine-printing and vanity publishing circles), the production of the root-book is characterized by oneness and stability. Even in its more recent manifestations, the root-book strives to be an exact replica of the author’s words, a representation or signification of an individual’s thoughts. Even as the production process has fragmented (through the intervention of editors, publishers, printers who are not the author), it has maintained its linearity. Likewise, the publication has retained its insularity and rootedness.

     

    In contrast, the design of the radicle-system book is fragmented and multifarious, and while representation is still employed as an element, it is only one of many couched in layers that problematize its signification. Interestingly, the technology which initially enabled this kind of production was photography. The production process is less emphatically sequential, the organizing principle being collage or assemblage which allows for alteration and reorganization at almost every stage of the production process. In some cases this process has extended even to the composition of the manuscript itself, as in the case of William S. Burroughs’s cut-up texts, or, in a less mechanical implementation, in the poetry and critical writings of Rachel Blau DuPlessis.

     

    Deleuze and Guattari describe a third type of book:

     

    A system of this kind could be called a rhizome. A rhizome as a subterranean stem is absolutely different from roots and radicles. Bulbs and tubers are rhizomes. Plants with roots or radicles may be rhizomorphic in other respects altogether . . . . Burrows are too, in all their functions of shelter, supply, movement, evasion, and breakout. The rhizome itself assumes very diverse forms, from ramified surface extension in all directions to concretion into bulbs and tubers . . . . The rhizome includes the best and the worst: potato and couchgrass, or the weed.(6-7)

     

    Telecommunications systems are rhizomorphic, as are computer networks. Think of maps you have seen and descriptions you have heard of the internet–a rhizome. If we accept the rhizome as a metaphor for electronically mediated exchange, then hypertext is its apparent fulfillment, and Deleuze and Guattari’s “approximate characteristics of the rhizome”– principles of connection, heterogeneity, multiplicity, asignifying rupture, and cartography and decalcomania–may be seen as the principles of hypertextual design.

     

    Principles of Connection and Heterogeneity

     

    The principles of connection and heterogeneity state that “any point of a rhizome can be connected to any other, and must be” (Deleuze & Guattari 7). In this sense a rhizome is very different from a tree structure, where the order is fixed by a hierarchy of relationships. Cognitive jumps, which must be mechanically forced in an hierarchy, are intuitively sustained in a rhizome. A rhizome is the only structure which can effectively sustain connections between different media without giving hegemony to language. Many current relational and flatfile multimedia database applications support the storage of multiple forms of media, and some will even display different types contiguously, but keyword searching is the only mechanism provided for cross-type searching. Like film and video, they support synchronous display (but then, so can the book, albeit with limitations), but they do not support nonverbal access. Traditional hierarchical database structures are even more problematic in their support of nonverbal expression. Meaningful formation of hierarchies across media boundaries can be accomplished only through the use of language, since hierarchy is itself a creation of language, and therefore, language is the only universal tool available within an hierarchical structure. A rhizomorphic structure, on the other hand, does not rely on language for its ordering, although many of the linkages in a given structure may be linguistic.

     

    A rhizome ceaselessly establishes connections between semiotic chains, organizations of power, and circumstances relative to the arts, sciences, and social struggles. A semiotic chain is like a tuber agglomerating very diverse acts, not only linguistic, but also perceptive, mimetic, gestural, and cognitive; there is no language in itself, nor are there any linguistic universals, only a throng of dialects, patois, slangs, and specialized languages (7).

     

    Hypermedia design is rhizomorphic in its sustenance of heterogeneous connection, because there is no systemic hierarchy of connection. The perception of connectivity is entirely left to the user, though the pre-existence of particular connections may foster varying user perceptions of overall structure. At its most political, connectivity is a democratizing principle. It functions as a structure of individuation since at any given moment the “center” of any rhizomorphic structure is the individual’s position in relation to that structure. Distinctions between author and reader, constituent and politician, even intermediary and end-user disintegrate as the reader participates in authorship, constituent in polis, and end-user in the search itself. At its worse, connectivity inspires anarchy. Witness (as we all did) the impact of limited connectivity (exclusive of the important element of interactivity) via the broadcast of a videotape of the arrest in the case of the aftermath of the Rodney King verdict.

     

    As the distinctions between participant/viewer, author/reader blur, the concept of authorship itself will be problematized. All paths through hyperspace are equally valid to the individual traveller. As the “reader” negotiates hyperspace he/she becomes a navigator–traversing established links to pre-existent nodes; but also an explorer–creating new links to previously known, but unrelated territories; a pioneer–venturing forth into uncharted realms; and a visionary–imagining and giving shape to the as-yet unknown.

     

    Principle of Multiplicity

     

    Act so that there is no use in a centre . . . .

     

    –Stein, 63

     

    A multiplicity has neither subject nor object, only determinations, magnitudes, and dimensions that cannot increase in number without the multiplicity changing in nature . . . . An assemblage is precisely this increase in the dimensions of a multiplicity that necessarily changes in nature as it expands its connections. There are no points or positions in a rhizome, much as those found in a structure, tree or root. There are only lines.

     

    –Deleuze & Guattari, 8

     

    Hypertextual design is able to support non-hierarchical thinking and cognitive jumping because it recognizes the diversity of multifarious modes of information. Information may be structured hierarchically within a hypermedia system, but only to the extent that such a structure exists in a coterminous relationship with other structures. In other words, hypertextual design presupposes not only that multiple points of access are preferable to a single point, but by extension, that multiple structures are preferable to a single structure. Information retrieval studies have shown that a single user’s selection of access points for a given topic may vary over time and space, making it difficult for an indexer to predict potential user vocabulary. The principle of multiplicity is reflected in hypertextual design by the coterminous presence of varying modes of access to a single structure on the one hand, and of varying structures on the other.

     

    Landow and others have noted the hypertextual nature of pre-hypertext literary projects from Sterne’s Tristram Shandy to Robert Coover’s Pricksongs and Descants. Yet the lists I have seen are conspicuous in their omission of female writers and feminist critics, not to mention writers of color. I have already mentioned Rachel Blau DuPlessis, but there are others who might be mentioned as well–Emily Dickinson, Gertrude Stein, Zora Neale Hurston–all of whom practice a writing of inclusion and fragmentation, of absent centers and centered absence. Multiplicity, as a hypertextual principle, recognizes a multiplicity of relationships beyond the canonical (hierarchical). Thus, the traditional concept of literary authorship comes under attack from two quarters–as connectivity blurs the boundary between author and reader, multiplicity problematizes the hierarchy that is canonicity.

     

    Principle of Asignifying Rupture

     

    Hypertextual design intuitively supports two forms of access which must be forced in hierarchical structures: user-generated access and mapping. The principle of asignifying rupture supports the former, and those of cartography and decalcomania, the latter. In an hierarchical structure, a user-generated access point may cause a rupture in the system. For example, in a database search, a user may, through the process of serendipity, arrive at a particular point in a hierarchy, even though her departure-point has no apparent hierarchical relationship to that arrival point. If she is allowed to introduce a link from her departure term to her arrival point into the hierarchy without further evaluation, the very structure of that hierarchy might well be undermined. One might view the project of feminist criticism in this light. The introduction of non-canonical texts and authors into the canon disrupts the foundations of the canon altogether. In contrast, hypertextual design encourages such disruptive activity while rendering it insignificant. Since the structure does not rely on any given theory of relationship, it cannot be affected by the characterization of a new relationship previously alien to it. The potential for any relationship exists within the hypertextual structure; some simply await unmasking.

     

    Principles of Cartography and Decalcomania

     

    The second form of access not easily supported within an hierarchy is mapping. Tracings or logs of an individual’s progress through an hierarchical database are of course possible and may help a user to retrace a given path, or provide useful data for research in human-computer interaction. Current maps of search paths exist in the form of recordings of transactions, though the best systems record only the user query and the system response, without making a record of the context of either query or response. The records thus constructed are divorced from context, non-relational, and perhaps most importantly, non-spatial. They are grammatic, rather than diagrammatic. They perpetuate the hegemony of language and de-emphasize the sense of a journey through space and time. Deleuze and Guattari’s notion of mapping is, however, quite different, and presupposes the operation of the principles discussed previously.

     

    Each user’s path of connection through a database is as valid as any other. New paths can be grafted onto the old, providing fresh alternatives. The map orients the user within the context of the database as a whole, but always from the perspective of the user. In hierarchical systems, the user map generally shows the user’s progress, but it does so out of context. A typical search history displays only the user’s queries and the system’s responses. It does not show the system’s path through the database. It does not display rejected terms, only matches. It does not record the user’s psychological responses to what the system presents. On additional command, it may supply a list of synonyms or related terms, but this is as far as it can go in displaying the territory surrounding the request. It can only understand hierarchy, so it can only display hierarchical relationships. What distinguishes the map from the tracing is that it is entirely oriented toward an experimentation in contact with the real. The map does not reproduce an unconscious closed in upon itself; it constructs the unconscious. It fosters connections between fields, the removal of blockages on bodies without organs, the maximum opening of bodies without organs onto a plane of consistency. It is itself a part of the rhizome. The map is open and connectable in all of its dimensions; it is detachable, reversible, susceptible to constant modification (12).

     

    A hypertextual map is more closely related to geographic maps than to search histories. It shows the path of the user through the surrounding territory, but always from the point-of-view of the user. It is as though the map were perpetually shifting as the traveller moved from one quadrant to the next. Some of that territory is charted–it is well mapped out in terms that the user understands, and connected to familiar territory or nodes–and some is uncharted, either because it consists of unlinked nodes that exist in the database much as an undiscovered island might exist in the sea, disconnected from the lines of transfer and communication linking other land areas, or as an unidentified planet in space, with the potential for discovery and even exploration, but as yet just a glimmer in the sky–or because it is linked in ways that are meaningless to the user in his present context. The user can zoom in on zones of interest, jump to new territories using previously established links or by establishing new links of his own, retrace an earlier path, or create new islands or nodes and transportation routes or links to connect them to his previous path or the islands or nodes charted by others.

     

    The rhizome operates by variation, expansion, conquest, capture, offshoots. Unlike the graphic arts, drawing, or photography, unlike tracings, the rhizome pertains to a map that must be produced, constructed, a map that is always detachable, connectable, reversible, modifiable, and has multiple entryways and exits and its own lines of flight. It is tracings that must be put on the map, not the opposite. In contrast to centered (even polycentric) systems with hierarchical modes of communication and preestablished paths, the rhizome is an acentered, nonhierarchical, nonsignifying system without a General and without an organizing memory of central automaton, defined solely by a circulation of states (21).

     

    Hypertext is rhizomorphic in all its characteristics. Its power derives from its flexibility and variability; from its ability to incorporate, transmute and transcend any traditional tool or structure. Like the rhizome, it is frightening because it is amorphous. The hierarchical systems we are accustomed to are definitional–they are centers of power. Knowledge of the hierarchy engenders authority; corrupted authority breeds despotism. Knowledge of the rhizome as a totality is impossible, precisely because “totality” and other absolutes have no meaning in a rhizome. The rhizome is as individual as the individual in contact with it. It is that individual’s perception, that individual’s map, that individual’s understanding. It is also, and at the same time, a completely different something–another individual’s perception, another individual’s map, another individual’s understanding. It provides no structure for common understanding. It is a state of being, reflective always of the present, a plateau in a region made up entirely of plateaus–“a continuous, self-vibrating region of intensities whose development avoids any orientation toward a culmination point or external end” (Deleuze & Guattari 22).

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Altick, R. The English Common Reader. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1957.
    • Bush, V. “As We May Think.” Atlantic Monthly 176 (July 1945): 101-8.
    • DuPlessis, R. Tabula Rosa. Elmwood, CT: Potes & Poets Press, 1987.
    • —. The Pink Guitar: Writing as Feminist Practice. New York: Routledge, 1990.
    • Deleuze, G. & Guattari, F. A Thousand Plateaus. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1987.
    • Eisenstein, E. The Printing Press as an Agent of Change. Cambridge: Cambridge U P, 1980.
    • Landow, G. Hypertext: The Convergence of Contemporary Critical Theory and Technology. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1992.
    • Nelson, T. Dream Machines. Redmond, WA: Tempus, 1987.
    • Poster, M. The Mode of Information. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1990.
    • Stein, G. Tender Buttons. Los Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, c1914.
    • Vandergrift, K. “Hypermedia: Breaking the Tyranny of the Text.” School Library Journal 35:3 (Nov. 1988): 30-35.

     

  • Derrida/Fort-Da: Deconstructing Play

    Alan Aycock

    Department of Anthropology
    University of Lethbridge

    aycock@hg.uleth.ca

     

    Jacques Derrida is a notably “playful” scholar, in two senses of the term. First, his writing style is playful, richly replete with the puns, circumambulations, excurses, hesitations, and gnomic recursions that make him a bane to his translators and a delight to his readers. Second, Derrida’s playful style reflects his argument that the Western metaphysics of presence may be deconstructed (as indeed, he believes that it “always already” is) by exposing the playfulness of differance, the constant motion of forces elsewhere in space and time.

     

    From this point of view I find it somewhat ironic that despite the extensive use of Derrida’s ideas in numerous scholarly fields, no one has addressed the implications of deconstruction for the study of play itself.1 To remedy this apparent oversight, I shall first present a brief discussion of Derrida’s treatment of the fort-da game described by Freud, and draw out several nuances of Derrida’s approach to this game which seem to me to be more generally applicable to play. I shall then offer five examples of the playing of chess, ethnographic situations that are familiar to me from many years of participant observation and writing about the game (Aycock, n.d.[c]). In each instance, I shall show how my characterization of Derrida’s approach illuminates the understanding of the play at hand. Finally, I shall evaluate, tentatively, the prospects and implications of a deconstructive approach to play, and suggest some directions for further research in this area.

     

    Fort-da

     

    The game of “fort-da” was invented by Freud’s grandson, who was then one and a half years old (1955: 14-17). In the simplest form of this play, the child had a piece of string attached to a wooden spool which he threw from him, murmuring “o-o-o-o,” then pulled back, saying “da.” Freud (and the child’s mother) interpreted the first sound as the child’s version of “fort” (“gone away”), the second as the German for “there” (as in English “there it is!”). Freud associated this game with the child’s attempt to assert mastery in play to compensate for an emotionally fraught situation where he had no control, his mother’s occasional excursions from the household without him (1955: 15). Freud also linked the empowerment of this early game with the child’s apparent lack of reaction to his mother’s death several years later (1955, 16, n. 1).

     

    In general, Freud was using the fort-da game to illustrate the operations of the economy of pleasure that he had described, and to introduce the notion of the return of the repressed; that is, the neurotic effects of an earlier psychic trauma upon later behavior. As a preliminary to Derrida’s discussion of the game, it may also be noted that he perceives a resonance in Freud’s work here with the broad philosophical doctrine of the “eternal return,” which Nietzsche elaborated lyrically in his Zarathustra (e.g., Nietzsche, 1961: 159-163, 176-180). It is quite possible that Freud, who was familiar with Nietzsche’s work (Freud, 1955: 123-124), also made this connection.

     

    Derrida turns this brief anecdote into a playful trope for Freud’s writings (Derrida, 1987a: 257-409), showing first how Freud repeatedly sends away and calls back his central argument on the pleasure principle as he tries to summon evidence to support it, then how Freud himself, as the writer of the play, conceals initially from the reader his genealogical relationship to the child as a convention of scientific writing, deferring his authorship by devolving it impersonally on an unidentified child at play. In “writing” his grandson in this fashion, Freud speculates not only on the psychic economy of pleasure, which must yield in the finest bourgeois terms more than is invested, but on the political economy of his own family, and of his own writing.

     

    Derrida gradually extends this convoluted image into an analysis of the incompletion of the game (Freud believed that the only use that the child made of his toys was to “make them gone” [Derrida, 1987a: 311]), of his family (the child’s mother and father are mute and unidentified in this account), of his theory of pleasure (Freud never completely proved its existence to his satisfaction, but he never discarded it entirely, reworking it constantly throughout his life), and finally of the subject himself (Freud’s own death prefigured in that of his daughter). But Derrida is not done with the game, either (Derrida, 1987a: 1-256): he plays on “fort-da” in his love letters (whose messages go and return), in the pleasure of his love (which threatens to lose and find itself), in the uncertainty of writer and addressee (always incompletely known), and in the fort-da of his own theory of writing (set in eternal motion by the forces of differance).

     

    Even this is not enough: Derrida plays upon the common etymology of the “legs” and “legacy” of Freud (Derrida, 1987a: 292), upon Freud’s reference later in the same work to “limping” as a halting fort-da of his legs/legacy of writing (Derrida, 1987a: 406), upon Derrida’s own limp acquired during an illness as a fort-da of his love and his work (Derrida, 1987a: 139, 141, 199), upon van Gogh’s paintings of shoes as a fort-da of “step/nothing” (both from the French pas) (Derrida, 1987b: 357), upon Socrates-Plato as engaging in an intellectual and erotic fort-da (Derrida, 1987a: 222), upon autobiography and the genealogy of ideas as fort-da (Derrida, 1987a: 62; 1988: 70), upon Freud’s “scene of writing” as fort-da (Derrida, 1987a: 336), and upon the eternal return/return of the repressed as fort-da (Derrida, 1987a: 303).

     

    The play of fort-da, then, occupies much the same analytical space in Derrida’s writings as the play of differance, because it substitutes the centrifugality of uncertainty for the centripetality of the Western quest for a transcendental signified. 2 I am highlighting the game of fort-da here not as an opening to Freud’s own economy of pleasure, but as a device to illustrate and gain access to that which I take to represent most clearly Derrida’s approach to the ludic.

     

    Several elements of Derrida’s use of fort-da stand out for my purposes. First, the margins of play talk, the “fort-da” of the child, open up to reveal themselves in talk which is not obviously about play: the writings of Freud, of Plato, and of Derrida himself. Second, the authoritative structure of the game exposes itself as always going “somewhere else”: the spool that is thrown away, the rigidly structured scientific writing that is always incomplete, the differance of Derrida’s own circuitous writing style. Third, the players’ subjectivity is always lost: the unidentified child and parents, Freud, Derrida’s unidentified lover(s), Derrida himself, Socrates, Plato, Nietzsche. Thus the differance of fort-da operates not to fix the game as a specific essence, but to defer the full apprehension of the ludic indefinitely, even as it is pleasurably experienced from moment to moment: “In order to think of play in a radical way, perhaps one must think beyond the activity of a subject manipulating objects according to or against the rules” (Derrida, 1988: 69). For Derrida, play is not fixed in finite discourse or structural symmetry or subjective intent: it happens, irresistibly, as a movement elsewhere of the traces of writing in the world (Derrida, 1988: 69).

     

    Chess As Fort-da: Five Examples

     

    To apply my reading of Derrida’s approach to fort-da, I adduce five examples of different forms of chess: casual play, tournament play, correspondence play, computer play, and skittles. In each case, my narrative is followed by a demonstration of the manner in which talk about play, the structures of play, and the self-awareness of the players themselves lead inexorably elsewhere, into the miscegenations of play that deconstruct its apparent authority.

     

    I intend by so doing to interrogate the peripheries of play rather than its core, and thereby suggest that it may be possible to continue the play of signifiers precisely where a more traditional analysis would seek to arrest it. I take this subversion of the authority of these examples of play to represent a paradigm, however tentative and limited, of Derrida’s own playfulness: “this lack, which cannot be determined, localized, situated, arrested inside or outside before the framing, is simultaneously both product and production of the frame” (Derrida, 1987b: 71).

     

    Casual Play

     

    In the local public library an elderly man and a younger one set up the pieces and begin to play; at the same table, others are doing the same. After a few games, all of which he wins, the younger man proposes that they play with a chess clock (comprising two clock faces set in a single base which operate independently to measure the time taken by each opponent). The older man demurs: “I’ve played chess without a clock for fifty years, and I’m not going to start now. I enjoy chess because I don’t work at it, and to hear that clock ticking takes away all the fun.” The younger man hesitates, then says “ok, no problem; let’s play.” But after one or two more quickly won games he leaves, saying “I’ve got to get home now; thanks for the games.” The other players at the table look up to say goodbye, but continue playing for several more hours.

     

    Is there “no problem” here? Everyone has followed the rules of chess, and observed the politesse of social discourse that surrounds it. There’s no dispute; no obvious disagreement about what’s going on here. But there is something which is carefully unthought in the situation, an authority that is rejected, and a presence which is an absence.

     

    First, the talk of play. I intercepted the younger man on his way out of the library, and asked him why he had left. As I had suspected he would, he said “Look, there’s just no competition here. I beat the old fart six times before he had even castled. Using a clock might have narrowed the odds a bit, but he wouldn’t do it. So why hang around?” Thus the offer of a timed game expressed covertly a sense of the discrepancy between the two players, and even more fundamentally an expectation that chess is inherently adversarial. Had the younger man said as much, he would have insulted his partner. So he sought an agreement to change the circumstances of play, and was rebuffed. This makes us think, perhaps, about Derrida’s “Bab-el” [1988: 100-104], the translation of disparate terms into covenant, and the fort-da of relationships embedded in discursive situations.

     

    Second, the structure of play. The “ticking” of a clock is an image, as the older man pointed out, of discipline and authority in bourgeois society (he had worked for many years as an air traffic controller, constantly harassed by fateful decisions that had to be made instantly). I have spoken at some length with the older man on several occasions. For him, the clock was an enemy: “I hate to be rushed; I’ve had enough of that.” Thus a refusal for the older opponent carried with it an absence, a retirement from work; for the younger, the rejection of the clock was a denial of his presence in modernity, life in the fast lane: “I want to get on with it: just hanging around and playing to be playing is bullshit.”

     

    Third, the players. The role of player was perceived quite differently by the two men. The younger man saw the purpose of play as “beating up someone tougher than you; if I had a choice, I’d always play someone rated above me. If you can’t get the rush, why bother at all?” The older man wanted to “enjoy what I’m doing; I don’t care if the other guy is better, as long as he gives me a good game. Rating? Naw, that doesn’t matter.” In other words, the younger man was interested mainly in working himself into an absent hierarchy of competitors ranked above one another, perhaps even in a formal rating system (a four-number designation of strength determined by a mathematical formula [Elo, 1979]), while the older man was engaged by the egalitarian moment of play, its intuited experience. Each of them pointed away from the presence of the game; even the older man had “forgotten” the formal history of chess, which is often recited as a project of triumph of greater over lesser players (cf. Eales, 1985 for an instance of the way in which chess “heroes” insinuate themselves into what is intended as a more impersonal social history).

     

    Thus the “traces” of casual play in this example show that it is always on the edge of being transformed into something else, the absent authorial signifiers of formal competition, ranking, and time. The players’ self- consciousness of play moved in and out of phase with one another, and the decorum that required the younger player to stay for an extra two games after his proposal to use a clock was turned down, and to thank the older man for the games that had not really been equally enjoyed by both parties was a marker not of present intention, but of absent transactions, the “unthought” of play discourse that nonetheless dominated its situation. Even the age of the players became a factor absent from the game in terms of the specific way that its rules constitute the play, but present also when the players’ structural position in their life cycles–the retirement of the older player and the immersion of the younger in themes of modernity–is considered.

     

    Tournament Play

     

    Here a younger man and an older man play in a highly choreographed scene: the room is a small stage raised above an audience of chairs filled to overflowing by players from the same round of this tournament, by spectators who are excitedly pursuing what they take to be consummate competition, and by a few journalists assigned to cover the event. The competitors have a table to themselves, and upon the wall above their play there is a vinyl over-sized board with velcro pieces that adhere to it, moved as the players move, in utter silence, by an attendant. At their side a clock ticks away the time until the time control: 50 moves in two hours (apiece), and 20 moves per hour thereafter. Each player has a printed form at his side upon which he records the moves in a special code, overseen by the tournament director who hovers at the margins of the play, more than a spectator and less than a participant.

     

    The younger man has begun the game with a Queen’s pawn opening and the older man, a national champion of some decades earlier, has defended aggressively with a King’s Indian. By the middle game, most of the center pawns are interlocked and the pieces are maneuvering within that framework. At a particular point, the older player pushes a flank pawn unexpectedly and turns the game around: the older man goes on the offense and the younger man has to rearrange his pieces to defend what has suddenly become to seem a vulnerable and overextended position. As the game transpires, the challenger falls back into an enclosed space that he can not sustain. He forfeits a pawn to gain some room to maneuver, but slowly the former champion pushes him into a lost endgame, two Bishops and three Pawns against a Knight, Bishop, and two Pawns. When the older man finally breaks through to a winning position, the audience applauds and the younger man turns over his King in resignation. The players discuss the game in a postmortem with several bystanders who eagerly intrude their suggestions about alternative lines of play.

     

    The talk: here rigid silence dominates, other than the audible undercurrent of the clock’s working, but the pieces “speak” for themselves during the game. As a proxy transaction of those who move them, they thrust and counter in a dreamlike counterpoint to the players’ imaginations (in their minds, the players are recapitulating another game, the opening, roughly eighteen moves remembered, of two Grandmasters in a match more than twenty years before). As a kind of deferral of the silent talk that prevailed during the game, the players play out a postmortem in which many divergent lines of play are seized and released (fort-da), each in its turn as it proves more or less workable: “If I move here, then you must . . . .” “But if you do that, then I . . . .” A bystander: “Your King’s-side attack was premature; you had to consolidate on the Queen’s-side first.” Their transactions are always formed in memory, and recalled in afterthought, as what might have been possible. Their game appears afterward in a printed text of the tournament densely annotated with many of the different lines that have been discovered, and will be reincarnated by other players, elsewhere as they challenge latterly this intertext of play.

     

    Thus the talk of play exhausts itself along several seams of tournament chess: first as between the silence of the players and the voice of their pieces; second the disciplined quiescence of the room (the tournament director quickly hushes any conversation among the spectators, and the kinds of things that one player can say to another are specifically prescribed, e.g., “Check,” “J’adoube” [the traditional French word “I adjust,” to reposition a piece on its square without being required to move it], “Draw?”) against the tension expressed by the clock that counts down the moves to the time control; third, the relative tumult of the postmortem where numerous previously silent lines of play, many formerly unthought during the game, are then spoken and often are themselves contradicted; fourth, the publication of the play and its annotations against the future replaying of the opening in this game, which is itself a reprise of a past game.

     

    The structures: tournament chess is apparently very highly structured. I have described elsewhere (Aycock, 1992[a]) the micro-physics of control that operates during formal play, including the many constraints set upon the motion of competitors in space and time, the segregation and passivity of spectators, the hegemony of the tournament director and the chess organizations that sanction play, even the pairings from round to round (this particular event was a national championship including hundreds of players that lasted ten rounds, and occupied nearly two weeks of the players’ time). But it is also pertinent to observe that any tournament game is only divided by a word, a movement, or a tick of the clock from a dispute that may embroil all present, and many who are absent (for instance, the sponsoring chess organization); in other words, the semblance of systematic respect for the rules of play that suffused my description in this instance is very tenuous, a quarrel carefully “unthought” by the participants (one of whom indeed became intensely involved in such a disagreement during a subsequent round).

     

    Similarly, the structure of the play itself, taken as the configuration of pieces and pawns on the board, is always open to surprise, an intimation of structures disrupted. For instance, the King’s Indian opening that was used here is not a monolithic sequence of movements, but a family tree of potential excursions in which the displacement of a single pawn or piece has enormous implications all across the board (cf. Bellin and Ponzetto, 1990). A King’s Indian Averbakh, which was played, is wholly different in tenor from an King’s Indian Sdmisch, and even within the Averbakh there are important variations, each of which may be named according to the Grandmaster who prefers it or the place where it was first played (and often these names have yet further names attached to them to indicate subvariations, or are designated differently by players from other countries). In the instance of tournament play that I have narrated, the older man found a “new” move that he had in fact resurrected from a game that he had played thirty years previously, the venture of a flank pawn which set awry everything in its wake: “I wondered whether you had seen my game against Reshevsky.” “I just didn’t even think about that move; it didn’t seem thematic at all.” Even endgames, which are apparently simple because of the limited material on the board, and have been thoroughly classified (in a five-volume publication of many thousands of pages (Matanovic, 1982-) and analyzed extensively (sometimes by computers), bring the unexpected to bear in particular situations: “I thought if I kept all the pieces on the board, I could create some complications that offered drawing chances.” “I wanted to try losing a tempo (move) in that last position, to see whether I could get the opposition back and save the game.”

     

    Thus each move is itself a trace of other opportunities ventured or foregone, and the perception or calculation of moves (which are two very different cognitive operations in human play [Aycock, 1990]) is a complex affair of faults and absences that becomes more problematic, not less so, as the skill of the players increases: “I tried to figure out what was going to happen when I moved the Knight to g5, but it was just too much, so I tried it and prayed.” “I couldn’t decide how you would respond if I pushed that pawn, but it looked right, so I just did it.”

     

    Even the postmortem is a wilderness of deviant structures, many that are only discovered during the analysis that follows the game, and many whose impact cannot be assessed, but are marked with a “!?” or “?!” in the published text as possibilities to be pursued in other games. To take the notion of the postmortem one step further, at the highest levels of chess the players have trainers and seconds who study their own games and those of their putative opponents to find weaknesses and strengths that could be exploited in a match. Even in the less exalted national championship from which this game is taken, the strongest players had prepared not only a general repertoire, but also in some cases, for specific opponents who might or might not be paired with them. In other examples that might have been adduced (Aycock, n.d.[a]), the players had met across the board many times previously, and played their present game against a sense of absences, e.g., what their partner had been doing in recent games, how an opponent might react to a new or an old sequence of moves, whether the person involved was likely to be aggressive or conservative at that stage of the tournament. Thus structures of play are always, and have always been, deferred to and from other present situations of play; there is no transcendental signified, no perfect game to arrest the motion of the signifiers that I have discussed, and no abstract competitor against whom one always plays.

     

    The players: in a very straightforward way it could be said that the division among competitors, spectators, and officials is exact at any moment of play; tournament rules capture this distinction with great precision (Aycock, 1992[a]). Even when these roles are relaxed during the postmortem everyone still knows who were the “authors” of play in this simple sense, a matter further attested by the results of play that are inscribed on the chart of opponents on the wall at the front of the tournament room, and the names attached to the published text of the game. In fact “serious” chess makes an extended effort, indicated among other things by the recording of moves made by each competitor during play, to identify and fix its origins.

     

    Yet from what I have already said about this game it can also be observed that the players were not solely the masters of their own situation. They deferred, for example, the control of the circumstances of play to the tournament director, and beyond him to the organization that he represented, and even further to the rating formula whose advantage they desired (immediately after play, the younger man sat down with a calculator to figure out how many points he had lost; in a closed championship [where most, if not all of the competitors would have been internationally ranked], he would have been trying to sort out what overall score was still required to achieve an international norm). The tension in the room had to do at least in part with the breathless attention of the audience, “players” of sorts who constitute a stereotyped and generalized “Other” of the encounter. The players themselves took into account many absent factors respecting the intentions and self-presence of the players that I have already described: the previous games in which a similar opening was played and the styles of the players who played them, the manuals of middlegame style and of endgame technique, authored by yet other players, that had been studied for many hours each day, the suspicions harbored about the state of mind of the opponent. And as the postmortem dramatically displayed, the players had not intended their play either as a definite conclusion or as a comprehensive understanding of the results of specific moves.

     

    Thus, as Derrida has argued, a text of play stands not only for itself but for many other things as well, since there is no one and nothing “outside of the text” who authorizes it of his/her free will. Indeed, there is a sort of Nietzschean flavor to the whole thing, where each player was the hero of his or her own myth, his or her “playing autobiography” (cf. Aycock, n.d.[a]), who lived out the “eternal return” (the endless replaying of a single opening variant, middlegame theme, or endgame arrangement) but who lacked the absolute self-presence to saturate the play: even the world champion loses once in a while, and lesser mortals must obviate their certain knowledge of victory as against the artifice of the tournament, else why play tournaments at all?

     

    These traces of play, even in this highly regulated and harshly defined situation (very much a gulag of play, a strict regime of hard labor), express the movement of differance across a field of power/knowledge (Foucault, 1980) that is contested and undermined at every point: who understands the play, how will domination be sustained if it can be at all, will the intentions of the players be realized? Always these traces evoke an incomplete presentiment of chess, although the constitutive rules govern the tournament situation just as comprehensively as that of casual chess. “Mastery” here becomes an irony to which everyone subscribes, and that reflects the desire that is summoned by its lack of presence: there is no final answer to any particular game, or to any of its phases, no matter who is involved. All of the answers, as I have demonstrated, are merely vectors to yet more questions.

     

    Correspondence Chess

     

    Recently when I was cleaning out the bottom of my closet, I came upon a bundle of letters that were written in the 60’s. Among them was my correspondence with a friend from high school, with whom I had played many games of chess over a period of six or seven years. We were quite evenly matched, and continued to play by mail after we left our home town to attend universities in different locales. There is, of course, a formal kind of correspondence play upon which I have reported elsewhere (Aycock, 1989), but here I shall draw attention to a more informal correspondence chess, which nonetheless shares many of the same features.

     

    My friend and I played four games at a time, divided equally between White and Black. Unlike the more usual correspondence chess, we imposed no time limit; it was simply understood that a reply would be forthcoming as soon as possible given our heavy schedules of study. The games were inscribed in a code known as “algebraic,” where the chessboard is conceived as a grid of squares, each designated by a letter (horizontally, “a”-“h”) and a number (vertically, 1-8). Thus a move might be expressed as “d6-d7” or a capture as “d6xd7.” The code has the advantage of being unambiguous (for want of a more immediately personal context) by comparison with the descriptive notation that was more conventional in North America at that time.

     

    In two of these games we had agreed to begin play from the 11th move of a well-known and highly tactical game, a King’s Gambit played by Boris Spassky against Bobby Fischer; in two others, we had decided to play a strategically more complex opening, the semi-Tarrasch variation of the Queen’s Gambit Declined. We had played these games against one another previously across the board as well as in our earlier correspondence, and the honors were about even.

     

    In the particular letter that I am looking at, my friend begins with a short discussion of his life on campus and the courses that he is taking, then writes down his moves for each game. He comments on his move in the 2nd game, “well, I don’t know if this is getting me anywhere, but Fischer gave it an exclamation point in Chess Life, so here goes.” Then he pauses in the middle of writing his move in the 3rd game (thus: “h7-. . .”), and says “Excuse me for a little while, I’ve just been asked to play bridge by this guy from downstairs.” The next line continues, “There, that didn’t take very long, did it?” and adds ” . . . h6″). I’ll concentrate on these two passages for purposes of my analysis, which is of course much influenced by my reading of Derrida’s Post Card (1987a: 3-256).

     

    First, the play talk is expressed by an interlocking sequence of discourses which include the personal remarks in the letter that have at best an indirect relationship to chess, references to a magazine article on chess and to a play event which interrupts the writing of the letter, and the code itself which speaks the move. The referents of each of these kinds of talk is hard to pin down: for example, I’ve never been to the Chapel Hill campus of the University of North Carolina (my friend’s school), I must once have had a copy of the Fischer article, but have it no longer, I’ve never played bridge with the “guy” downstairs, and even the code of the move is hesitant to identify itself without condition, in one case offered with a qualifier (“here goes”) and in the other case broken into in a way that’s impossible to visualize in “real” time (was the piece mystically suspended in the air over the board until my friend returned from his bridge game; was he even using a board and pieces to make his moves?).

     

    The letter itself persists in time, though for all I know my friend is dead, since our correspondence has long since ceased. I didn’t throw away the letter, so it may be excavated by mystified archaeologists a thousand years from now if the paper has not decayed or the ink faded beyond recall. The letter also marks out its own space, sketches of a discourse that remains plausible after nearly thirty years, that could be (and perhaps has been) repeated on many occasions. In fact the very principle of the letter is the endless deferral and repetition of its conversations irrespective of our ability to locate it in a specific place and time.

     

    Second, the structured authority of the play very readily loses itself upon its margins. These were not rated games, though they repeated rated games that we and others had played, and would play again; it was subject to no disciplinary gaze of a chess organization or tournament director, though we implicitly held certain constitutive rules of chess to be more or less constant, including among others the code in which it was written. Yet there is no constitutive rule of chess that allows the players to begin a game on the 11th move, and it would be a serious offense were players in a tournament to consult a magazine article or any other written text of play, including their own notes. Even the continuous sequence of moves that the constitutive rules of chess requires was interrupted in this writing, and the adversarial assumption that lies behind the play of the game was subverted by the confession of my opponent that he didn’t know whether he was playing a good move.

     

    Was this writing of play simply a deferral, an inferior and secondary inscription of the oral authority of the presence of play (cf. Derrida, 1976)? Perhaps in one sense it was, yet writing the play offered quite a different set of textual resources than being there, e.g., stopping to play bridge with a different set of partners, playing four games at once, looking up (as we both did) “best” continuations of the semi-Tarrasch defense in the available chess literature.

     

    To take another example of a possible transcendental signified that becomes problematic in the writing, it would be quite hard to locate the origin of our play: where did the Fischer-Spassky game begin (I seem to recall that it was later pointed out in Chess Life that the line advocated by Fischer in his magazine article had been “invented” at least a hundred years before), or the semi-Tarrasch (there was an early twentieth-century Grandmaster named Siegbert Tarrasch, but what on earth is a semi-Tarrasch)?

     

    Finally, who were the players? I have already mentioned a couple of candidates for insertion at the margins of our game, such as the Grandmasters to whose names our play was affixed, or the “unthought” spectators of our play who might deliver the letter or dig it up latterly in a rubbish heap. Neither the addressee nor the signatory of the letter is secure, as Derrida has suggested: I have noted that I don’t know when or where my friend is now, but I didn’t then, either, though I accepted the usual conventions that associate the author of the play with the name of the correspondent who signs its written code, the Socrates-Plato matter revisited. And if I have the letter in my possession as I write these words, what does that demonstrate: am I truly reading it now, or was I reading it then, in some definitively authentic way? Is this present account of the play more serious than the original, or less so? Consider even the well-known scam, occasionally used as a plot device in novels or movies, where an amateur player bets on at least one victory in simultaneous games over two famous opponents, and merely transmits the move of the one to the other to win the wager. Can this be ruled out here, or in fact isn’t this very close to what actually happened–wasn’t my friend consulting Fischer to play me, and I to play him? But of course Derrida wants us to continue this argument for orality as well as for literacy, the “arche-writing” of which he speaks [1976: 56]. Thus in terms of the example I have given the uncertain traces of this correspondent play are no more derivative or false than the “spurs” of our personally present play: our intentions respecting the moves of this game and our respective abilities to guarantee its proper sequence were just as loosely connected to our self-consciousness in either event. Indeed, if we had been challenged to supply indubitable evidence of self-consciousness with regard to our play of these transacted moves, we would have had enormous problems doing so without setting ourselves in the flux of differance that is involved as I have indicated in the play of this particular game, let alone chess in general; again, the deferral of the intextuated self elsewhere looms just as Derrida has proposed.

     

    Thus even the intimacy of friendship cannot guarantee that their transactions will be more assured of meaning than those of parties who are less well acquainted. In fact, it might be argued that the numerous contexts in which friends encounter one another become the stuff of the deferral of presence even more intensely than for those who have few such contexts, or none at all, since the values involved in any single encounter among friends become multiplied and unevenly focussed on that personal encounter (just as the fort-da incident reported by Freud). This does not lead, either for Derrida or myself, to a claim that the circumstances are meaningless or inscrutable; rather the problem is the reverse, that the meanings are too numerous and too easily scrutinized from every new vantage point to be comfortably situated in an ordinary version of empiricism.

     

    Computer Play

     

    I am presently playing a chess game with my son by means of an electronic mail system installed on the mainframes of our respective universities. He is not a chess player, or if so, he is only the rawest novice, vaguely aware of the constitutive rules of the game but not much else, and not particularly intent on repairing what to me seems an obvious deficiency. Instead, he refers the moves that I am sending him to a computer program that is also located on the mainframe of the university which he attends, and reports (I suppose, without any real evidence on my part, accurately) whatever the computer decides as his own move in the game.

     

    Although we have agreed that I will test my own playing strength against my son’s computer program, he also understands that from time to time I may consult my own chess literature, and even that I might experiment with a chess program, the Chessmaster 2100, that operates on my personal computer. Thus from move to move the parties to the game may shift drastically from organic to silicate opponents. It should also be noted that neither of us is using a chess board and pieces to make our moves, although either of us could instruct our respective programs to print out a simulacrum of the position, and have done so when there was some uncertainty about the transmission of moves and the position at hand.

     

    As our game has progressed, our e-mails which indicate the moves to be made have included side commentaries, much as in the correspondence games that I discussed above, not only about the game situation (“this is an English opening, but your program has gravely compromised itself by those silly Bishop moves”), but also about matters related to our jobs (“I’m an assistant operations supervisor now, with my own office, though I get mainly the shitwork”) and domestic circumstances (“are you coming to see us for Christmas?”). In fact, the latter have taken precedence over the game in recent weeks (“I’ve got this project to finish, so I guess I’ve got to earn my money”), and the game has been held in abeyance until more pressing duties are dealt with on both sides.

     

    Where is the talk of play, and how is it configured? As in the correspondence games, the play “speaks itself” through our written message, but unlike those games, the writing seems to originate not just with the persons who are individually identifiable in a genealogical sense, but also with a computer discourse that carries with itself its own textual protocol. Being “online” is not merely a convenience which suits two people who are separated in space and time, but in addition a knowledge of procedures summoned from a source far beyond the immediate situation, such as in my case courses taken in “DOS.” Neither my son nor I can simply go to a keyboard and start typing, because both of us must conform to the established arrangements of our university mainframes that permit communication to occur within particular constraints, for example accounts, usernames, and passwords. Especially in terms of computers, the indelibility of the traces which inscribe a conversation is brought into question; if deliberate steps are not taken to “save” the words, the bourgeois gesture of finality, they may be lost forever in a kind of electronic limbo (cf. Heim, 1987: 21-22).

     

    Similarly, the game itself endures only for as long as the memories of the mainframe and personal computer can be sustained; if the mainframe crashes, or the hard disk on my personal computer fails, then much of what has been transacted may be lost. Even the attempt to locate this memory within a special physical position, the hardware that underlies the communication, is subjected to the vagaries of telephone lines which transmit bits of information from one city to another. As every computer user knows, there are random glitches in these transmissions which can scramble the signals in progress and render them meaningless: “did you send ’14. d4-d5′?” “No, it was ’14. Ng1-e2′ and then ’15. d4-d5′.” Thus the talk of play in computer chess is mediated by the possibility of garbage introduced by those sitting at the computer keyboard or simply by the chaotic noise of the immediate universe, always threatening to lay waste (“trash”) the representations that are apparently intended.

     

    How is computer play structured, and where is that structure brought into question? I have mentioned already that the protocols of computer use offer a structure which cannot guarantee the simple referentiality of the encounter. To give one example, both my son’s and my own mainframe system require users to sign a solemn declaration that they will respect the propertied interests, the copyright of particular authors, and obey the elaborate “Code of Computing” established by our respective universities. In my case, however, I must confess that some of the programs that I run on my personal computer have been “stolen” from their “rightful owners.” In electronic media, the ease of copying one program to another diskette has undermined this bourgeois sense of proprietorial closure (Poster, 1990: 73). From my son’s viewpoint, his conditions of employment, including the use of his university’s mainframe, proscribe its personal enjoyment, or at least accord game playing a very low priority that my son has, I suspect, sometimes circumvented. This resistance to institutional authority, pleasure against hegemony, is implicated in Derrida’s project of the deconstruction of writing, and in this case it is a potential which is readily available in the situation.

     

    Our game obeys all of the constitutive rules of chess, and in fact the structure of the programs that we are using guarantees it; the computers will not permit an illegal move. Yet such a simple structuration is routinely dismissed in our play much as my friend and I did in our correspondence games, because we can comment on the play in a fashion that both brings its adversarial nature into question, and that places the play as a tracing of the background of other, more significant projects–our jobs and our families: “I just got an “A” on my combinatorics exam, and by the way, I am playing ‘8. c7-c6’.” We also have the capacity, that has been invoked throughout our game, to retract moves in order to follow a more interesting line of play: “Oh shit, this doesn’t work; let me try again from move 17.” This is not usual even for casual chess, and systematically betrays the notion that a movement of a piece or a pawn has some sort of lasting influence on play arising from personal presence. The lack of a “real” board and pieces underscores this sense of an encounter defined not by its presence, but by its absence in an otherwise identifiably empirical context.

     

    The players, of course, are always those who may not be self-referentially present and intending or enjoying their game; I suspect that my son is humoring my peculiar obsession with the game rather than pursuing an activity that he himself values. Sometimes players are at a distance the guarantors of play, for example if I am making my move and writing it to my opponent. But from the other side of the game, the physically human author is a messenger only, even though I could scarcely reject his genealogical connection to me if I wished to do so. When I allow Chessmaster 2100 to reply to my son’s moves, we both become facteurs of the play. Does this mean that the computers are playing? They might be, but I know of no way to find out what they intend, or even if they “desire to win” in the ordinary sense of that phrase. If we don’t mean to say that players desire something, or anything, then what is really meant by a player?

     

    In theory we could apply a Turing test (Levy and Newborn, 1991: 31) to the definition of player: “players” are those who transact the motions of the game in such a way that it becomes impossible to distinguish humans from computers. Forget that I, as an experienced player, could very likely distinguish the usual style of a computer’s play from that of a human, and let us consider whether the Turing answer is sufficient to disconcert Derrida’s model of differance. In the first instance, computers do not yet program themselves to play chess, nor do humans; the impetus always arrives from elsewhere, a programmer or a teacher (in the human case, usually a member of an immediate kin group, often a father [Parry and Aycock, 1991]), whose own programmability works in an infinite regression to many other origins, none of them terminable by any test that has been devised. No one spontaneously or self-referentially invents the moves of chess. Second, a Turing paradigm circumvents the intention and the desire of play in a fashion that Derrida would find agreeable. The play just “happens” for the Turing examiner, and that movement of play is both necessary and sufficient to make it real. Whether an embodied subject is the source of that play is left open for question. Finally, the actual play of a game is never fully determined by a Turing argument, because it is always assumed that following the constitutive rules is enough to accomplish the goal of locating “intelligence” that the Turing test addresses. In this situation there is a resonance of the Freudian “fort-da” game that should not be overlooked.

     

    Yet actual games, such as the one that my son and I have undertaken, are not only a “black box” where moves go in and come out in a regular sequence. Games of chess have a particular style, even for novices, that is impossible to relegate only to their immediate conformity to its constitutive rules (Parry and Aycock, 1991). The meaning of “style” is not dissimilar in some ways to the medieval notion of “soul,” or to the more modern idea of the “real self,” as it might be transubstantially conceived (Aycock, 1990: 139): there remains a je ne sais quoi about a given game that overflows its authorial boundaries, but that lends to the play a pleasurable experience that is always somewhere else than merely in the recorded list of moves. Chess players have worried at length about the use of computers to contrive an “information death” of the game, but the quintessence of play, as Derrida has argued, resides always already beyond its realization in discourse that is immediately present. The play emerges from an uncertainty which is never encapsulated in its specific traces, but functions to inscribe those traces in the imagining of what might just happen next, or of the significance of what has already transpired. Nor is this a simple mystification of the human potential, because as Derrida has argued the moment of play is always arrested and released in an empirical circumstance.

     

    Skittles

     

    “Skittles” is a term used in chess to denote a kind of playing at play in which one or more of the standard rules of competitive chess is set aside to intensify the moment of the game (Aycock, 1992[a]). By far the most frequent form of skittles is the use of a chess clock to diminish substantially the time that players may take to make the moves of their game. As the time becomes shorter, players take ever greater risks, and rely upon the quickness of their wits and upon sheer luck to win. Chess is shifted in the process from, ideally, a game of perfect information and calculation to something closer to Derrida’s open-ended universe of traces. The device of that shift is a subversion of the bourgeois economy of the clock.

     

    The situation is an empty tournament hall following the completion of the sixth round of a national championship. Since it is several hours past midnight, most of the players have completed their games and gone home. Half a dozen men of all ages and skill levels from strong amateur to titled master cluster around one of the hundred or so chess boards in the hall, playing ten-minute chess, munching on hamburgers and fries, and drinking soft drinks or coffee. As the term “ten-minute chess” suggests, each player has ten minutes for all the moves of the game. The person whose “flag” falls first (a red lever that is pushed erect by the minute hand of each clock, then drops when the hand reaches the vertical) loses irrespective of the material forces or the position then on the board. A common practise, which is followed here, is for one player to take on all comers until he loses, then to be replaced by another player who challenges the winner of that contest; the players take their seats more or less in rotation.

     

    Tournament regulations such as strict silence and moving a touched piece are ritualistically reversed: the players freely “kibitz” their own games, while the bystanders join in the often ribald commentary. Touching or even moving a piece is not irreversible until one strikes the button that stops his own clock and starts that of his opponent. As the time limit approaches, the game builds to a frenzy, with players moving wildly, slamming their pieces off-center on the squares and hitting the clock with greater and greater force. Pieces that are captured are tossed aside, sometimes falling off the table to be caught or picked up by one of the bystanders. Even the clock is not exempt from this rough treatment, though chess clocks are relatively more expensive and fragile than the plastic pieces (another infraction of bourgeois norms, this time of commodification).

     

    Eventually in this particular situation the most highly ranked and titled player present begins to win consistently. After some badinage (“It must be tough to be perfect” “Yeah, I hear that all the time”), he agrees to reduce his own time by one minute for each game that he wins, balancing the odds out a bit. He does not lose until he is playing with only a single minute against his opponent’s ten. At this point, everyone suddenly realizes that they are exhausted (earlier that evening each of them has played a strenuous tournament game lasting perhaps four to six or more hours), and the group breaks up to retire to their hotel rooms.

     

    The play talk in this example is quite different from that each of the others. Unlike casual chess, politeness is deliberately avoided, as players comment rudely on one another’s skill and personal habits, as well as upon their own: “What a patzer!” “C’mon, get serious; I’m not going to fall for that!” “Holy shit, give me a break, huh?” Unlike tournament chess, noise is privileged over silence: “Ouch!” “Fuckin’-A!” “Auugghh!” Unlike correspondence and computer play, the talk is not incidental to the play, but part of its intensity: “What’s the matter; you too good to take my Rook?” “Well, I guess if you’re going to eat up my Queen’s-side, my King’s-side attack had better work; take the damn Bishop sac!” If the pieces speak for themselves, it is to share in the raucous tenor of the occasion, as they add their own clatter to the general turmoil. Thus in skittles more obviously than in the other forms of play that I have described the talk is confused with the action of the players, spreading out the game discourse over a much broader context that includes the braggadocio of the combatants and general colloquialisms of pleasure and disgust as well as the liberation of the ordinarily measured transactions of play. For instance, it’s not at all unusual in this situation for a player who has made a move and “punched” his clock to start making his next move even before his opponent has completed one in his turn; quite often two hands descend on the buttons of the clock simultaneously, sometimes with disastrous results for its mechanism.

     

    The structures of the game, by the same token, are distorted to engage the players with the experience of the play rather than simply with its outcome. By contrast with the rigid discipline of the tournament round that was just completed, the skittles games are carnivalesque and have some of the characteristics of that resistant mode (cf. Aycock, n.d.[b]). Here the players have violated the spatial distinction that is normally made between the tournament hall as a kind of “sacred” context of serious play and the analysis room where such “secular” off-hand games are usually contested (Aycock, 1992[a]). The burlesquing of time constraints on play offers a patent contrast with the standard bourgeois economy of tournament time controls. The absence of a director (he was actually one of the participants, but was treated by all as just another player) removes the supervisory gaze of a sponsoring chess organization, though it is noticeable in any event that disputes in skittles are extremely rare. Finally, no one keeps score or computes ratings, so measurements of strength are entirely transient, claiming a sort of civil inattention (Goffman, 1963: 84) to the disparity in formal levels of accomplishment between the strongest and weakest players present.

     

    Thus this skittles example represents notionally an “unthought” rejection of the limits or margins of serious play, and as well a complex refusal of the quiet relaxation of casual play (remember the younger man who became disgruntled when his older opponent would not use a clock in the instance of casual play). Skittles can be played without a clock, but most experienced players consider it rather unexciting. At the other end of the spectrum, tournament chess can be played with shorter time limits (for instance, games with an overall time limit of one hour) than those usually imposed by chess organizations, but it is only recently and after much debate that they have begun to be formally recognized as worthy of “serious” attention, such as the calculation of ratings or the award of titles such as the World Speed Chess Champion.

     

    The sense of the chess “player” as such is also subtly decentered in skittles of the sort that I am describing, since there are not just two players involved in this example, but half a dozen who participate in the play both directly as they rotate to challenge the winner, and indirectly as they interject their commentary (“kibitzing”) while others actually move the pieces. The clock also becomes a participant of sorts, since it may dictate the result of the game irrespective of the situation on the board: a player whose game is hopelessly lost from a material or positional standpoint will nevertheless continue to move his pieces around (“just thrashing about”), desperately trying to stave off checkmate until his opponent runs out of time and loses “on the clock.”

     

    Another critical factor is that the players, however they are to be defined, do not intend or guarantee the text of their play. Instead, players will attempt wildly unsound opening gambits or middlegame sacrifices, knowing that it is virtually impossible to respond to them as systematically as in tournament, or even in casual play. For instance, in one of the games of this sequence a player sacrificed his Queen for a Bishop and Knight in an otherwise relatively quiet position. His opponent stared dumbfounded at the board for a precious two minutes, then panicked and tried to realize his material advantage before his flag dropped. He wound up blundering away yet another piece in a couple of moves, and resigned in good-natured exasperation (not just by turning over his King quietly, but by suddenly gathering the pieces at the center of the board in a sweeping two-handed gesture) when he saw that he had placed his King and Queen in a position to be forked by his opponent’s Knight. The rupture of normal transactions and of the assumption of rationality that lies behind them (Aycock, 1992[a]) is a common feature of the displacement of intentionality in skittles.

     

    Again, though players draw upon their skill and knowledge of the game, as in other forms of play, the instant recall of variations and themes that is involved in skittles works against players’ capacities to search thoughtfully for a specific authorization of a given opening or end-game technique that is associated with an ancestral champion of that style; this contrasts sharply with the correspondence and computer play that I have discussed, where chess literature is openly consulted to evoke the “best” line of play. Thus the authorization of play is as radically indeterminate in skittles as in the other instances of play, but for rather different reasons. The “arche-writing” of play amid personal presences, of which skittles appears to be an ultimate exemplar, is not necessarily freer of traces or absences than the “phonetic” writing of correspondent or computer play.

     

    Conclusion

     

    I have attempted in these five examples of chess to deconstruct what is ordinarily meant by the ludic. As I understand deconstruction (even in the excessively narrow, naove and demotic form that I may have deployed it here), this means that I have proceeded from an assumption that play is evoked not by a simple, measurable presence of speaking, structure, and self-awareness in particular meaningful situations. Rather, the ludic in the instances that I have given seems to trace or inscribe itself upon absences, the force that differs and defers meaning always already somewhere else beyond the immediate ken of the participant observer and of those who are the constructed “Others” of ethnographic analysis. It then becomes much more difficult to ground simple empiricism in the “real,” which reveals itself not simply as a given, but as a central problem and task of study.3

     

    First, the talk of play does indeed seem to lose some of its solidity as I explore its role in different forms of chess. The casual players were talking about one thing, and meaning quite another when they debated whether to use a clock, and exchanged farewells at the conclusion of their games. Tournament players speak with their play alone according to the strict rules of competitive chess, but when they do so they are implicitly voicing the potential disruptions of that regime, and aligning themselves with many alternative directions of play that may emerge in their training for a tournament game, or in the postmortem that succeeds it. Correspondence players can, and in the nature of their play, often do defer their coded transactions to the interruptions of present circumstance or to the archaeology of closet dibris. Computers are programmed to speak the play in electronic signals, but they cannot sustain a linear discourse without the complicity of many other figurations that have little directly to do with the game. Even skittles players, the most immediately focussed of all chess participants, interweave their games with a barrage of words that make the game something other than that which is prescribed by its constitution. Time and space, in all five examples, are elements of the “babel” of play that render its meanings untranslatable in the most direct sense and thereby interrupt its covenants.

     

    Second, the structures of play surround it and seem to fix its situation in deterministic, readily discernable contexts. But casual players may contest the structure of a game with clocks, and thereby resist unbeknownst to themselves the straightforward exchange of polite formulae of disengagement. Tournament players inhabit a highly structured event, though they may at any moment bring into question its institutionalization by disputes that call to account and sometimes undermine the authority of the director. Although tournament play is symbolically rationalized in numerous ways, those claims on structural authority are always subject to equivocation about the best play, and indeed the point of tournament chess is to overwhelm a particular positional structure by divergence toward unanticipated movements in an opening, middlegame, or endgame. Correspondent play uses writing as a resource rather than as merely a constraint of the relationship between players, and points to a reevaluation of structure (beginning on move 11, or consulting the Fischer article) as a way to play upon intimacy and to vanquish distance (the obtruding bridge player). Computers are physically structured to maintain the play in sequence and along acceptable lines, but they can be deprogrammed, as it were, by random noise, by circumvention of the “codes of conduct” of their authorizing agencies, or by an agreement of the parties to arrangements that were not originally contemplated. Skittles, finally, foreordains its deviance from the structure of the tournament or even of casual play, and encourages a catastrophic occlusion of time, touching, speaking, and rational calculation, all of which are apparently inherent in other forms of competitive chess.

     

    Third, the players of chess work not only within the limits of the game, but beyond to express their broader roles which intrude upon its play. In casual play, what the players experience and intend is sometimes concealed and oftimes contradictory, dependent in part upon identities which arise from a position in their life cycle or an attitude toward the fast tempo of modern life. Tournament play expressly segregates authors of the game from its spectators, but relieves that distinction in the postmortem. More importantly, serious competition requires an ongoing relationship of the players with their predecessors and successors, trainers and seconds, and in addition defers their responsibility for the conditions of tournament play to a tournament director who represents an absent player, the organization that attempts, with rather uneven success, to guarantee that its conditions are acknowledged. Correspondents routinely admit their subservience to texts of play that are only tangential to the situation of their games conceived in terms of personal presence, and the literate circumstances of correspondent play divert attention from personal presence to authorizations that are potentially far removed in time and space from the material basis of their transactions, the post card or letter that bears its moves (is the “guy” who wants to play bridge not a player in my chess game with my friend, and if not, how is that to be demonstrated?). Computers confess a range of players whose own biochemistries may be entirely alien from one another, and whose intent or desire is, to say the least, highly problematic. Finally, skittles is an enterprise where players sometimes collude, often diverge, to create the semblance of a game. The relaxation of normal constraints upon authorization in skittles paradoxically invokes new and diffused authorities, the clock, the kibitzers, the sauvage style that skittles players tend to adopt as an intimation of their personal identities.

     

    I must now consider whether a deconstructive approach to the study of play, as I have here characterized it, is sufficiently promising to continue work along similar lines. In a sense, there is very little involved in deconstruction that could not be accomplished by careful examination of traditional ethnographic assumptions (Aycock, 1992[b]) about the play, the players, and the role of the observer. Yet one important value of a deconstructive approach is to suggest that a figure-ground reversal of what is normally meant by the ludic and the serious may refocus attention on problems that could otherwise be taken for granted. In particular, it becomes possible to reformulate the instances of play that I have described as specific contexts of a more global problem of authority in Western cultures, ludic, scholarly or otherwise.

     

    For example, familiar symbolic oppositions such as “culture-nature” and “order-disorder” take on an entirely new significance if the search for what is “real” is, deja aussi, a point of departure for analysis, because the fort-da of the human sciences is then shown to be at least as uncertain as human experience itself. We should not, from this perspective, be complaisant about adopting a deconstructive approach, but we should be aware that it offers a continuing challenge to more conventional notions. Thus competitive chess is for many in Western culture the ideal image of a “factory of reason” (Aycock, 1992[a]), which may lead a deconstructive analysis to reflect in general upon reason and its limitations.

     

    Again, anthropology has invested itself with the Western conception of human knowledge as a progressive narrative that begins, continues, and flourishes interminably in Time (cf. Fabius, 1983). Chess shares with anthropology this sense of the limitless expansion of knowledge, an endeavor made “real” by the experimental attitude of serious competitors towards lines of play that are to be tested, discovered, renewed or discarded, and incorporated into volumes of games studied by each player as part of an autobiography of style (Aycock, n.d.[a]). Yet deconstruction causes us to hesitate in our easy affirmation of this progress. Like Foucault, Derrida works against the comfortable presumption of knowing the play–whether as players or as ethnographers–by relating it also to epistemological problems that are riddled through and through by contending gestures of empowerment and alienation.4 If you think about the “King’s Indian” not just as the name of a specific text or pattern of play, but as an image of authority, it suddenly becomes quite clear why a deconstructive approach might be provocative.

     

    Finally, there is an aesthetic as well as an ethical dimension involved in deconstruction which might be generalized for those who labor in the human sciences, or indeed in any Lebenswelt where diverse values have become relevant (and where have they not?). There is, obviously, an important ontological debate evoked here, the familiar “is/ought/seems” trichotomy that Derrida particularly seeks to address. Thus, a deconstructive approach conflates the author, reader, and text in rewarding ways: who would have thought, before Derrida, that the variants of chess were meaningful not just as immediate transactions of a game, but also as forces of a cosmic kind of play interwoven by differance amongst a texture of the Western search for authorial presence? Feeling, knowing, and desiring the play, in this sense, cannot be held apart from one another, nor should they be: games are “world-building activities” (Goffman, 1961: 27).

     

    The possibility of a coherent deconstructive approach is, of course, something of a contradiction in terms: differance lends itself most readily to pluralism, not singularity. In the very effort to write of a peripatetic style such as Derrida’s in the linear form of an essay, one despairs of closure. It seems to me, nevertheless, that if the conceptual issue is radically undecidable, the practical problem is not. All that I intend here is to suggest that at this moment, for these instances of play, I can offer a simplistic account of Derrida’s thought that seems to go beyond ordinary limits of ethnographic analysis.

     

    Thus even the five examples of play related above afford a venue for more sophisticated study. An important direction for further analysis would deconstruct not only the immediate situations of play, but also, more comprehensively, their institutionalization. Another problem that I have glossed over in my analysis is that of mass-mediated play, which deserves a deconstruction all its own. Yet a third issue not dealt with in this essay is the relationships of play to engenderment, race, nationalism, commodification, and the post-colonial milieu of “carceral” society. Fourth, the contrivance of playful biographies is implied, but not directly brought to the fore in my arguments. Finally, a careful tracing of the economies of pleasure associated with these four issues would invoke more directly the Freudian fort-da transaction as it has actually been deployed by Derrida in his work. All of these represent the “unthought” in my discussion, and thereby implicate as yet unspoken, and more thoroughgoing deconstructions.

     

    I have tried to show here that when we take the ludic as ludicrous, we have in some ways revealed a credential for analysis rather than only a means, finally, to discredit it. Derrida, typically, steals my last words and makes a game of them: If the alterity of the other is posed, that is only posed, does it not amount to the same, for example in the form of the “constituted object” or of the “informed product” invested with meaning, etc.? From this point of view, I would even say that the alterity of the other inscribes in this relationship that which in no case can be “posed.” Inscription, as I would define it in this respect, is not a simple position: it is rather that by means of which every position is of itself confounded…differance (1981: 95-96).

     

    Notes

     

    1. The extent to which deconstructive approaches have become entrenched in the human sciences is suggested by this lengthy list of subject headings, taken from a major North American research library, in which “deconstruction” appears as a key word: architecture, education, feminism, film criticism, history, law, linguistics, literary criticism, painting, philosophy, social psychology, sociology, and theology. Surprisingly, anthropology is not included, though one need not distort the “writing culture” debate (e.g., Clifford, 1988; Clifford and Marcus, 1986) too much to perceive a deconstructive intent.

     

    2. Think of Derrida in this sense, perhaps, as a master of Japanese “Go” (more evocatively in Chinese, “wei-ch’i,” the “surrounding” game): finely shaped colored stones are moved, insouciantly as if of their own accord, to circumscribe paths of influence that command the empty board without filling it (Korschelt, 1965: ch. III).

     

    3. See also Hayles (1990: ch. 7), who perceives a modern alliance of deconstructive trends with another ultra- empiricism, chaos theory.

     

    4. Like Swift’s Laputans who carry with them on their backs a bundle of objects so that they can converse by holding forth one after another with no possibility of misconstruction (Swift, 1945: 170-171), Derrida burlesques the comfortable assumption that we know what we are talking about at a particular moment. To extend the satiric image, I suggest that Derrida occupies the role of the servant who walks just behind one of Laputa’s meticulous philosophes with a bladder affixed to a stick, flapping it against his sense organs from time to time to return his attention to the dangers and resources of the “real” world (Swift, 1945: 144-145).

    Works Cited

     

    • Aycock, Alan. “‘The Check is in the Mail’: A Preliminary View of Play as Discourse.” Play and Culture 2 (2): 142-157 (1989).
    • —. “Play without Players, Players without Play: The World Computer Chess Championship.” Play and Culture 3 (2): 133-145 (1990).
    • —. “Finite Reason: A Construction of Desperate Play. Play and Culture 5(2): 182-208 (1992[a]).
    • —. “Three Assumptions in Search of an Author: Some Textual Problems in Play. Play and Culture 5 (3): 264-279 (1992[b]).
    • —. “The Postmodern ‘Situation’: Erving Goffman’s Selves at Play.” Unpublished ms. (n.d.[a]).
    • —. “Hearing Voices: Bakhtin and the Critical Study of Play.” Unpublished ms. (n.d.[b]).
    • —. “Chess/Pieces: Fragments of Play in the Postmodern.” Unpublished ms. (n.d.[c]).
    • Bellin, Robert, and Ponzetto, Pietro. Mastering the King’s Indian Defense. New York, NY: Macmillan (1990).
    • Clifford, James. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth- century Ethnography, Literature, and Art. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press (1988).
    • Clifford, James, and George Marcus, eds. Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Representation. Berkeley, CA: University of California (1986).
    • Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins Press (1976).
    • —. Positions. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press (1981).
    • —. The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press (1987a).
    • —. The Truth in Painting. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press (1987b).
    • —. The Ear of the Other: Otobiography, Transference, Translation. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press (1988).
    • Eales, Richard. Chess: The History of a Game. New York, NY: Facts on File (1985).
    • Elo, Arpad. The Rating of Chessplayers, Past and Present. New York, NY: Arco Press (1979).
    • Fabius, Johannes. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes its Object. New York, NY: Columbia (1983).
    • Foucault, Michel. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972-1977. New York, NY: Pantheon (1980).
    • Freud, Sigmund. Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Ed. J. Strachey. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. XVIII. London: Hogarth Press (1955).
    • Goffman, Erving. Encounters: Two Studies in the Sociology of Interaction. New York, NY: Macmillan (1961).
    • —. Behavior in Public Places: Notes on the Social Organization of Gatherings. New York, NY: Free Press (1963).
    • Hayles, Katherine. Chaos Bound: Orderly Disorder in Contemporary Literature and Science. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press (1990).
    • Heim, Michael. Electric Language: A Philosophical Study of Word Processing. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press (1987).
    • Korschelt, Oskar. The Theory and Practice of Go. Tokyo, Japan: Charles E. Tuttle (1965).
    • Levy, David. and Newborn, Monty. How Computers Play Chess. New York, NY: W.H. Freeman (1991).
    • Matanovic, Alexandr. Encyclopedia of Chess Endings. Beograd, Yugoslavia: Chess Informator (1982-).
    • Nietzsche, Friedrich. Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Harmondsworth, ENG: Penguin (1961).
    • Parry, Keith and Aycock, Alan. “When Bobby Fischer Meets Minnesota Fats: Rules and Style in Chess and Billiards.” Annual Conference of The Association for the Study of Play (April 1991).
    • Poster, Mark. The Mode of Information: Poststructuralism and Social Context. Cambridge, ENG: Polity Press (1990). Swift, Jonathan. Gulliver’s Travels. Garden City, NY: Doubleday (1945).

     

  • Bodies and Technologies: Dora, Neuromancer, and Strategies of Resistance

    Wendy Wahl

    Department of English
    University of Vermont

    w_wahl@uvmvax.bitnet

     

    High technology networks make possible the deluge of texts surrounding us. We swim in the flow of information, and are provided with (or drowned within) interpretations and representations. High technology has changed the way capital functions, and makes possible the electronic format of this journal. A new relationship between bodies and technologies is, seemingly, unprecedented in modern capitalism. Donna Haraway, in her “Manifesto for Cyborgs” (1985), writes of a post-natural present in which “Late twentieth-century machines have made thoroughly ambiguous the difference between natural and artificial, mind and body, self-developing and externally designed, and many other distinctions that used to apply to organisms and machines. Our machines are frighteningly lively, and we ourselves frighteningly inert” (152).

     

    After all, the human capacity to generate or make sense of information has been surpassed by computers, and challenged by the deluge of texts (literal, aural, visual) that surround us. Baudrillard’s response to this deluge is triggered by a quick spin of the radio dial: “I no longer succeed in knowing what I want, the space is so saturated, the pressure so great from all who want to make themselves heard” (132).

     

    Theorists from many disciplines are engaged in the process of articulating the function and effects of high technology; many have argued, as Baudrillard has, that the human condition has been transformed by the encounter with the unique and unprecedented power of high technology. Assuming a material uniqueness in the encounter with high technology is dangerous; this assumption obviates important precedents that may help us to strategize some resistance to a “gradual and willing accommodation of the machine” (Gibson, 203). Freud’s clinical methods, and his construction of the relationship between patient and therapist, for example, are strikingly similar to the current encounter between bodies and technologies. A look at Freud’s account of his treatment of Dora makes obvious this decidedly low-tech version of a “deluge of texts,” and shows the way in which this therapeutic construct incorporated resistance. What are the possibilities for resistance to this new deluge? This question has provided the impetus for a vital, and absolutely necessary, discussion of strategies. As I will show in this essay, these responses are symptomatic of the failure of resistance to technologies of the early twentieth century. Strategies of resistance are often incorporated into systems, strengthening that which is being resisted. Juliet Mitchell has described the function of this resisting space: “[Resistance] is set up precisely as its own ludic space, its own area of imaginary alternative, but not as a symbolic alternative. It is not that the carnival cannot be disruptive of the law, but it disrupts only within terms of that law” (Mitchell, 1982).

     

    I hope to provide some strategies, and historical warnings, that may help one actualize and resist power at a time when the possibility of doing so seems dismal. Haraway reminds us, with hope and pragmatism, that “we are not dealing with technological determinism, but with a historical system depending upon structured relations among people” (165). This “historical system” includes the interaction between bodies and technologies and the implications of these encounters, which are referred to in this essay as “cyborg politics.” The origin of cyborg politics doesn’t begin with the late twentieth century, however, but with the broad tradition of positing scientific and technical solutions to free humans from pain and to solve problems of the human condition, particularly problems that originate not with the machine or technology, but within the body. Foucault has given us a description of the emergence of bio-technical power in the seventeenth century; his description of this power maps onto our twentieth- century concern with bodies and technologies:

     

    Discipline may be identified neither with an institution nor with an apparatus; it is a type of power, a modality for its exercise, comprising a whole set of instruments, techniques, procedures, levels of application, targets; it is a "physics" or an "anatomy" of power, a technology.(206)

     

    Within an early twentieth-century Foucaultian formation, Freud emerges as the mental technologist and industrialist, producing the truth of mind and body within the critical tools of psychotherapy. Freud constructed a method whereby the mind, largely abandoned to the world of religious therapies, was treated by empiricists, and built upon the work of the psychiatrists of the French school: Charcot, Georget, and Pinel (Goldstein, 134-166).

     

    Psychotherapy was a new disciplinary technology, unique unto science because it treated the mind as a machine (a method previously visited upon the body). Freud ushered in the Western twentieth century with this industrialist approach to the soul, fracturing the inner self in two: “conscious” and “unconscious” drives. Within this new science, and in Freud’s clinical approach, the Cartesian dualism of mind/body breaks down: “mind” has been divided into conscious/unconscious. As a result, “mind” is no longer one unitary term that can correspond to its binary opposite, “body.” This disruption could be promising: mind/body corresponded to male/female, and it would seem that this pair of binary oppositions would no longer be able to function with respect to gender. Yet this deconstruction of oppositional pairs serves to strengthen others, and raises some thorny questions for Freud’s treatment of Dora.

     

    What, then, becomes of the relationship between mind and body within the Freudian construct? If there is a disruption of the mind/body dualism when the “mind” has been fractured into two distinct entities, how does this affect clinical practice? Freud changed these pairs or, at the least, expanded the way they function: the patient’s experiences, as described by the patient, were informed by the unconscious mind in a way that was not evident to the patient. In deconstructing the mind/body separation, Freud constructed a new oppositional pair in its place, that of the conscious/unconscious. The relations between the conscious mind and body were obvious to the patient, but those were less important for fixing the machine than was the relationship between the unconscious mind and body. If this relationship was the arbiter of the body’s functions and of the conscious mind, how could one go about fixing it? One couldn’t; a therapist had to be called in for repair. The “unconscious” drives were given over to the interpretation of the therapist. In treating the machinery of the mind, Freudian therapists were given the interpretive duty of constructing desire and representing the inner self. Philip Reiff, in his introduction to Dora, captures the perfect circularity of Freudian psychotherapy as enacted in clinical practice:

     

    By presuming the patient incapable of an impartial judgment, the therapist is empowered to disregard the patient's denials.... A patient says: "You may think I meant to say something insulting but I've no such intention. . . . From this the analyst may conclude, "So, she does mean to say something insulting...."(15)

     

    It is also evident in Reiff’s description that resistance against a therapist is incorporated, and neutralized, within therapy. The Freudian therapeutic situation is a cybernetic network in which resistance functions to support the system. It is in this clinical practice that any potential disruption of dualisms promised in Freudian theory were recuperated. That Freud has constructed an impenetrable defense for the therapist is obvious. In retrospect, it’s easy (albeit reductive) to view Freud’s incorporation of resistance into therapies (as a prerequisite for therapy) as a frustrated empiricist’s attempt to fit the mind into the structure of empiricism.

     

    The patient/therapist opposition was constructed in place of the mind/body opposition, and re-enacted as male/female. Perhaps Freud’s construction of an impenetrable position for therapists, and an utterly penetrated position for patients, created a backlash against the material moment when male/female became disengaged from mind/body. At any rate, the context is utterly changed for a patient of psychotherapy. The beginnings of an answer to the question of gender difference in the therapist/patient relationship lie in asking the following question: Who is treated and why? Men were rarely caught on the “penetrated” side of the therapist/patient relationship. Although male/female no longer enacted mind/body, another structure excluded men from needing this interpretive therapy: the impetus for treatment is resistance on the part of the patient. Philip Reiff characterized the category of patient in his introduction to Dora when he wrote that, “the neurotic makes too many rejections” (16).

     

    Although men were no longer excluded from the category of patient, having unconscious drives themselves, the prerequisite for treatment was often hysteria or neurosis. Hysteria was a term used to categorize actions seen, historically, as being particular to women, although Freud and the Paris school’s characterization of hysteria did not expressly exclude men. Jan Goldstein has documented that hysteria was flirted with by most of the nineteenth-century French male novelists, and she argues that the literary interest in such a disease “included as one of its components a fascination with this ‘otherness,’ a tendency to recognize in it aspects of the self and to enlist it in the service of self-discovery” (138). Goldstein’s theory would also explain why Flaubert never entered into therapy, despite identifying himself as an hysteric. In his fiction, Flaubert wrote of hysteria only through female characters, as did all the other French novelists mentioned in Goldstein’s essay.

     

    Dora’s treatment, after all, was not in the interest of self-discovery, but in the interest of her father. Dora had been brought to Freud in an effort to get Dora to accept her father’s affair with Frau K. The father also needed Dora to respond to Herr K so that he could get his game of partner-swapping to continue to go smoothly: he attempts to swap “partners” with Herr K by offering his daughter, Dora, to Herr K, in exchange for Herr K’s wife. This play of substitutions, begun by the father, certainly asks to be seen as a machine. This is a desiring machine in which substitutions can be made: there are slots to be filled (so to speak) that eclipse an individual desire to be in that position. This is particularly true in Dora’s case. When Dora was put into treatment, Freud writes that “[s]he objected to being pulled into the game entirely, at the same time she was fascinated by it and wanted to play” (34). By the time treatment had begun, Dora was suicidal, and had been resisting Herr K.’s advances, the first of which occurred when she was 14 years old. “He suddenly clasped the girl to him and pressed a kiss upon her lips. This was surely just the situation to call up a distinct feeling of sexual excitement in a girl of fourteen who had never before been approached. But Dora had at that moment a violent feeling of disgust and tore herself free from the man . . .” (43).

     

    Freud writes that “the behavior of this child of fourteen was already entirely and completely hysterical” because she did not have the “genital sensation which would have certainly been felt by a healthy girl in such circumstances” (44). Dora’s resistance to Herr K.’s advances provided Freud with the cornerstone of the psychology of the neuroses: reversal of affect. Without Dora’s bodily resistance to Herr K., Freud would never have been able to treat her in the first place. Without Dora’s repeated verbal resistance to Freud’s suppositions, he couldn’t have written in the “repressed” desires for nearly everyone in the “game.”

     

    Interestingly enough, in his interpretation of Schreber’s Memoirs of My Nervous Illness, Freud didn’t perceive any indications that this approach could inhibit treatment by negating the patient’s interpretations. Freud’s textual analysis of the Memoirs, titled “Psychoanalytic Notes on an Autobiographical Account of a Case of Paranoia (Dementia Paranoides)”, ignores the obvious: Schreber is able to treat himself via his own process of writing and interpretation.

     

    Schreber writes of his “gratitude” toward Professor Fleschig, his doctor, for helping Scheber to recover, but in a manner “so hedged with doubts and reservations that it subverts the expressed appreciation” (Chabot, 16). Schreber doesn’t give credit for his recovery to the doctor who was in charge of his treatment, and blames this on the doctor’s inability to recognize his patient as “a human being of high intellect, of uncommon keenness of understanding and acute powers of observation” Memoirs, 62). What does this tell us about Freud’s understanding of Schreber’s treatment? Freud didn’t extrapolate Schreber’s therapeutic process to his own clinical method; he ignores that Schreber’s experience points to the healing power of a patient’s interpretation. The patient’s story, moreover, must not be systematically negated, as in the treatment of Dora.

     

    C. Barry Chabot examines these texts in his book Freud on Schreber, and writes that “Schreber’s understanding of his experiences . . . evolved with his progress on the manuscript: the act of writing was for him an act of revision”; “[m]oreover, writing his memoirs, an act that . . . played a role in [Schreber’s] eventual release from Sonnenstein, was itself restorative” (7). Schreber produced texts, as Freud did. Schreber’s ability to heal himself is evinced in the act of writing his Memoirs: Schreber’s “revision” and interpretation of his own experience is the therapeutic process by which he heals himself. Chabot makes a compelling case for the clinical and literary interpretations as being intertwined, such is “the nature of the interpretive process, be it literary or clinical” (11).

     

    It can be argued that Dora does produce her own narrative, but this is used by and subsumed within Freud’s interpretation in clinical practice and, more permanently, within Freud’s written texts. Schreber’s interpretation existed outside of the formal or institutional therapy he received. Freud’s textual analysis of Schreber’s memoirs was just that: a textual exploration outside of clinical contact with the patient; as such, Freud’s analysis never affected Schreber. In Freudian clinical practice, the interpretive process that Schreber used to successfully treat himself would have been used against him by the therapist. Reiff writes that Freud “speaks of using facts against the patient and reports, with some show of triumph (this is no mean adversary), how he overwhelmed Dora with interpretations, pounding away at her argument, until Dora…’disputed the facts no longer.’ Yet these facts were none of them visible; they were all of them of the highest order, taking their life from the precise truth of Freud’s multiple analytic thrusts into her unconscious” (16).

     

    The act of interpretation was the province of the therapist alone, and was used to engulf the patient with “indisputable facts.” These critics continue to argue for a material uniqueness in the encounter with high technology, yet the “invisible facts” referred to by Reiff could easily characterize Baudrillard’s vision of the late twentieth century: “In any case, we will have to suffer this new state of things, this forced extension of all interiority, this forced injection of all exteriority that the categorical imperative of communication literally signifies” (132). This “forced injection” into Baudrillard’s as-yet- unpenetrated interior mimics Freud’s act of “pounding away” at Dora with his interpretations. Baudrillard’s profile of the new subject, assaulted on all sides by “those who want to make themselves heard” doubles for the Freudian patient: “He is now a pure screen, a switching center for all the networks of influence” (133). What Baudrillard can’t accept, obviously, are the multiple “thrusts” into his neutral terminal. Using theory to play with the loss of his private past and with the disruption of his position as subject, Baudrillard recalls Flaubert’s flirtation with hysteria.

     

    Fredric Jameson’s response to the problem of subjectivity also evokes the nineteenth-century French novelists; he writes that “only by means of a violent formal and narrative dislocation could a narrative apparatus come into being capable of restoring life and feeling to this only intermittently functioning organ which is our capacity to organize and live time historically” (523). In arguing for some sort of analytical prowess of which we are not capable at the moment, Jameson is putting the hope for a solution in a neo-Freudian construct: if we could only think ourselves away from the matrix, it would no longer penetrate us. This may be possible for Jameson or Baudrillard, but what about Haraway or myself? I mistrust that totalizing logic which would also exclude me; as a woman, I am linked by the system of significations to that repressed “other” against which this new “narrative dislocation” is posed. Baudrillard’s nostalgia for a private past, and Jameson’s characterization of the current condition as a sickness (needing analytic therapy), exclude the object, locating interiority once again within their experience.

     

    The pentrator/penetrated relationship is gender-neutral in Freudian theory but enacted as male/female in clinical praxis; will Baudrillard’s theoretical loss of subjectivity be recuperated in the practice of technology? The reaction to no longer being excluded from the category of patient or hysteric in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century parallels the reaction of men in this late twentieth century who are no longer excluded from the category of “penetrated.” This reaction is utterly significant: in a backlash against inclusion (signaled by the paranoid reactions of Flaubert, Jameson, and Baudrillard), the function of Freudian therapy Dora) and technologies of the bodies Neuromancer) is to keep gender opposition active. It’s a fascinating pattern: Baudrillard’s paranoid reaction to being a receiving terminal, penetrated continually by the hegemony, should be a warning for cyborgs seeking to strategize resistance to high technology. Even more symptomatically, Paul Virilio has declared: “We must take hold of the enigma of technology and lay her on the table” Pure War).

     

    It’s dangerous to argue for a material uniqueness in the function of the panopticon, precisely because it prevents us from recognizing this continuing pattern of discipline and resistance, especially the way in which certain types of resistance are codifed to support the disciplinary society. Is there any space in a postnatural future for a female subject with interiority? Is it possible for a reading to occur which locates women in the position of subject? Although the human capacity to generate or make sense of facts and information has already been surpassed by computers, resistance to the matrix may work for Baudrillard. In William Gibson’s cyberpunk manifesto, Neuromancer, the (bachelor) machine incorporates high technology differently than the body does. The technologies of which Baudrillard speaks have been seamlessly incorporated to liberate men from their bodies and, as such, the mind/body paradigm is reclaimed as male/female with chilling results. That Neuromancer was intended as an historicized future is evident in Gibson’s description of the novel: What’s most important to me is that it’s about the present. It’s not really about an imagined future. It’s a way of trying to come to terms with the awe and terror inspired in me by the world in which we live” (Rosenthal, 85).

     

    Gibson’s work, based as it is on the present encounter with bodies and technologies, should inform any speculation or theoretical vision of our future. Pam Rosenthal describes Molly and Case, the heroes of the novel, as part of “an elite cult” who feel “an existential righteousness about diving into the matrix, braving its dangers, getting as close as possible to the shape of algorithms that come about as close to truth as anything does in the bad new future” (90). The access to information, and the surveillance tactics used to gather it, rests with multinational corporations (zaibatsus) in Neuromancer. Elite status is signaled by access to information in the hierarchy of the matrix in Neuromancer: getting in to the cyberspace of invisible facts equals power, and “not to be able to jack in [to the matrix] is impotence” (Rosenthal, 85,102). Molly’s experience of the matrix is fundamentally different from Case’s; the difference is informed by constructions of gender, although their resistance to the matrix (and zaibatsus) makes both of them more malleable and exploitable by the companies that control the matrix.

     

    Neither Case nor Molly want the life of the “little people,” or, as Case puts it “company job, company hymn, company funeral” (37). Case makes his living as an information cowboy, able to jack in to the matrix, to fix his addiction to cyberspace/access/information. In this way, the mind/body separation is encoded via technologies of the body, and it’s furthered by the structure of the novel: whenever Case jacks in to the matrix, Gibson begins a new paragraph, highlighting the separation between the body and the mind/matrix. Case doesn’t seem to have a body unless he is inside Molly, either in sex or in sim/stim. In the first case, Case’s visual description recalls images of the matrix and, in the second, he perceives Molly’s bodily sensations electronically. Molly is the body. Case can jack out at any time.

     

    Molly gets into cyberspace, too, but only so that her body can be programmed during “puppet time.” Freud’s dictum that “there is no ‘No’ in the unconscious” is literally true for Molly in this situation. She paid for the reconstructive surgeries by working as a “meat puppet,” a high-tech form of prostitution in which a receptor chip is implanted in a woman’s brain. The chip provides reception for the “house software,” chosen by the customer. So what happens when Molly is with a customer? Her cyberspace is blank and her access to the matrix doesn’t disconnect her body from other bodies (witness Case). The programs used on Molly were progressively violent after the house found out she was using the money she made to become a ninja, to construct a body capable of being a killing machine. The function of the software to direct Molly’s actions mimics, terrifyingly, Freud’s version of the unconscious:

     

    You know how I got the money, when I was starting out? . . . once they plant the cut-out chip, it seems like free money. Wake up sore, sometimes, but that's it. Renting the goods, is all. You aren't in, when it's all happening. House has software for whatever a customer wants to pay for . . . . [t]hen it started getting strange . . . . The house found out what I was doing with the money. I had the blades in, but the fine neuromotor work would take another three trips. No way I was ready to give up puppet time . . . so the bastard who ran the place, he had some custom software cooked up. I wasn't conscious. It's like cyberspace, but blank. Silver. It smells like rain....you can see yourself orgasm, it's like a little nova right out on the rim of space.(148-9)

     

    When Molly comes up out of puppet time, her reaction to the scene for which she had been programmed is violent opposition. Although her ability to react to the scene is an accident of faulty wiring, it’s a direct refutation of the programming, the unconscious, and the technical separation of mind and body:

     

    I came up. I was into this routine with a customer. Senator, he was. Knew his fat face right away. We were both covered with blood. We weren't alone. She was all. Dead. So I guess I gave the Senator what he wanted...the house put a contract on me and I had to hide for a little while.(148-149)

     

    Freud could have learned a few lessons from Molly about whether the conscious mind can say “No” to the unconscious drives. It is, however, an after-the-fact refusal; when Molly is unconscious (to a degree Freud could never have imagined), she seems totally incapable of resisting; it is the dysfunction of high technology that allows Molly’s “No.” The circle has been completed with techobodies, however: the access to the mind via science is complete, the comfortable line between human and machine has been erased, and the human therapist is no longer needed to interpret the signals. It’s a direct line.

     

    The Freudian therapeutic paradigm can be mapped onto our relationship with (and struggle over) technologies of the body. The array of technologies used to construct bodies in Neuromancer seem fantastical, even technically impossible, yet the rush to develop technologies with which we can construct our bodies will provide funding and justification for their development, regardless of the health risks involved. At a recent Senate hearing over the safety of silicon breast implants (which have been known to break down once inside the body and produce disabling disease of the immune system), it was presumed that, despite these proven health risks, implants should be available for “cosmetic” uses. However, after testimony from “scores of women” who testified to their need “because of what they said they believed were their own deformities,” many panel members said they were “convinced that no line could be drawn and no group of women could be defined for exclusion” (Hilts). The cultural question of why “some women [are] terrified of not having the option to reconstruct their breasts” was never raised.

     

    The solution to the problem posed presented to the F.D.A.? Surveillance. It was agreed that every woman who had undergone or wished to have this operation be “kept track of” in a database, set up by the companies which manufacture the implants. One can’t help but wonder if these records, and the access to them, might be used later to deprive the women of the protection allegedly promised to them–perhaps in manufacturing a “safe” reading of the implants or, alternatively, to prevent these women from taking action (legal or otherwise) against the companies.

     

    The FDA case is simply one example of the need for some sort of resistance to this future. The case has some disturbing implications for Rosenthal’s declaration that “the matrix is too complex and fragmented to offer itself to any one unifying gaze–a notion that does not seem entirely reassuring to me” (95). This sentiment is problematic when we look back at Dora, whose unifying gaze had the opposite effect. Reiff acknowledges that Freud “had to admire Dora’s insight into this intricate and sad affair…Yet he fought back with his own intricate insights into the tangle of her motives…. Freud was to call this tenacious and most promising of all forms of resistance ‘intellectual opposition’” (17). Compare this statement with the following description: “Knowledge . . . is utterly immanent and implicated in the forms and technologies of instrumental power, and readable only to the extent that we have the power to decode it. How we are known and what we know constitute a matrix of unjustly distributed power . . .” (99).

     

    This is Rosenthal, reading the matrix, yet it’s an uncanny characterization of the power dynamic that exists between Dora and Freud. But what about the present? In the wake of a reevaluation and, oftentimes, refutation of Freudian theory, wasn’t Freud’s clinical method also revised? Not completely; this clinical process is still used to manufacture belief and consent. In the latest issue of Mother Jones magazine (January/February 1993), Ethan Watters reports on psychotherapists who help their patients recover memories of physical and sexual abuse. The search for these memories, in theory, seems auspicious at a time when there is growing evidence that “childhood abuse is widespread” and underreported. Working against Freud’s seduction theory, based on the assumption that patients’ memories of abuse were fantasy (29), some therapists have taken the opposite tack, bringing past abuse to light by examining their patients’ subconscious memories. In theory, this hopeful disruption of Freud’s seduction theory promises to validate and treat the pain of childhood abuse.

     

    This theoretical promise can be destroyed within a clinical method that recalls Freud’s relationship with Dora. Using hypnosis, suggestion, trance writing, and dream analysis, therapists “search [the patient’s] subconscious” for signs of abuse (26). Watters found that many of these memories were false, but are made real for the patient. The case of Kathy Gondolf reveals the process by which her beliefs were used against her to construct the version of her past held by the therapist. When Gondolf sought help for chronic bulimia, she told her therapist that she had been abused by an uncle during childhood. Watters reports that “[l]ater, during individual and group therapy, [the therapist] used dream analysis and trance writing to search her unconscious for signs that other members of the family had abused her as well” (26). Gondolf’s account of this therapy is a poignant reminder of the power dynamic in the relationship between therapist and patient:

     

    You're sitting there and someone has taken everything you thought you know about your family--the people you love--and twisted it. They tell you that everything you knew for twenty, thirty, forty years was wrong.... It was devastating for me. Everything is so simple in the world of repressed memories, . . . if you claim that your parents cared for you, then they [psychotherapists] say that you are in denial. Anything you say can be misinterpreted. There is no way around it. This is costing people their lives.(26)

     

    The women in her therapy group all claimed to have repressed memories of abuse as children, and one woman killed herself after “discovering” these memories. Gondolf, like Molly in Neuromancer, was released from this regimen when the supporting apparatus malfunctioned: her insurance ran out. Gondolf began to “examine repressed memories on her own” and, like Schreber, found treatment in being her own interpreter. She “became convinced” that “her therapist had coerced her and the other members of her group into imagining memories of abuse” (26). Forced out of the system, Gondolf relied on her own conscious memories to construct the truth of her history.

     

    Is it possible to be “forced out” of the relationship between bodies and technologies? We cannot choose to end this relationship, as Dora chose to end her relationship with Freud. Nor can we escape the deluge of electronic texts. If any resistance to the “gradual accommodation of the machine” is possible, it will depend upon our reaction to the machine, and a continual realization that the machine is a human creation, a social creation. In late twentieth-century capitalism, has anything else assumed the role of therapist for us? In the struggle over representation, the media is given the power of interpretation; just as anything that is “conscious” knowledge (articulated by the patient) could not, by definition, belong to the “unconscious,” we are re-enacting the role of interpreter of reality with media. In doing so, we lend strength to the role of media by centering resistance within that arena.

     

    In resisting hegemony via the struggle for representation, we may re-enact the binary opposition of representer/represented (and, on the same axis, therapist/patient); this resistance focuses on and strengthens the textual/media arena in which our actions are interpreted and represented. The exclusivity and limitations of television have been disrupted in the strategies of ACT-UP. The organization has found a way to use televised media without having financial access to them (staging protests during broadcasts as audience members, for instance).

     

    We need to reconsider the issues of media(s) and representations with respect to the ways we define ourselves. Technology, having been taken into the body and reproduced (the male gaze being but one example), poses some immediate challenges. Neuromancer is the circle completed: technologies of the body connect the flesh to the computer. The issues raised here with respect to the post-natural future, and the questions of resistance, are urgent. Remembering the patterns of discipline and resistance, and the space to which the other has been assigned, might be a first step in helping us to describe and resist the “slow apocalypse” of technology (Rosenthal, 96).

     

    It’s not simply that the body must claim its resistance against the machine; when recuperation is instantaneous one can resist only though finding new ways of resistance that don’t operate through negation, or marginalization. Resistance that succeeds is a testament to the interpretive power of individuals to make sense of their lives. I hope to have presented some warnings and historical precedents that may help one actualize and resist power in a time when our ability to do so is matched against and challenged by our encounter with technology.

     

    Note

     

    1. I have chosen to cite from The Foucault Reader, edited by Paul Rabinow (Pantheon Books: New York, 1984), because selections from Foucault’s Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison [translated by Alan Sheridan, Panthon Books (Random House) 1977] are brilliantly excerpted in the section titled “Discipline and Sciences of the Individual” (pp. 169-239). The excerpts describe many of the terms and issues used in my paper, particularly the formulation of the term “discipline” and the uses of “the examination” to further surveillance and power.

    Works Cited

     

    • Baudrillard, Jean. “The Ecstasy of Communication.” The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture. Ed. Hal Foster. Seattle: Bay Press, 1983.
    • Chabot, Barry C. Freud on Schreber: Psychoanalytic Theory and The Critical Act. Amherst: U Mass Press, 1982.
    • Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. by Alan Sheridan. New York: Pantheon Books (Random House), 1977.
    • Freud, Sigmund. Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria. Introduction by Philip Reiff. Collier Books, New York: <1963.
    • —. “Psychoanalytic Notes on an Autobiographical Account of a Case of Paranoia (Dementia Paranoides).” The Standard Edition of the Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Trans. James Strachey. Volume XII:9. London: Hogarth, 1958-1974.
    • Gibson, William, Neuromancer. Ace: New York: 1984.
    • Goldstein, Jan. “The Uses of Male Hysteria: Medical and Literary Discourse in Nineteenth-Century France.” Representations, v. 34 (Spring 1991): 134-166.
    • Haraway, Donna J. Simians, Cyborgs, and Women. New York: Routledge, 1991.
    • Hilts, Philip, “F.D.A. Panel Cites Need to Keep Breast Implants.” The New York Times, November 15th, 1991, p. A8.
    • Jameson, Fredric. “Nostalgia for the Present.” The South Atlantic Quarterly v. 88, no. 2 (1989): 521-32.
    • Mitchell, Juliet. Psychoanalysis and Feminism: Freud, Reich, Laing, and Women. New York: Vintage Books, 1975.
    • —. “Femininity, Narrative, and Psychoanalysis.” Women, The Longest Revolution. Virago Press, Ltd., 1982.
    • Rabinow, Paul, Ed. The Foucault Reader. Pantheon Books: New York, 1984.
    • Rosenthal, Pam. “Jacked In: Fordism, Cyberspace, and Cyberpunk.” Socialist Review (Spring 1991): 87-103.
    • Schreber, Daniel Paul. Memoirs of My Nervous Illness. Trans. Ida Macalpine and Richard A. Hunter. London: Dawson, 1955.

     

  • The Four Luxembourgs Civitas Peregrina (From the diary of a traveler Pseudo-Vladislav Todorov)

    Vladislav Todorov

    Department of Slavic Languages
    University of Pennsylvania

    vtodorov@sas.upenn.edu

     

    The explorers of Luxembourg usually designate its four stages according to the four possible etymologies of its name. The first three: the Luminous one, the Dissipated one, and the Twisted one stem from the Latin: Lux, Luxuriosus, Luxus. The fourth is usually derived from the name of the legendary revolutionary Rosa Luxembourg. The present exploration shall adhere to these interpretations of the name thus established through tradition.

     

    I. The Luminous City of Luxembourg

     

    Some travelers also refer to it as the City of the Sun. This city encloses an enormous hill. Seen from afar its architecture resembles a gigantic mesh that has caught and subdued the upheaval of the mighty masses of earth which had inflated with gas and lava the earth’s crust and left behind the mountains as monuments of their provocative erections towards the sun. The city is segmented into seven circles or rings that grip the hill in concentric circles towards the top. It resembles a formidable crinoline that repulses any rascal who might crawl up the hill. A grandiose temple is erected at that very top. To be precise the temple itself is the top. It springs up into an extraordinarily large dome on the top of which rises another smaller dome in whose center gapes an orifice that looks straight on the middle of the temple where the altar is placed. The dome is painted inside with the map of the celestial constellations, as if the sky repeats itself only lower down and smaller than itself. It has stooped down to the temple like a mystical constellation, a cipher that locks the meaning of the earthly events. The orifice is the threshold at which the maximal cosmic space is turned over into the minimal symbolic space of the temple. It is precisely through this orifice that the cosmos discharges its own superfluity for it to descend as the sacred order of the temple. Thus, the temple resembles a Cyclops’s skull turned towards the sun which has scorched his eye in order to illumine him from inside. In this sense the illuminated-the internally luminous city is blind. Thus built the temple manifests through its figure the original sin of man towards the sun. Because before he stood on two legs, before his forehead bulged out like a church dome, before his eyes turned radiant, before he became sunlike man was turning up towards the sky and its luminaries, his scarlet and cracked like an enormous sore ape’s ass. It is precisely this original anal openness of man towards the sun that some travelers saw manifested in the architecture of the shrines. The radiant–the seeing eye, the organ of light that bathes in rays will always drag after itself like a tin can the embarrassment of being once an anus. Thus the central aperture of the temple, respectively the city expresses the ambivalent openness of the citizens towards their ruler–the Sun. Anyone entering the temple seems to cave in an ass through whose anus the Sun down-casts its stern and all-pervasive gaze. It is the source of the total illumination of the city. In general, the whole city is arranged in such a way that it culminates spatially in the aperture. Thus the whole city bathes its guilt in light. That is an all-encompassing luminescence in which you cannot help but wallow. This is the city of the total vertical transparency emanated by its center (the aperture). An all-pervasive solar gaze descends downwards as a guillotine. Man who stares against this gaze glows completely illumined from inside. Man stops casting a shadow. The city corpus is in fact the terrestrial figure of this super-terrestrial gaze. The very body and structure of the city are the terrestrial incorporation of the downward gaze of a super-power. The city itself represents the total exteriorization and exhibition of life before this gaze. The descending transparency of the world manifests the epiphany of the Eye of the supreme supervisor–the Sun. Any kind of opaque negativity is usurped by the center. It is located there beyond and above the aperture of the city. Inside and below the aperture all is positive-transparent. The people are neighbors for they are totally illumined and all-pervaded by the self-same luminous substance. They bathe in this totality and thus they prosper. Completely transparent and weightless they seem to lack bodies with tunnels flatulent with heavy slops. This is the city of the completely erect and utterly projected outwards and upwards man who baths in the descending divine gaze. The emblem of the city is the Obelisk. Its erecting corpus is the spiritual gaze enacted in the matter of the world. The Eye-Sun as phallus.

     

    II. The Dissipated City of Luxembourg

     

    This city rises not completely built and not completely demolished. A grand bust happened and the crowd bustles around the city somewhat rowdy, somewhat corrupted, somewhat raped, somewhat exhausted, promiscuously fornicating, having once transformed plummets into maces. The demolished city gapes like a cold volcano resounding from time to time with damnation. Once the people had grown defiant and started erecting a Tower City in order to reach God. They tried to look upwards and see God. They wanted to erect the vertical (upwards) transparency of the world. It was an attempt to establish surveillance over God. To catch God on the spot. So God got furious and segmented, that is, demolished their language. He dismantled it into a multitude of mutually impenetrable languages. A total incongruity set in that demolished the corpus of the city. The demolished Tower City stands for the demolished human look advancing upwards to make transparent the world space. The fragmentation of language manifested an opaqueness that descended from above. This figured the absence of God, i.e. the absence of a center in the space of the City that could fully absorb all negativity in itself and thus make the people neighbors. God abandoned the Babel. The God-forsaken city developed an exclusively horizontal vision and strategy. The neighbor turned stranger. The space between people hollowed out. When God desolated the city He, so to speak distributed the negativity among the citizens. He turned everyone into something partial, strange, alien, something “other” than everyone else, into a capsulated particularity. The only possible interest became the horizontal interest between the incompatible particularities. Everyone lusted after power, strove to achieve self-made and self-fashioned Deiformity. The space of the city became a space of internecine strife. Thus the negativity discarded by God burst forth and desolation occurred.

     

    Each desired the other in order to possess and abuse him, to subdue and mastered him. The space between thee and me was reduced. The city life demonstrates the desolation as a common condition. The corpus of the city that had started threatening erection towards God was castrated and went limp as a gut–the cesspit. God forced man to bend over. He twisted his bold gaze downwards. Thus God reinstated man’s guilty position. Bent over in guilt man met the eyes of his fellowman and desired him. He desired his neighbor. The Cross became the emblem of the castrated city corpus. The broken up obelisk.

     

    III. The Twisted City of Luxembourg

     

    Before they lived in their city, the people were engulfed in the intestines of a Bull. The Bull was God. And then one day the Hero appeared and led them out by killing the Bull-God. Before this happened, the world was split in two chambers, into physical and allegorical space. The allegorical space was the Labyrinth, whose tunnels always led towards the mouth of the Bull. The physical space was the Bull himself. The Labyrinth allegorically represented and exhibited the Bull’s intestines. The mouth of the Bull was the aperture which connected the two spaces. Exactly there “the one” began and ended in “the other”.

     

    The mouth was the threshold. The world was set up as a two-chambered device engulfing the people from one space into the other. The allegorical space (the Labyrinth) continually collapsed into the physical one (the Bull’s mouth). This way the procession of Death was performed. The physical space was God himself. The allegorical one–His phony presence outside His own natura. In order to succeed the Hero had to walk back this same lethal path, to do an act opposite to the engulfing. It was precisely for this reason that the Hero did not appear among the living ones in the allegorical space in front of the mouth of the Bull-God. He appeared in the rear of the physical space or at the aperture opposite to the mouth–the anus of the Bull-God.

     

    From there he entered the physique of the intestines and led out the people engulfed there back to the mouth. He led them out. Thus the Hero liquidated the Bull-God. He abolished the physique of the God and as a consequence of this he found himself together with his people in the allegorical space of the Labyrinth which survived as the One space. This turned out to be the virtual City of their liberation. The liquidation of God reduced the world to the omnipresence of the allegorical space. Nothing could exist beyond it. The tunnels of the figurative reality did not lead to any apertures. They were blind. The liquidation of God came as a radical denaturalization of existence. The Labyrinth is by itself a twisted construction. The corpus of the Labyrinth City does not resemble any bold exalted erection. It can never be straight, nor can it be broken. Its natural joints are twisted so that it cannot stand up. It drags its spreading horizontality. The transparency is reduced to the direct visibility in the convolutions of the tunnel. The global allegorical space could be recognized in the fact that the Labyrinth is exactly the same in all its cells and can be surveyed without moving about. It is a self-duplicating sameness. The citizens live in one and the same allegory without being able to see each other because of the vertebral-like structure of the Labyrinth. The physical space was absolutely shredded up and so busted. The allegorical one opened unlimited and thus became omnipresent. There was no power able to justify this endless allegorical order. The Labyrinth has no center. Every place in it is absolutely identical to every other place. In each cell of it emerge exactly the same things as in every other one. There are no heroically privileged places. When the Hero led his people into the Labyrinth he himself disappeared. He took a place in it and became like everyone else. He acquired the anonymous existence of everyone else. The Labyrinth as an emblem signifies nothing but the torso of the world after God was wrested off it. Nothing is present to testify to the sense of life, nothing exists to justify the order of the world but it is total. The Absurd. It is conspicuous the final de-gradation of the phallus into a colon. The erection is supplanted by constipation.

     

    IV. Luxembourg–the Phantom City

     

    Comrade Luxembourg–this is a woman

     

    –Platonov

     

    Most travelers describe it like this: a gigantic corpus, slowly augmenting, because it inflates and at the same time blackens. Having reached the point of bursting, exactly when its crust is ripping frightfully, threatening to let out slops and gases, the corpus starts slowly to soften and lighten up until it turns into a pulp. It is a necrotized womb stuffed up by dead substances. A womb turning into a vampire. This is the city of the most incredible metamorphose, mutation and vicissitude.

     

    This city is organized according to the grammar of an instructive language. In contrast to the Tower City, here the language has not been demolished, but nevertheless, no tower has been built, no “Common Home”. This language propagates and agitates people to perform the sublime act–to claw the earth in exaltation. It was necessary to dig harder and more cunningly in order to transform the earth interior into a “Common Home”. The main effort of the subjects was to dig out a colossal pit, a gigantic aperture–sanctuary, an organized subterranean eternal sun-trap.

     

    The total language projected reality of the Phantom City. In the space of the City reverberated thunder like proclamations. The people became heralds of stunning proclamations, of verbal maltreatment because the proclaimed reality was a bruised piece.

     

    Reality dispersed in panic chased away by its own proclamations.

     

    Language was the virtual reality and all things real peek out of it as phantoms. The Last Judgment was proclaimed real in order for a phantom to be punished–the bourgeoisie. Communism was proclaimed real in order for the other phantom to be immortalized –the proletariat. It was realized by being proclaimed. Do you recollect the story of the madman, who believed he was a hen, so They fed him with raw corn. He did not stop being insane but he stopped pretending to be a hen, so that he wouldn’t have to gnash his teeth on the raw corncobs. Someone proclaimed himself God and proceeded to feed on soil. The sun was proclaimed to be the Universal proletarian. Language. In the language there was no center nor horizontal or vertical coordination. It performed twisted parables according to the rules of its grammar. Language was a radioactive instrument that caused monstrous mutations in the city. Uncanny, melancholic longing engulfs the souls of the citizens. A longing for reality. And only through longing could reality open itself in the minds. Through this longing did the unnamed reality rush into the phantom figure of the city. The longing became the aperture through which reality made known its own presence. One thing sustained the population and the militants of the City–the fact, that there had to be a super point of view, one might say a central herald of the proclamations, for whom, everything that happened was observable, manageable, and goal-oriented. There existed the certainty that the life of the City is performed before the gaze of one centralized Eye-Mind. A certainty, that one surveyor observes and supervises the correct going on of the grandiose ceremony called Proletarian Revolution. Otherwise to every glance from inside life passed as an arbitrary dispersal or merging of phantoms and names. The despair came with the suspicion that this super Eye-Mind is also a phantom. A high density phantom arbitrary authorized with a centralized ontological presence. The certainty that the transparency of the City descended from above was a sham. This “see-through-all” Eye was also proclaimed. Through renaming its realities the Phantom City assembled and disassembled itself like an animated toy puzzle before the amazed eyes of the greatest Dadaist of the world (proclaimed to be such in Zurich). Like a real hero this Dadaist succeeded in getting to the bottle and letting loose the genie of the most imbecile Hocus-pocus. And with an exalted babble it penetrated the City and proclaimed it. Another Dadaist of the same rank constructed a machine for executions with quite artistic and precise functions. Then he himself jumped into it and thus became the requisite matter for its function in order to demonstrate its exquisite perfection. At night, tired by the excessive work of the Hocus-pocuses, the citizens of the Phantom City sulked and listened to the lamp fuse sucking in the kerosene. And in order to stifle the rumbling of their empty stomachs, they nibbled the wall plaster. This city had no special emblem. It was emblem itself. For there existed no sign that could stand for it. Everything got proclaimed–interned into the Cit.

     

    * * *

     

    All travelers observe a strict tendency towards de-naturalization of Luxembourg during its four stages:–passing from a vertical into a horizontal symbolism and its vanishing into crooked parabolas;–an ever more irreversible dislocation of the natural joints and apertures of the city corpus;–presence, then absence, then abolishing and at the end turning into a vampire of the city center;–from emblem representing the essence of the city–to a city emblem of itself.

     

    Usually the travelers evade the teleological interpretations, because they lead life unto a certain destination and in this sense to certain utopia or anti-utopia. Others speak of the cyclic recurrence of the herein described stages. Still others to whom we pertain are convinced of the principle of the back and forth momentum. According to this principle the City of the Sun and the Phantom City are respectively the upper and lower dead-point between which historically acts the piston of Luxembourg.

     

    IMPLETA CERNE! IMPLENDA COLLIGE!

     

  • A Draft Essay on Russian and Western Postmodernism*

    Mikhail Epstein

    Department of Slavic Languages
    Emory University

     

    I suggest to your attention some excerpts from my paper on two Russian postmodernisms and their interrelationship with the Western one. The paper was presented at the MLA conference in December 1991, at the same panel with Marjorie Perloff’s and Barrett Watten’s papers now proposed for this discussion. Also, I will cite several passages from my recent pamphlet (of a very limited circulation) arguing for the purely “ideological,” “Eastern” version of postmodernism as opposed to Fredric Jameson’s influential theory which connects postmodernism with the economic basis of the “late capitalism” and therefore denies its possibility in non-Western countries (Mikhail Epstein, Relativistic Patterns in Totalitarian Thinking: An Inquiry into Soviet Ideological Language. Kennan Institute of Advanced Russian Studies. Occasional Papers, # 243. Washington: Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, 1991). What I am going to say does not reflect latest interesting developments in Russian criticism where the question of “post-modernism” became as focal as the concept of “socialist realism” was in the 1930s (this is not an arbitrary connexion: actually, the later stage of post-modernism comes to succeed the earlier one). In particular, I would like to address you to the articles of Vyacheslav Kuritsyn “Post-modernism: new ancient culture” and Sergei Nosov “Literature and Play,” accompanied by editorial comments in Novyi Mir (Moscow), 1992, No.2. pp.225-239.

     

    First of all, I want to discuss “the origins and the meaning of Russian postmodernism,” taking the idiom from the famous work of Nikolai Berdiaev The Origins and the Meaning of Russian Communism (Istoki i smysl russkogo kommunizma, Paris, 1955). Communist teachings came to Russia from Western Europe and seemed at first completely alien to this backward semi-Asiatic country; however Russia turned out to be the first nation to attempt to enact these teachings on a world-wide scale. Berdiaev has shown convincingly that communism was intimately linked to the entire spirit of Russian history long before Russia learned anything about Marxism.

     

    The same paradox, in my view, relates to the problem of Russian postmodernism. A phenomenon which seemed to be purely Western, in the final analysis exposes its lasting affinity with some principal aspects of Russian national tradition.

     

    Among the different definitions of postmodernism, I would single out as the most important the production of reality as a series of plausible copies, or what the French philosopher Baudrillard calls “simulation.” Other features of postmodernism such as the waning of comprehensive theoretical metanarratives or the abolishment of the oppositions between high and low, elitist and mass culture, seem derivative of this phenomenon of hyperreality. Models of reality replace reality itself which therefore becomes irrecoverable.

     

    Indeed, the previous dominant trends in Western twentieth century culture such as avant-gardism and modernism were elitist in that they pitted themselves against the reality of mass society either because of an alienation from it (modernism) or because of an effort to transform it in a revolutionary way (avant-gardism). As for metanarratives such as Marxism and Freudianism, their main point was to unmask the illusions of consciousness (ideological perversions) in order to disclose the genuine reality of material production or libidinal energy.

     

    Yet once the concept of reality ceases to operate, these metanarratives, which appealed to reality, and elitist arts, which opposed it, begin to wane.

     

    The appeal to a reality principle evokes the phenomena of great Western science, philosophy, and technology and thus may be considered the cornerstone of all Western civilization. According to this principle, reality must be distinguished from all products of human imagination and there are practical means which permit the establishment of truth as a form of correspondence between cultural concepts and reality. Science, technology, and even the arts strove to break through different subjective illusions and mythological prejudices to the substance of reality by way of objective cognition, practical utilization, and realistic imitation respectively. The last great metanarratives of Western civilization, those of Marx, Nietzsche, and Freud, are still penetrated by this obsession with capturing reality and they relentlessly attempt to demystify all illusory products of culture and ideology.

     

    During the twentieth century, however, an unexpected twist transformed these highly realistic and even materialistic theories into their own opposites. While Marxism, Freudianism, and Nietzscheanism all appealed to reality as such, they also produced their own highly ideologized and aestheticized realities, and more sophisticated tools of political and psychological manipulation. Reality itself disappeared, yielding to the most refined and provocative theories of realities and, next, to the practical modes of the production of reality. Now in the late twentieth century, what is produced is objectivity itself, not merely separate objects.

     

    There are different modes for the production of reality. One is a Soviet-style ideocracy that flourished precisely on the basis of Marxism, which claimed to denounce all ideologies as mystification. Another is an American- style psychosynthesis which includes the comprehensive system of mass media and advertising that flourished precisely on the basis of pragmatism and psychoanalysis, both of which claimed to denounce all illusions of consciousness.

     

    In other words, what we now see as reality is nothing more than a system of secondary stimuli intended to produce a sense of reality, or what Baudrillard calls “simulation.” In spite of any seeming resemblances, simulation is the opposite of what was understood as imitation during the Renaissance or the Enlightenment. Imitation was an attempt to represent reality as such without any subjective distortions. Simulation is an attempt to substitute for reality those images which appear even more real than reality itself.

     

    The production of reality seems rather new for Western civilization, but it was routinely accomplished in Russia throughout its history. Ideas always tended to substitute for reality, beginning perhaps from Prince Vladimir who in 988 adopted the idea of Christianity and implanted it in a vast country in which there was hardly a single Christian.

     

    Peter the Great ordered Russia to educate itself and vigorously introduced newspapers, universities, academies. Therefore they appeared in artificial forms, incapable of concealing their deliberateness, the forced order of their origination. Even the first factory in Russia was built not out of some industrial need, but because Czar Anna decided to build a factory to match Western development. In essence, we are dealing with the simulative, or nominative, character of a civilization composed of plausible labels: this is a “newspaper,” this–an “academy,” this–a “constitution”; but all of this did not grow naturally from the national soil, but was implanted from above in the form of smoothly whittled twigs–perhaps they will take root and germinate. Too much came from the idea, the scheme, the conception, to which reality was subjugated.

     

    In his book Russia in 1839, Marquis de Coustine expressed this simulative character of Russian civilization in a most insightful manner. “Russians have only names for everything, but nothing in reality. Russia is a country of facades. Read the labels – they have ‘society,’ ‘civilization,’ ‘literature,’ ‘art,’ ‘sciences’–but as a matter of fact, they don’t even have doctors. If you randomly call a Russian doctor from your neighborhood, you can consider yourself a corpse in advance.”1 One can ascribe this negative reaction to a foreigner’s malevolence, but Aleksandr Herzen, for one, believed that Marquis de Coustine had written the most fascinating and intelligent book about Russia. This Frenchman had expressed most precisely the simulative character of an entire civilization, in which the plan, the preceding concept, is more real than the production brought forth by that plan.

     

    This nominative civilization, composed completely of names,2 discloses its nature in Russian postmodernist art, which shows us a label pulled off of emptiness. Conceptualism, the prevailing trend in contemporary Russian art, is a set of labels, a collections of facades lacking the three other sides.3

     

    The most grandiose simulacrum that expressed the simulative nature of Russian civilization was, of course, Petersburg itself, erected on a “Finnish swamp.” “Petersburg is the most intentional (or imaginary–umyshlennyi ) and abstract city on earth,” wrote Dostoevsky in “The Notes from the Underground”: the reality of the city was composed entirely of fabrications, designs, ravings, and visions lifted up like a shadow above a rotten soil unfit for construction.

     

    A shakiness was laid into the very foundation of the imperial capital, which subsequently became the cradle of three revolutions. The realization of its intentionality and “ideality,” simply not having found firm soil beneath itself, gave rise to one of the first, and most ingenious, literary simulacra–in Dostoevsky: “A hundred times, amidst this fog, I’ve been struck with a strange but importunate reverie: ‘And what, if this fog were to scatter and leave for above, wouldn’t this entire rotten, slimy city take off with it, wouldn’t it rise up with the fog and disappear like smoke, and the prior Finnish swamp would remain, and, in the middle of it, for beauty, I think, the bronze horseman on his hotly breathing, exhausted horse?’”(A Raw Youth, emboldening mine–M. E.).4

     

    This vision could have just come off of the canvas of a conceptual artist, a postmodernist master such as Eric Bulatov, for example. Contemporary Russian conceptualism emerged not from the imitation of Western postmodernism, but rather from precisely that Petersburg rotten fog and Dostoevsky’s “importunate reverie.” Potemkin villages5 appears in Russia not simply as a political trick, but as the metaphysical exposure of the fraudulence of any culture or positive activity. It is an outward appearance of a type which almost does not conceal its deceptiveness, but also does not destroy its illusion in a purposeful way, like Hinduist Maya should be destroyed. Rather it is anxious to secure its preservation as an appearance, but in no way prepares to ground or fill it in. The intermediary stratum between “is” and “is not” is that edge along which the “enchanted pilgrimage” of the Russian spirit slides.

     

    After the Bolshevik revolution, this simulative nature of reality became even more pronounced. All social and private life was subjugated to ideology, which became the only real force of historical development. Those signs of a new reality of which the Soviets were so proud in the thirties and fifties, beginning with Stalin’s massive hydroelectric plant on the Dnieper River and ending with Khrushchev planting of corn and Brezhnev’s numerous autobiographies, were actually pure ideological simulations of reality. This artificial reality was intended to demonstrate the superiority of ideas over simple facts. Communist subbotniks6 in the Soviet Union were examples of hyperevents which simulated “the feast of labor” precisely in order to stimulate real labor.

     

    In Baudrillard’s definition of this phenomenon of hyperreal: “The territory no longer precedes the map, nor survives it. Henceforth, it is the map that precedes the territory–PRECESSION OF SIMULACRA–it is the map that engenders the territory and if we were to revive the fable [written by Borges] today, it would be the territory whose shreds are slowly rotting across the map. It is the real, and not the map, whose vestiges subsist here and there, in the deserts which are no longer those of the Empire, but our own. The desert of the real itself.”7

     

    Anyone who looks at a map of the former Soviet Union today will agree that such a huge country had to arise initially on the map before it could expand in reality. Today we can address this phrase “the desert of the real itself” directly to what has remained from the Soviet Union. This country is originally poor not with commodities, comfort, hard currency, but with reality itself. All shortcomings and deficiencies are only symbols of this fading reality; and symbols themselves comprise the sole reality that survives in this country.

     

    To sum up: reality as such gradually disappears throughout Russian history. All reality of pagan Rus’ disappeared when Prince Vladimir ordered the introduction of Christianity and briskly baptized the whole nation. Similarly, all reality of Moscow Rus’ vanished when Peter the Great ordered his citizens “to become civilized” and shave their beards. All reality of “tsarist” Russia dissolved when Lenin and Bolsheviks transformed it into a launching pad for a communist experiment. Finally, all Soviet reality collapsed in several years of Gorbachev’s rule yielding to a new, still unknown system of ideas. Probably, the ideas of capitalist market and free enterprise have now the best chance in Russia, though they remain there once again pure conceptions against the background of hungry and devastated society. Personally I believe that in a long run Eltsin or somebody else will manage to create a sumulacrum of a market for Russia. Realities were produced in Russia out of the ruling elite’s minds, but once produced they were imposed with such force and determination that these ideological constructions became hyperrealities. * * *

     

    Almost all investigators of postmodernism cite America as a wonderland in which fantasies become more real than reality itself. In this sense, however, America is not alone. Russia, as distinct from Europe, also developed as a realized dream. It is true that the postmodernist self- awareness of Soviet reality emerged later than parallel philosophical developments in the West. Nevertheless, already in the mid-seventies, so-called conceptual art and literature became more and more popular in the Soviet Union, suggesting a comprehensive reconsideration of the entire phenomenon of Soviet civilization. As distinct from realistic literature of the Solzhenitsyn type, conceptualism does not attempt to denounce the lie of Soviet ideology (from false ideas to a genuine reality). As distinct from metaphysical poetry of the Brodsky type, it does not turn away from Soviet reality in search of higher and purer worlds (from false reality to genuine ideas). Conceptual painting and writing, as presented by Ilya Kabakov, Erick Bulatov, Dmitry Prigov, Vsevolod Nekrasov, Lev Rubinstein, Vladimir Sorokin, convey ideas as the only true substance of the Soviet lifestyle. Paradoxically, false ideas comprise the essence of genuine reality.

     

    The erasure of metanarrative is another important feature of postmodernism that is worthy of explanation. In the Soviet case, it is an indisputably Marxist metanarrative. There is a common, though fallacious, belief that only under and after perestroika, have Marxist teachings begun to dissolve into a variety of ideological positions. In truth, this dissolution began at the very moment when Marxism was brought to Russia and further progressed when it turned into Marxism-Leninism and Soviet Marxism.

     

    Perhaps more than other metanarratives, Marxism relies on reality and materiality as the determinant of all ideological phenomena. When this teaching came to a culture in which reality had always been a function of powerful State imagination, a strange combination emerged: materialism as a form and tool of ideology. Paradoxically, Marxism was a catalyst for this transformation of Russia into one great Disneyland, though one less amusing than terrifying. Before the Bolshevik revolution, not all aspects of material life were simulated and some place remained for genuine economic enterprises. But now that Russian ideology has assimilated materialism, all material life has become a product of ideology.

     

    Marxist teachings themselves also suffered a paradoxical transformation. On the one hand, Marxism became the only theoretical viewpoint that was officially allowed by the Soviet regime. For this very reason, it ironically grew to include all other possible viewpoints. Internationalists and patriots, liberals and conservatives, existentialists and structuralists, technocrats and ecologists all pretended to be genuine Marxists, pragmatically adapting the “proven teaching” to changing circumstances. In the West, Marxism preserved its identity as a metanarrative, giving its own specific interpretation of all historical phenomena because it was freely challenged by other metanarratives (such as Christianity and Freudianism). In the Soviet Union, however, Marxism became what postmodernists call pastiche, an eclectic mixture of all possible interpretations and outlooks. As an all- encompassing doctrine penetrating into physics and theater, military affairs and children’s play, Soviet Marxism was the ultimate achievement of postmodernism.

     

    In Western society, postmodernism is often regarded as a continuation of the logic of “late capitalism,” a condition in which all ideas and styles acquire the form of commodities and become “manageable” and “changeable.” In the Soviet Union, postmodern relativity of ideas arises from its own ideological, not economic, base. All those concepts previously alien to the essence of communist ideology, such as “private property” and the “free market,” are now freely entering this ideological space, stretching it beyond its limits–allowing the ideology to embrace its own opposite. This is a process of de-ideologization, but not in the sense of Daniel Bell’s understanding of the phenomenon in his famous book, The End of Ideology. In the Soviet Union, de-ideologization means the end of the “particular” ideology which originally had a definite class character, social ideals, and aimed to inspire the proletariat to launch a socialist revolution and construct communism. The current de-ideologization of Marxism in the USSR is a process of the universalization of ideological thinking as such, its final move from the realm of militant modernism to a more playful, relaxed, postmodern mentality.

     

    This de-ideologization, or super-ideologization, of Soviet Marxism raises a vital question: are there two distinct postmodernisms, one Western and one Eastern, or is there a single, shared postmodernism? The best answer, in the author’s view, is that “one-and-a-half” postmodernisms exist. The postmodern condition is essentially the same in the East and West, although it proceeds from opposite foundations: ideology and economics, respectively. Late capitalism and late communism are polar opposites in terms of economic structure and efficiency, but economics alone does not determine culture as a whole. The fundamental underlying patterns of cultural postmodernism in the East are not economic, they are ideological. Communism has proved to be a more radical challenge to capitalism than was originally thought, not only did it change the mode of production, it changed the relationship of base and superstructure in society.8

     

    A comparison of capitalist economics and communist ideology is imperative for elucidating the postmodernist traits common to both societies. Such a “cross” examination would be more interesting than a parallel comparison; if one compares communist and bourgeois ideologies, or socialist and capitalist economics, little can be found beyond commonplace oppositions. It is far more relevant–even from a Marxist-Leninist perspective–to examine the common ground between communist ideology and capitalist economics, as the two perform identical functional roles in their respective social structures. The circulation of goods in capitalist society is essentially identical to the circulation of ideas in communist society. Ideology, like capital, allows for the growth of surplus value, or, in this case, surplus evaluation. In a communist society, every concrete fact of the “material” world is treated ideologically, as evidence of some general historic tendency–its significance increases from one instance of ideological interpretation to the next.

     

    The famous formula of a capitalist economy which Marx suggested in Das Kapital is “commodities–money–commodities,” or “money–commodities–money.” The same formula can be applied in modified form to the ideology of Soviet Marxism: “reality – idea – reality,” or “idea – reality – idea.” Facts are exchanged for ideas in communist society in the same way as goods are exchanged for money in capitalist societies. Ideas, as a sort of currency, acquire an abstract form of “ideological capital.” They do not constitute material wealth, but the “correctness” of communist ideology. This “correctness,” or absolute truth, compensates people for their labor (“heroic deeds and sacrifices”), as well as recoups the cost of so-called “particular” mistakes resulting from Party policy.

     

    What happens in the late stage of communist development? Why does it move toward a “postmodernist condition” along the same path followed by “late capitalist” societies? Totalitarianism was a superlative machine for accumulating and exploiting all sorts of ideas: leftist and rightist, revolutionary and conservative, internationalist and patriotic, etc.. However, this machine spawned a phenomenon bigger than itself. Just as capital eventually outgrows the capitalist “machine” and becomes a self- sufficient entity, Soviet ideological capital has outgrown the “machine” of a particular personality or system of ideas and has become an omnipresent mentality, appropriating any fact to serve any idea. Such is the current state of Soviet society under glasnost’. Marxist ideology, the most powerful of all modern ideologies, is losing its identity and becoming only one possible interpretation of reality (in the Soviet Union, it would be the least probable one!). The expansion of Marxist ideology overcame Marxism as a form of modernity and created the postmodern condition in the USSR.

     

    The overarching expansion of Soviet ideology occurred in the Brezhnev era, when the difference between facts and ideas was practically erased. Ideology was gradually transformed from a system of ideas into an all-encompassing ideological environment which retained all possible alternative philosophical systems as latent components within itself. Existentialism and structuralism, Russophilism and Westernism, technocratic and ecological movements, Christian and neo-pagan outlooks–everything was compressed into the form of Marxism, creating a sort of post-modernist pastiche.

     

    One can easily anticipate a counter-argument: how can we refer to Soviet postmodernism without a clear identification of Soviet modernism? Western postmodernism came after modernism, so where is the corresponding progression in Soviet culture?

     

    It is obvious, however, that Russian culture of the pre-revolutionary period was predominantly modernist as such trends as symbolism and futurism indicate. As expressions of a highly utopian vision, the Bolshevik movement and October revolution also can be seen as modernist phenomena. The same rigidly consistent style of modernist aesthetics was dominant in the twenties as Mayakovsky’s and Pilnyak’s works demonstrate.

     

    In this sense, socialist realism may be regarded as an essentially postmodernist trend destined to balance all opposites and to create a new space for the interaction of all possible stylistic devices including Romantic, Realist, and Classicist models. Andrei Siniavsky’s dissident interpretation (in a 1960 famous essay “On Socialist Realism”) of Soviet official literature as of a reborn classicism was one-sided, as were more conformist attempts to describe socialist realism in terms of amplified critical realism, or heroic romanticism, or combination of both. Socialist realism was not a specific artistic direction in a traditional or modernist sense, it can be adequately approached only as a postmodernist phenomenon, as an eclectic mixture of all previous classical styles, as an encyclopedia of literary cliches. We should trust more to social realism’s own self-definition: the unity of a method attained through the diversity of styles (or their mixture, or pastiche). “Socialist realism is regarded as a new type of artistic consciousness which is not limited by the framework of one or even of several modes of representation….”9 Socialist realism simulated successfully all literary styles beginning from ancient epic songs and ending with Tolstoy’s refined psychologism and futuristic poetics of a placard and a slogan.

     

    The epoch of the thirties through fifties in the Soviet Union was clearly post*modernist, even though the prevailing term at the time was “anti*modernism.” The furious struggle against “rotten bourgeois modernism” became the hall-mark of Stalinist aesthetics. What was antimodernism in relation to the West was postmodernism in relation to the native, pre-revolutionary and post-revolutionary modernist culture.

     

    In the sixties and seventies, another wave of modernism came into Soviet literature: futurist, surrealist, abstractionist and expressionist trends were revived in literature, painting, and music. The twenties became the nostalgic model for this neo-modernism of the sixties as presented in Andrei Voznesensky and Vasily Aksyonov.

     

    This explains why later, in the seventies and eighties, another wave of postmodernism arose in opposition to this sixties “neo-modernist” generation. For such postmodernists as Ilya Kabakov, Boris Grois, or Dmitri Prigov there are no figures more adversarial, than Malevich, Khlebnikov, and other modernists of the early 20th century, not speaking about the latter’s successors in the sixties such as Andrei Voznesensky or Vassily Aksyonov. Consequently, this postmodern generation feels a sort of nostalgia precisely for the typical Soviet lifestyle and the art of social realism which provides them with congenial ideological material for their conceptual works. Social realism is close to conceptualism in its antimodernist stance: they share highly conventional semiotic devices, the sets of cliches and idioms that are devoid of any personal emphasis and intentional self-expression.

     

    These components of the postmodernist paradigm, which in the West were introduced simultaneously, took much longer to mature in Soviet culture. The erasing of the semantic difference between idea and reality, between the signifying and the signified, had been achieved by the first Soviet postmodernism (socialist realism); while the syntactic interplay of these signs was aesthetically adopted only by the second postmodernism (conceptualism). Although it would seem that these two processes must coincide, it took several decades for Soviet culture to pass from one stage to another.

     

    The point is that Western culture has great respect for reality that is beyond signs. As soon as signs proved to be self-sufficient, they immediately acquired a playful dimension. The Russian cultural tradition is much more inclined to view signs as an independent reality deserving of the greatest esteem. Therefore it was extremely difficult to accept that these signs which substitute for reality may become objects of irony and aesthetic play.

     

    Western postmodernism includes two aspects: what can be called the substance of postmodernism, and the interpretation of this substance in postmodernist conceptual framework. In the Soviet Union, these two aspects developed separately. The period from the thirties to the fifties witnessed the emergence of postmodernism as a specific substance, including the ideological and semiotic dissolution of reality, the merging of elitist and mass culture into mediocrity, and the elimination of modernist stylistic purity and refinement. Only in the late fifties, in the works of such poets as Kholin, Kropivnitsky, Vsevolod Nekrasov, Vilen Barsky, and then in the seventies, in the works of Ilya Kabakov, Eric Bulatov, Dmitri Prigov, and Lev Rubinstein, was the “substantial” postmodernism of Soviet culture interpreted precisely in postmodernist terms. Signs of heroic labor, collectivism, the striving for a communist future, and so on which previously were perceived seriously as the signified reality itself, now were perceived only at the level of signs themselves, which are susceptible to all sorts of linguistic games. In the 1980s Soviet postmodernism finally overtook its second aspect and bloomed into a full cultural phenomenon comparable with its Western parallel.

     

    Certainly, such postmodernist phenomena as Borges’s stories, Nabokov’s and Umberto Eco’s novels or Derrida’s models of deconstruction have had a considerable influence on some contemporary schools of Soviet writing, including conceptualism and metarealism. What is much more striking, however, is that the earlier Soviet post- or antimodernism still influences, though unconsciously, the contemporary American literary scene. For example, Tom Wolfe’s recent manifesto “Stalking the Billion-Footed Beast”10 gained much attention with his attacks against modernism and his calls for a social novel which would combine fiction and reporting. Wolfe involuntarily duplicates the very patterns that Stalin’s ideologists used in their relentless political tirades against Russian pre-revolutionary and Western bourgeois modernism. Wolfe probably has never heard of Zhdanov’s infamous 1946 report debasing Akhmatova and Zoshchenko, let alone read it. Nevertheless, Wolfe’s main points and even his choice of metaphors are the same as Zhdanov’s: they both compare writing to engineering, for example. Wolfe also proposes that writers form brigades to pool their talents for an investigation of the amazing social reality in the United States, as it was in the Soviet Union of 1930’s.11

     

    I do not go so far as to suggest that the aesthetic code of Stalinism directly influenced such an “antimodernist” writer as Tom Wolfe. Yet the terms of postmodernist debate apply equally well in such embarrassingly different conditions as the U.S.S.R. in the late forties and the U.S. in the late eighties. The striving for a postmodernist world view inevitably brings about an opposition to the abstractness and individualism of modernist writing; it also causes a turn towards common and stereotyped forms of language as imposed by the dominant social order.

     

    In a broader perspective, postmodernism can be seen as a type of culture which was developed in both the West and the Soviet Union, although by different methods. The Western version of postmodernism came chronologically later, though it was much more theoretically self-conscious. To try to isolate and identify a Western-style postmodernism in twentieth century Russian culture proved to be a difficult problem because the formation of specifically Russian postmodernism had been divided into two periods.

     

    The development of Russian modernism was artificially stopped in the thirties, while in the West it developed smoothly up to the sixties. This accounts for the existence of a single postmodernism in the West, while two separate postmodernisms arose in Soviet culture, in the thirties and in the seventies. This obliges us to compare not only Russian postmodernism with its Western counterpart, but also to examine the two Russian postmodernisms: socialist realism and conceptualism. Perhaps, it is the chronological gap between them that made both versions so ideologically charged, though in two opposite directions. The first postmodernism is explicitly heroic, the second one is implicitly ironic. Nevertheless, if we identify them as two aspects and two periods of one historical phenomenon, these opposite tenets easily neutralize each other, comprising entirely “blank pastiche,” to use Fredric Jameson’s definition of postmodernism.

     

    The tendency to perceive socialist realism and conceptualism as mutually s/t/imulating aspects of the same cultural paradigm presumably will get further support in the course of future reinterpretations of Soviet history in terms of its integrity and the interdependence of its “initial” and “conclusive” phases. Two Russian postmodernisms complement each other and present a more complicated and self-contradictory phenomenon than Western postmodernism which is concentrated in a single period of history.


    * This draft essay was circulated during Postmodern Culture’s Symposium on Russian Postmodernism. See SYMPOS-1.193 to find where it was included in the discussion. Included here are Epstein’s comments introducing the essay. –Ed.

    Notes

     

    1. Marquis de Coustine, Nikolaevskaia Rossiia. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo obshchestva politkatorzhan, 1930, p. 79.

     

    2. Is it not this “nominativity,” this pure concern with names, that gives rise to the sinister power of the nomenklatura, that is those people selected by no one and by no means meriting their stature, but who are named “secretary,” “director,” or “instructor” and have received power by virtue of these names.

     

    3. On contemporary Russian Conceptualism see Mikhail Epstein “After the Future: On the New Consciousness in Literature,” The South Atlantic Quarterly, Spring 1991, v.90, no.2, pp.409-444, and Mikhail Epstein, “Metamorphosis: On New Currents in the Soviet Poetry.” Third Wave: The New Russian Poetry. Ed. Kent Johnson and Stephen M. Ashby. University of Michigan Press, 1991, pp. 382-407.

     

    4. Dostoevsky has several variations on the theme of this vision, which affected him deeply, in A Weak Heart(1848), in Petersburg Dreams in Verse and in Prose(1861), and in the sketches for The Diary of a Writer(1873).

     

    5. Dummy villages erected, according to foreigners, by the order of Prince Potemkin along the route he was to take with Catherine II after the annexation of the Crimea, 1783. This expression is used allusively of something done for show, an ostentatious display designed to disguise an unsatisfactory state of affairs, a pretence that all is well, etc. See Russian-English Dictionary of Winged Words, Moscow: Russkii iazyk, 1988, p.162.

     

    6. Voluntary unpaid work on days off, originally on Saturdays.

     

    7. J. Baudrillard. The Precession of Simulacra. Semiotexte: New York, 1983, 2.

     

    8. For a critical discussion of this issue, see the chapter entitled “Basis and Superstructure: Reality and Ideology,” in Marcuse, Soviet Marxism, 106-107.

     

    9. Literaturnyi entsiklopedicheskii slovar’. Moscow: Sovetskaiia entsiklopediia, 1987, p.416.

     

    10. Tom Wolfe. “Stalking the Billion-Footed Beast. A literary manifesto for the new social novel.” Harper’s November 1989.

     

    11. These issues are discussed at length in my article “Tom Wolfe and Social(ist) Realism.” Common Knowledge, Oxford University Press, 1992, v. 1, No. 2, pp. 147-160.

     

  • Russian Postmodernism: An Oxymoron?

    Marjorie Perloff

    Stanford University
    0004221898@mcimail.com

     

    In the wake, first of perestroika, and now of the wholesale dissolution of the Soviet Union, the temptation has been great to align the “new Russian poetry” with its American postmodernist counterpart. And since the poets who have taken the most active role in translating this hitherto samizdat poetry are those associated with the Language movement, most notably Lyn Hejinian, Michael Palmer, and Jean Day, as well as Hejinian’s collaborators (Michael Davidson, Ron Silliman, Barrett Watten) on the extraordinary travel book Leningrad (San Francisco: Mercury House, 1991), there is naturally a feeling on the part of the Russian poets themselves that there are serious links between the Russian and the American postmodernist avant-garde, whatever these much contested terms really mean. At a reading at New Langton Street last year, for example, when the question was put to Alexei Parshchikov and Ivan Zhdanov, “What American poets have influenced your work?” the immediate reply, I believe from Parshchikov, was “the language poets.” The same point is made by Andrew Wachtel and Parshchikov in their Introduction to Kent Johnson and Stephen M. Ashby’s new anthology The Third Wave. “For both groups,” they write, “the source of poetic production is found in language itself, and it is with this group that, for the first time, the former underground poets have entered into active poetic dialogue . . . in the last few years these contacts have increased as the Soviet poets are actively translating and being translated by their newfound American poetic soulmates.”1

     

    The new rapprochement between our two poetries has already made a difference, especially on this side of the globe. The influx of energy, enthusiasm, and daring, as well as a new range of source and thematic materials, surely stands behind such recent books as Lyn Hejinian’s Oxota, a long “novel in verse” on the model of Pushkin’s Evgeni Onegin and Clark Coolidge’s forthcoming Russian Nights. At the same time, the question remains, at least for me, whether the homologies between the two poetries are really as prominent as they are claimed to be. And a related question would be: given the enormous political, social, and cultural differences between our two countries over the past century, and given the long midcentury hiatus of the Stalinist years, which largely suppressed the “Modernism” to which recent developments are supposedly “post,” can we expect to find comparable poetic paradigms?

     

    Take Dmitri Prigov’s discussion of Conceptualism in his manifesto “What more is there to say?” and Mikhail Epstein’s elaboration on it, both included in The Third Wave. The Conceptual Art movement in the U.S. dates from the late sixties; as Ursula Meyer explains it in the introduction to her handbook by that title: The function of the critic and the function of the artist have been traditionally divided; the artist’s concern was the production of the work and the critic’s was its evaluation and interpretation. During the past several years a group of young artists evolved the idiom of Conceptual Art, which eliminated this division. Conceptual artists take over the role of the critic in terms of framing their own propositions, ideas, and concepts . . . . An essential aspect of Conceptual Art is its self-reference; often the artists define the intentions of their work as part of their art. Thus, many Conceptual artists advance propositions or investigations. More specifically: the Conceptual art of Joseph Kosuth and Vito Acconci, of Hans Haacke and John Baldessari took up the challenge presented by Duchamp, “preferring the ideational over the visual” and rejecting the notion of a predominantly retinal art, where “meaning” is hidden by a set of visual signs. Art as idea, art as information or knowledge: in practice, this meant that the catalogue could become the exhibition, or indeed, that there would be no exhibition at all, only a series of writings and blueprints.

     

    Now compare this aesthetic to Epstein’s account: What is conceptualism?. . . . Almost any artistic work . . . is conceptual insofar as there lies within it a certain conception, or the sum of conceptions, which the critic or interpreter draws out. In conceptualism this conception is demonstrably separable from the live artistic fabric and even becomes an independent creation, or “concept” in itself. . . . a “break between the idea and the thing, the sign and reality, is created.” And Epstein cites a passage from Dimitri Prigov: The outstanding hero– He goes forward without fear But your ordinary hero– He’s also almost without fear But first he waits to see: Maybe it’ll all blow over And if not– then on he goes And the people get it all. And he comments: Behind these lines by Dmitri Prigov we easily recognize the formula that lies at the basis of numerous pathetic works about the fearless, all-conquering hero and his slightly backward but devoted comrades in arms. The typical problem with such odic writings is how to reliably hide the formula behind the clothing of linguistic beauty so as to make it frighteningly similar to a live person. The poet-conceptualist, on the other contrary, drags the formula out into the open from the sum of its aesthetic imprintings and changes of form, placing it as an independent fact before the reader’s perception. . . . Conceptualism . . . unmask[s] beneath the covering of lyrical soulfulness or epic picturesqueness the skeleton of an idea-engendering construct. (TW 270) For Epstein–and his explanation accords with Prigov’s own as well as with Lev Rubinshtein’s statement of his “conceptualist” poetics in The Third Wave–conceptualism evidently refers to the willingness to reveal the ideological base which a more conventional poetry would try to mask beneath a set of decorative trappings. But ironically, this urge to “expose” the ideologeme and separate it from its material embodiment is almost the antithesis of the conceptualism of our sixties and seventies, which rejected the notion of hidden meaning outright, making the case that psychological depth was itself an anachronism. Whereas American conceptual art was an attack from the Left on the vapidity and “prettiness” of late Abstract Expressionism and color-field painting, the Soviet version is concerned to unmask the “aesthetic imprintings,” designed to make Socialist Realist poetry and painting more palatable. Conceptualism, in this sense, is more properly a form of parody or pastiche, a self-conscious mode of satire that takes nothing on faith and is determined to reveal precisely those inner motivations of poetic and artistic discourse that our own Conceptualists have denied existed.

     

    The other two movements described by Epstein– Metarealism and Presentism–pose somewhat different problems for the Anglo-American reader. “Metarealism” (here Epstein includes such poets as Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, Nadezhda Kondakova, Viktor Krivulin, Olga Sedakova, and Ivan Zhdanov) is defined as “the pull toward the construction of supertemporal models of reality,” the emphasis being on metamorphosis, the process whereby “one thing becomes the other.” Metarealism, says Epstein “has little in common with surrealism, since it turns not toward the subconscious but to a supraconsciousness” (TW 177). To which Surrealists would respond that in practice, one can’t quite separate the two. Indeed, such precursors of surrealism as Rimbaud and Lautreamont made use of precisely the kind of imagery Epstein describes; the passionately erotic, discontinuous, and hallucinatory poetry of Dragomoshchenko, for that matter, immediately brings Rimbaud to mind although there are no doubt important Russian models as well.

     

    The third major movement–presentism or the “poetry of presence”–is characterized by its “taste for contemporaneity and the technological plasticity of objects,” but without the “social-aesthetic aggressiveness and evangelical utopianism” of futurism (TW 280). “Presentism,” writes Epstein, “affirms the presence of an object, its visibility and tangibility, as the necessary and sufficient conditions of its meaningfulness.” And his gives the example of Parshchikov’s “Catfish,” as a phenomenological lyric that tries to capture “the sum total of perceptions: [the catfish] in water and on land, waking and sleeping” (TW 281).

     

    I find this account somewhat puzzling because postmodernism is generally characterized as precisely the calling into question of presence, of center, of organic wholeness, and so on. From the late sixties, when Derrida published Ecriture et difference, “presence” has been one of those terms whose role is to be negated in favor of its antithesis, “absence.” How, then, do we deal with a poetry like Parshchikov’s? His own “Conversation between an Editor and a Poet,” reprinted in The Third Wave, doesn’t help us very much. Parshchikov says he “want[s] to be plugged into the search for a new descriptive language,” but then adds that “there is no ‘old’ language, only the discovery of new ways, only the growth of language.” And further: “Biochemistry is leading us into a world where the border between the living and the dead is washed away. . . . and so I wrote about the concrete work on earth” (TW 24).

     

    Let us look more closely at the poetry itself. Here is “BEGSTVO–II,” (the original is represented here by my transliteration), together with Michael Palmer’s translation in The Third Wave, and the word-for-word translation of Parshchikov’s poem by Andrey Patrikeyev: (Peel. Peel i priboy. Myedlenuh, kak smyati pakyet tselofanovi shevelitsuh rasshiryayass zamootnyayetsuh pamyat. Samalyot iz peska snizhayetsuh, takovim nye yavlayayass Vnachalyeh voini mirov kroochye beryot poleen Vpoot’ sobirayass, ya chistil ot nassekomikh radyator, kogda novi ogon’ spalil puluvinu zemyel’, no nass nye nakreel, isskomikh Pepyel byenzozapravki. Peel i priboy. Kroogom nikovo, kromye zaglavshevoso pribora Vsadnik li zdyess myertsal, ili snybeo pyeskom possipali leeneeyu priboya Vrabye blestyat kablooki i zoobi. Tanyets Tyanyetso, slovno bredyen vkogtyakh cherepakhi. Zrya Ya eeshchoo tebya, soboy nye yavlyayass; nass, vozmozhno, rassassivayet zyemla) FLIGHT Michael Palmer Dust. Sea-form and dust. Slowly, the way a crushed cellophane packet stirs and expands, memory blurs. An airplane out of sand descends–not even a plane. At the start of the war of the worlds harsh wormwood takes command. Preparing to set out, I was scraping bugs from the radiator when a new fire torched half the land, seeking but missing us. Gas station’s ashes. Sea foam and dust. Nothing around but this control panel in eternal malfunction Was a rider shimmering there, or was sand scattered from the sky along the shoreline … Flashing teeth and flying heels in the bar. The dance fans out like a seine net in a turtle’s claws. In vain I search for you, not knowing who I am Maybe the earth dissolves us. (TW 26) “Begstvo II”: Word-for-Word Translation Andrey Patrikeyev (Dust. Dust and the surf. Slowly like the moving crumpled plastic bag the memory expands, getting torrid. A plane made of sand is losing height, without being a plane. The smell of wormwood is more acute at the beginning of the war of the worlds. Getting ready to set off, I was cleaning the radiator from insects when a new fire burned half of the lands, without reaching us whom it sought. The ashes of the petrol station. Dust and surf. All around there is nobody but the instrument (measuring?) that is telling lies without reserve. Was it a rider that glimmered here or was it sand that was strewn over the line of the surf … Heels and teeth glitter in the bar. The dance is like a drag net stretching in the claws of a tortoise. In vain I’m seeking you without being myself; maybe we are being dissolved by the earth.)

     

    Palmer’s fine translation, generally quite close to the original (compare it the word-for-word translation by Andrei Patrikeyev), presents us with nature images in collision with those of industrialization gone awry. In this nameless and faceless landscape of “sea-foam and dust” (peel i priboy), memory expands like “a crushed cellophane packet,” and the “gas station’s ashes” cover the sand, which scatters like a mysterious airplane or, in the second stanza, like a “rider shimmering there,” with “Flashing teeth and flying heels in the bar.” Sea-foam, dust, wormwood, bugs, turtle’s claws: these items from the natural world provide a mysterious backdrop, first for the “radiator,” from which a “new fire” seems to erupt, “torch[ing] half the land, seeking but missing us,” and then in line 9, for the unnamed “instrument” or “measuring” agent–Palmer ominously calls it a “control panel in eternal malfunction.” The poem inevitably raises the specter of Chernobyl, although the meaning is not limited to that particular disaster, the imagery conjuring up any number of nightmare visions having to do with fire, earthquake, and apocalypse. Whatever the referent, the poet presents himself as one who can make contact neither with the unnamed “you” nor with himself: the only reality seems to be one of wholesale “dissolution” (rassassivayet zyemla).

     

    Given its hallucinatory imagery, its lack of specification of “I” and “you,” its strange conjunctions of unlike objects–rider with flashing teeth and radiator covered with bugs–it seems quite appropriate to call a poem like “Flight” “meta-realistic” as well as “presentistic.” Yet the motive and mode of Parshchikov’s poem is, in many ways, quite different from, say, the poetry of his translator Michael Palmer. Here, for example, is the opening of Palmer’s “Notes for Echo Lake 1”: He says this red as dust, eyes a literal self among selves and picks the coffee up Memory is kind, a kindness, a kind of unlistening, a grey wall even toward which you move. It was the woman beside him who remarked that he never looked anyone in the eye. (This by water’s edge.) This by water’s edge. And all of the song ‘divided into silences’, or ‘quartered in three silences’. Dear Charles, I began again and again to work, always with no confidence as Melville might explain. Might complain.2

     

    Like “Flight” Palmer’s “Echo Lake” has references to dust, to water’s edge, and to the process of memory, but it is much more dislocated–or more strictly speaking, unlocated than Parshchikov’s “Flight.” In the latter, the scene, however dream-like, is a constant throughout, even as the positioning of the the poet’s “I,” however unspecified and generic, is clearly established. This specification is in keeping with the poem’s formal structure: four stanzas, each rhyming abab with alternate masculine and feminine rhymes. In Palmer’s poem, on the other hand–and this would be equally true for, say, John Ashbery or Lyn Hejinian or Barrett Watten–subjectivity splinters and scenes shift from moment to moment. “The grey wall . . . toward which you move,” for example, gives way to “It was the woman,” and a declarative sentence like “He never looked anyone in the eye,” is followed by the pronomial phrase, “This by water’s edge,” where “This” has no specific referent. Address too shifts, as we see in the “Dear Charles” passage. Formally, the poem is prose–a fragmentary, gnomic prose that alludes to “events” and “objects” we cannot define, even though “Notes for Echo Lake” is, broadly speaking, a lyric “about” the emptying out of the sign, the search for clues that might connect past to present, that might make sense of memory and desire.

     

    To generalize from so few examples is, of course, dangerous, and my aim is by no means to set up some sort of neat presence/ absence dichotomy between our two poetries. But what may be helpful in drawing literary/cultural maps of the postmodern situation is to “thicken the plot,” as John Cage would put it, by finding the lacunae in the current narrative. One such link, whether overt or not, is French Modernist poetry, not so much the poetry of Dada or the full-blown Surrealism of Andre Breton or Robert Desnos, as the poesie brute (“raw poetry”) of Pierre Reverdy, Rene Char and other Modernist poets who came of age after World War I. Indeed, the poetry of Parshchikov, of Dragomoschenko, and other poets of the “Third Wave” seems much more analogous to the intense, elliptical, and mysterious lyric of a Reverdy than to the disillusioned, cool, media-reactive postmodernism of late twentieth-century America. Here, for example, is Reverdy’s “Chemin Tournant,” which I reproduce in Kenneth Rexroth’s translation: It is frightening grey dusty weather A south wind on strong wings Dull echoes of water in the capsizing evening And in the soaking night spouting turning Rough voices complaining A taste of ashes on the tongue The sound of an organ in tbe byways The pitching ship of the heart All the disasters of work When the fires of the desert go out one by one When the eyes drip like blades of grass When the dew falls barefoot on the leaves Morning hardly risen Somebody seeks A lost address on a lost road The stars brighten the flowers tumble down Across the broken branches The dark brook wipes its soft scarce parted lips When the steps of the walker on the counting dial order the movement and crowd the horizon All cries pass and all times meet And me I walk to heaven my eyes in the rays Noise about nothing and names in my head Living faces Everything that has happened in the world And this holiday Where I have lost my time3 John Ashbery, in an essay of the sixties, praised Reverdy’s poetry for its transparency, its presentation of factories and canals as “living phenomena,” its “restoration to things of their true name, without the eternal dead weight of symbolism and allegory.”4 The mysterious presence things assume in Reverdy’s poetry (“When the steps of the walker on the counting dial / order the movement and crowd the horizon”) is not unlike the mysterious presence, in the middle of Parshchikov’s “sea-foam and dust,” of a measuring “instrument” or “control panel” that has gone awry.

     

    The issue is not, finally, whether Parshchikov knew Reverdy when he wrote his poem or whether the links between them are only coincidental. Rather, I want to suggest–and I made a similar point in the case of Arkadii Dragomoschenko in a recent issue of Sulfur5— that as literary and cultural historians, we should try to flesh in the picture, tracing lineages and cultural formations more accurately than we have done to date. Take the simple fact that Ashbery and Palmer, themselves important to Parshchikov, were great disseminators of the French “poetry of presence.” Such missing pieces in the coming into being of the postmodern puzzle will help us to define the momentum that has brought the Third Wave brilliantly crashing on our shore.

     

    Notes

     

    1. The Third Wave, The New Russian Poetry, ed. Kent Johnson and Stephen M. Ashby (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991), 9. Subsequently cited as TW.

     

    2. Michael Palmer, Notes for Echo Lake (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1981), 3.

     

    3. Pierre Reverdy, “Turning Road,” Selected Poems, trans. Kenneth Rexroth (New York: New Directions, 1969), 21.

     

    4. John Ashbery, “Reverdy en Amerique,” Mercure de France: Pierre Reverdy Issue, 344 (January/April 1962): 111-12. I reproduce the whole passage and translate the key sentences in The Poetics of indeterminacy: Rimbaud to Cage (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), 35-37.

     

    5. Sulfur 29 (Fall 1991): 216-21.

     

  • Symposium on Russian Postmodernism

     
     

    Symposiasts:

     

    Jerome McGann, Department of English, University of Virginia (jjm2f@lizzie.engl.Virginia.EDU)

    Vitaly Chernetsky, Department of English, University of Pennsylvania

    Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, St. Petersburg, Russia (atd@HM.SPB.SU)

    Mikhail Epstein, Department of Slavic Languages, Emory University

    Lyn Hejinian, (70550.654@COMPUSERVE.COM)

    Bob Perelman, Department of English, University of Pennsylvania (bperelme@SAS.UPENN.EDU)

    Marjorie Perloff, Department of English, Stanford University (0004221898@MCIMAIL.COM)

     


     

    [Editor’s note:

    This symposium brought together several people working in the field of Russian Postmodernism. Discussions took place in the month of October 26-November 25, 1992.

    The genre of this symposium is unusually mixed. You will find here, among other things, lengthy set pieces, conversational responses, poems previously published and unpublished, draft essays, papers from conferences, and excerpts from published work. Instead of a flow of short entries, we received fewer, longer messages.

    We have chosen not to regularize the form of these entries or their mechanics, and not to revise or edit messages, in order to preserve the occassional nature of the discussion. You might refer the work found here to a transcription from an oral symposium, with printed text incorporated, and not to the dialogue of essays and replies often published in journals.]

     


     

     
    Date: Mon, 26 Oct 1992 11:09:14 -0500
    From: "Jerome J. McGann" 
    Subject: Re: well...no record
    
    Perhaps it will be useful to begin the discussion with a set of
    topics and questions that seem to me to be pertinent -- given
    what various people involved have already said or written.
         Marjorie Perloff's draft essay on "Russian Postmodernism",
    sent for this symposium, focusses a central problem: how does one
    talk about the relations that have been made and pursued between
    agroup of contemporary Russian writers and certain western
    writers (are they a "group"? how?) who have been seen as their
    counterparts?
         Let me say that the (local) history of the emergence of
    each"group" -- both have constructed themselves outside given and
    traditional institutions -- is a telling fact.  (Though of course
    "samizdat" and "small press"/private printing/desktop publishing
    ventures have in each culture, by now, been fairly
    well-established.)
         The problem may be seen in various forms.  Perloff traces
    out some differences in conceptualist programs and ideas.  In
    _Leningrad_ the same problem appears, I think, in the recurrent
    preoccupation with the question of the poetic "object", as well
    as with the (perhaps related) question of the status of
    "objects-as-such" in two very different types of societies.  (The
    problem --perhaps it is reciprocal -- of the "subject" also
    arises repeatedly.)
         For example: I read Perloff's essay and I wonder: why did
    she write this? what is the point of pointing out such
    differentials?  Or I read Watten's essay on "Post-Soviet
    Subjectivity. . ." and wonder: is this essay "about"
    Drogomoshenko and Kabakov and "post-soviet" writing, or is it
    about -- somehow, for some reason --contemporary American
    writing?
         I think it would be useful if everyone in the symposium
    addressed these issues at the beginning.  You might want to
    respond to Prigov or to Perloff or to Watten specifically, or to
    pick up from any of the other related texts in _Leningrad_ or
    _The Third Wave_ or _Poetics Journal_ no. 8.
         For myself, I would find it helpful if -- in addressing
    these issues -- a person would also explain why they take their
    chosen approach (e.g., through social and institutional history;
    through questions of aesthetics, or stylistics; through a
    consideration ofthe relation of poetry and ideology; or of
    writing and language and "the person"; etc.).
         At some point the more general cultural and social question
    also needs to be taken up.  How to frame the question is itself a
    question?  Well, there are different imaginable ways: why has
    this intercourse begun?  what function does it serve the
    individuals, their societies, the practise of writing and art?
    Most immediately, what are we doing in this very symposium, what
    are we after?
    
    Jerome McGann

     
    Mon, 26 Oct 92 15:37:42
    From: Lyn Hejinian <70550.654@CompuServe.COM>
    Subject: first response
    
    Dear Colleagues and Friends, I have just received Jerome McGann's
    opening message, and I am as astounded at the format of these
    proceedings as I am at the "theme" or "themes" of the symposium.
            My own particular concerns with respect to contemporary
    Russian (or any other) poetry and poetics were, I think,
    originally epistemological; they are still, to a large degree,
    although my involvement (as translator) with the particular
    writings of Arkadii Dragomoshchenko has enlarged that original,
    abstract quandary with particular, immediate ones. In any case,
    the question "how does one know" (the question of consciousness
    and the quest for a consciousness of consciousness), becomes,
    perhaps especially for an American, enormously vivid in the
    otherness of a Russian context.
            I don't intend by this to be taking a relativist
    position--that we can understand ourselves better by
    understanding something else seems a banal and thoroughly
    uninteresting truism. And to discover that certain American
    literary groups have a similarity to certain Russian literary
    groups is probably only to discover a coincidence--one which
    might motivate curiosity but doesn't necessarily generate
    meaning.
            The affinities that have evolved in the past five or six
    years between certain poets in the U.S. and certain poets in
    Russia exist, I think, because those poets wanted them to.
    There's been a remarkable degree of seeking out--of which this
    symposium is another example.
            My own personal initial experience in the course of this
    seeking out was a dispersal of my American knowing in the Russian
    context (could one call it a postmoderning of knowing?) where the
    grounds for that knowing simply didn't exist. The experience
    convinced me that knowledge is always embedded--always
    contextualized (so that one only knows THAT something or OF
    something, for example)--that is always and only situated and
    that it depends on specific logics and linkages.
            Logics and linkages, of course, are precisely the
    materials of poetic method.
            And perhaps our enthusiasm for their proliferation is a
    specifically postmodern attitude. Finally, I'd like to say
    something in answer to Jerome McGann's question, "what are we
    doing in this very symposium, what are we after?" that I would
    hope we are after some non- or even anti-nationalist engagement
    with the man questions that postmodernism and postsovietism
    suggest.
    
             Lyn Hejinian

     
    Date:         Tue, 27 Oct 1992 19:36:58 +0300
    From:         arkadii 
    Subject:      remarks
    
    S-Petersburg
    27 October, 1992, 7:33 PM.
    atd@hm.spb.su
    
    Dear colleagues, it seems slightly strange to start any
    "discussion" (even on postmodern) from the point of a
    question -- "what all of us doing it for?.." Somehow or
    other I have nothing to do but to continue offered mode
    putting a great deal of questions to myself which entailed
    by first two essays and followed remarks. The very problem
    of Russian Postmodern to the same extent looks dark as well
    as "American" or "African". Despite numerous writing on
    this object the course of approach to it switches itself in
    dizzying velocity. Couple years ago -- economical premises,
    transformation of production modes or subjectivity per se,
    social geterogenity, circulation of capital, signifiers,
    Ego, etc. + notorious seductiveness, simulacra were really
    magic formulas, even keys for operations with postmodern
    phenomena (if one couldn't just to say that agglomeration
    of them is in fact a certain composition, or invention of
    its own horizons). Noticeable, that the last mentioned
    terms have appropriated by Russian critics in a great
    longing, corresponding, to be sure, to the roots of a main
    principle of "Russian policy of representation"-- endless
    chain of "icons" getting its origins in an invisible
    prototype..) However we hear another voices now, another
    songs -- "memory," "time," "space," "aesthetic" and so on.
    Why not? It is entirely immaterial in _what_ terms, even
    _sentence_ we are going to speak about present state of the
    given object. Future is only a projection of our habits.
    Right as _this symposium_ seems at a moment like iridescent
    bubbles of a monitor in a soapy soup of imagination. As far
    as I get it, essays by Marjorie Perloff and Barrett Watten
    somehow or other attempted to touch different things
    regardless of "concrete" stuff of reading. Sure, between
    them -- diffusion of two different poetry practices/
    consciousness despite the postmodern affirmation of
    locality, the ways of such deterritorialisation (let us
    recall a work of Veselovskii, dedicated to wandering
    plots...). For all of that -- in MP essay evidently runs
    itself the vein of the problem of interrelations of the
    language of Father and artificial infant language of
    Russian "conceptualism" that unfolds the ceaseless dream of
    an ambiguous release trough the closing of meanings as such
    in continuous repetitions of the certain rhetoric. (I think
    Marjorie Perloff feels that explanations of this "event" by
    Michael Epshtein are not only insufficient, still to some
    respect -- wrong). And at least, the theme of memory rose
    by Barrett Watten in his reading my poem. Sure, the _time-
    memory-space_ questioning is most self-erasable "problem"
    be tight connecting to such themes as body politics,
    imagination strategy, etc., -- connecting postmodern's
    ontic spectrum of worries with ontological ones. Perhaps,
    if we'll have a time, I'll try offer you couple of pages
    dedicated to "memory".
    
    Arkadii Dragomoshchenko.

     
    Date:         Fri, 30 Oct 1992 15:09:30 EST
    From:         Lyn Hejinian <70550.654@COMPUSERVE.COM>
    Subject:      second comment
    
    October 30; I've only received Jerry's initial opening message
    and Arkadii's first remarks (and a copy of my own first attempt
    to enter this e-conversation), so maybe it is premature to add
    something now.  But it does seem appropriate, both generally
    (globally) and specifically (with respect to Russia and to the
    U.S.) to frame the notion of postmodernism in the context of
    "memory" (I am thinking of Arkadii's use of the term), since
    among other things doing so blurs the distinction between
    "objects" and "events." And it is this blurring that
    characterizes the so-called end of history, postmodernism.
         Perhaps the Vietnam War (and the morally-related Watergate
    scandal) helped to collapse U.S. history somewhat as perestroika
    and the demise of the Soviet Union have collapsed history in
    Russia. But maybe, again, the comparison is irrelevant; can we
    compare Ezra Pound's and Charles Olson's and HD's (albeit very
    different) attempts to recover history with Viktor Shklovsky's
    and Vladimir Mayakovsky's and Anna Akhmatova's and Marina
    Tsvetaeva's attempts to witness it? Such comparisons themselves
    are typical dispersals.
         The notion of "memory" no longer suggests contemplation so
    much as sentimentality (or its sister, irony), amorality, and
    above all novel patterns of logic: "wandering" rather than
    hierarchically organized plots. When the cause-and-effect
    structuring which determines that an occurrence is an event
    breaks down, the event becomes an object. This object isn't
    necessarily isolated--it probably always rests in a matrix of
    relationships and associations. But they are spatial and it is
    atemporal.
         The beating of Rodney King has achieved instant
    object-status. That's in part because it was "captured"
    (objectified) on video tape and the tape has been repeated over
    and over, and only objects, not events, can't repeat.
         Well, these quick remarks merely invite Arkadii's "couple of
    pagesdedicated to 'memory'."
         And what of equivalence? In Arkadii's remarks it seems as if
    numerous and various items and terms (the objects of concern)
    swirl like motes in warm twilit sunshine, and this view is
    familiar to me, too. One might be intelligent about any one, or
    even several, of them,but perhaps not about the whole mass.
    
    Lyn Hejinian

     
    Date:         Fri, 30 Oct 1992 07:38:00 GMT
    From:         Marjorie Perloff <0004221898@MCIMAIL.COM>
    Subject:      Postmodern Symposium
    
    Dear Colleagues, I came home from 10 days at Stanford to find
    eleven messages, most about the symposium.  There are very
    interesting comments from Lyn Hejinian and Arkadii Dragomoschenko
    that I want to mull over for a day or two.  In the meantime, I
    want to address Jerome McGann'squestion, "Why did she (I) want to
    write about this?  For me, the fascination of the Russian
    language and the Russian world is endless. As someone who loves
    the early twentieth century Russian avant-garde, but also
    Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Chekhov, I want to understand what is
    happening in the former Soviet Union today.  But since my Russian
    is very minimal, I must rely on what I can read and I suppose I
    wasn't quite satisfied with Ephshtein's account of what's going
    on and wanted to speculate on the relationship between two
    cultures, my point being that since "modernism," whatever that
    is, hasn't quite been absorbed in Russia, it's hard to imagine a
    "postmodernism" that would be parallel to our own late-century
    versions.  On the other hand, a book like Hejinian's Oxota could
    not have been written without the impact of the Russian poets,
    writers, critics--the whole culture, so there's clearly something
    wonderfully exciting going on.  But what exactly?  I hope to
    learn more.  This past week, we have had on the Stanford campus
    Joseph Brodsky, who was invited by the Stanford Humanities
    Center.  I went to only one session--where Brodsky was talking
    about Thomas Hardy and Robert Frost.  He began by saying that
    Pound and Eliot had deflected British Modernism from its true
    path, epitomized by Hardy and then performed an analysis on "The
    Convergence of the Twain."  Now, I want to ask my fellow
    symposiasts: how do we relate Brodsky to the mode of
    Dragomoschenko, Parshchikov, and the other "new wave" poets?
    
    With best wishes, Marjorie Perloff

     
    Date:         Sat, 31 Oct 1992 15:40:58 +0300
    From:         arkadii 
    Subject:      moving on in one step
    
    31 October, 1992, 3:32 PM
    
    Dear Lyn, dear colleges, I'm not certain that we _must_
    speak only about memory (unconsciouses, traces, etc.) as
    about of a main perspective of postmodern phenomena.
    Nonetheless, this "term" is really provocative. Firstly,
    because it involves varies "things" by virtue of which we
    could get "something" concerning to our current state --
    this is to say, about History, or -- to hove we like to
    understand it, or to understand ourselves.
    
    Two or three days ago, when we spend a time with Alexander
    Zeldovich^1^ (he was back from Finland, and this time with
    beautiful friend - Marianna) drinking bad wine but speaking
    about global problems (exactly! yes! - typical Russian
    manner of wasting of time, like "matreshka" or
    "perestroika" and so forth) and when he paged first
    "papers" from beginning of our symposium, he'd said --
    "Write them, please, that there is very important thing --
    We (Russia) are as a Bermuda triangle for all "-isms",
    including postomdernism (which itself seems like the same
    notorious "triangle"). It is a point that _every_ art's
    mode, every direction transforms itself here in mode of
    life!^2^ Moreover, this mode of life become "only one" way of
    dealing with social space..." -- this is to say, with
    history and memory. Isn't it? To some extent he was right
    -- all our "revolutions" are the fruits of perverted
    imagination. Meanwhile the time between -- was gifted by
    devil. Where is memory? Or -- are we sentenced to be
    the nation of an eternal Posmodern?
    
    Arkadii Dragomoshchenko
    ____________________
    ^1^ Well-known filmaker from Moscow - the last work was
    "Sunset" on Babel. In the last issue of "Iskusstvo Kino"
    (Art of Cinema) you can read our idle, "kitchen", talk
    about the phenomena of "American Cinema".
    
    ^2^ I think this was the first impulse which Authors
    of "Leningrad" got in Leningrad in 1989 (?).

     
    Date:         Sat, 31 Oct 1992 17:05:50 +0300
    From:         arkadii 
    Subject:      memory
    
    (out of the left field or -- )
    EROTICISM OF FOR-GETTING, EROTICISM OF BEYOND-BEING(a) (1)
    
              by Arkadii Dragomoshchenko; translated by
                             Vanessa Bittner with
                                  Arkadii Dragomoshchenko
    (Thank you, Lyn and Barrett, --
    you participated in a hard business
    of this translation too, preparing it
    for the next issue of Poetics Journal...)
    
                             I entered - where I don't know
                             Understanding forsook me -
                             I stood -all knowledge departed.
    
                                       St. Juan de la Cruise
    
         There exist a multitude of things about which it
    doesn't seem possible to talk, without risking a
    meaningless pomposity, regardless of the fact that these
    things continue to be a desired object of descriptions and
    discussions, remaining not only as a horizon of experience,
    but of the possibility of uttering something about it as
    well.  Simultaneously such things seem illusorily ordinary-
    habitual.  They are primordially vacillating and
    mysterious, they whose senses are not grasped by reason,
    which irritates the imagination, emitted and continue to
    emit the unusually bewitching enchantment of the
    strangeness of being -- which have already become a certain
    semblance of sediment -- dictionaries willingly presenting
    any rhetoric with this or that spectra of significance --
    or: the history of the use of words or: the casts of former
    "existential territorialities" (F. Guattari).
    
         Among such things can be found "memory".
    
         The kind proposal I received to deliver this paper
    about memory led me to just another dead end of a certain
    "beginning", despite the delicate indication of a path by
    which thought could follow.
    
         And indeed, is it not tempting to fit the object of
    our interest into historical and geopolitical perspective?
    All the more, for me, having spent my life in a country
    whose, let's say, more than marvelous relations with
    "memory" and "history" were marked by the bewilderment of
    Chaadaev, but thanks to which I received a rare opportunity
    to contemplate her (memory's) surprising transformations,
    both on the level of the individual and of society.  But
    with time everything fades, including the sense of
    surprise.  However and indeed doesn't the presence of
    passion seduce the expressions: "peoples, having
    remembered themselves or - having recalled their
    destination and, the almost Platonic: "Man, having recalled
    that he is a man"?  But I will stop here, not without basis
    suggesting that this theme will find/has found worthy
    illumination in presentations and discussions, so then how
    should I, a person deeply private in his habits and work,
    even if hurriedly and chaotically, touch upon an object of
    conversation from a different side or, perhaps, sides.
    More accurately, to remind about the existence of other
    points of view.  Or at least the possibility of others.
    
         In the Malibu city museum in California there is a
    thin gold plate measuring 22X37 mm bearing six engraved
    lines, apparently a fragment of an orphick hymn, or
    instructions to the soul of one who has died on how to
    conduct themselves in the land of shades (2)
    
         Here are the lines whose literal translation is known
    to many:
    
         But I am parched and perishing of thirst./Give
         me quickly/the cold water flowing from the Lake
         of/Memory/Then they will freely let you drink
         from/the holy spring,/and thereafter you will
         have lordship with/the other heroes.
    
         The spring mentioned in the above fragment is, of
    course, Mnemosyne, Memory.  Whose moisture is opposed to
    the waters of Leto.  Also, the opposition of "water of
    life" and "water of death" is inferred in the duality of
    the nature of someone who speaks, in other words, of the
    simultaneous questioning and answering, the nature of which
    combines the Earth-Titanic and the Sky-Dionysian.  However,
    in defiance of the obvious banality of such a
    "distribution" of roles and functions, something
    nevertheless does not allow us, in reading these lines, to
    see the painted plaster frieze of postmodernism.
    
          We will follow once again the well-trod path of plot,
    taking into consideration as much as possible also the
    amalgam of its narrative: the loss of memory is equal to
    death; the dead who have entered the territory of Aida,
    first of all lose their memory. (4)  The realm of Aida, the
    world of night, is itself death or -- oblivion, then how
    the day cannot stand unconsciousness -- forgetfulness
    transforms itself into the death of the "future" (thus
    Orpheus forgets the instructions, transgresses them and
    turns around... to his own destruction) -- since memory is
    nothing other than potential future, taking its origins in
    duration, repitition, prolongation, the logic of which, as
    is known, is the logic of history, narrative, day,
    continuity, of causality, knowledge, law, the Norm.
    
         Within the borders of this logic, the structure of the
    sign (or the mediation of it) is unequivocally manifested
    by a direct connection between the "signifier and the
    signified," where the signified is the memory of the
    referent (the guarantee of the signifier's reality) of a
    certain "object" and, more likely, the essence of this
    object, reflected or revealed by the intelligible
    signified.  A rupture or only the approximation of such a
    connection, according to general opinion, of the loss of
    referent, in other words, chaos, the destruction of the
    hierarchic unity of the world picture in which, by the way,
    the self identification of the "I" (as a reflection of the
    true center of the Universe) and, consequently, of society
    becomes impossible.  Thus, outside of memory, the becoming
    of neither the "I" nor of the personality, self or social
    can occur. Outside of "I" and outside of "the social"
    narrative becomes impossible, the narrative itself, the
    formative state making the world accessible to
    understanding, to reproduction and to repetition -- the
    content.
    
         In this horizon memory can be taken as the pre-writing
    (see Plato about writing as an instrument of memory) which
    must steadily uphold being in consciousness in the form of
    traces, but, more than anything, the origins of those
    traces.
    
         Actually, we know that memory is nothing other than a
    means of consolidating, ordering, unifying the world map.
    And which to some extent allows us to apply the analogy
    between memory and the Eros of Plato, also forming the
    world into an absolute ascent of cognition of the ascent
    itself.  From here -- in spite of the fact that, for some,
    memory is something like a depository, an archive or (for
    others) a reserve of a mobilly difficult, associative
    process of the conscious-unconscious, arises the motif of
    her (memory's) teleologicity since it, like "the time of
    history" (which memory forms) is directed at the
    resurrection of that which, until recently remained as a
    trace of a past (thing, person...) as the trace of which
    the source was some sort of co-being/o-ccurence.(b)  Memory
    is teleological, since it satisfies Absolute Memory or "the
    embodiment of All the Ages" -- it satisfies Apokostasis, in
    other words, the coincidence of "past-present-future" in
    the point of presence, in the punctum of the endlessly
    lasting "present" in which it, perfecting itself,
    nevertheless, is already perfected since it doesn't know
    incompleteness, lack or defect.  Or -- where memory has no
    need for the resurrection of any traces, since there aren't
    any, since there is no past as such.
    
         From this point of view any disruption of memory even
    in everyday life is not only pathological, but a misdeed
    appearing through the limit of definition and infringing
    upon a definite conception of world study.  And here we
    should not remark how in terms of the unfolding of the
    description of its known conception of the "semantic" model
    of the real, the thread of another ornament begins to
    intertwine.  Suffice it to say that the Russian word
    "pamiat'" (memory) covers perception with dust in a few
    semantic layers:  1) that of "imeni"(c) (po(i)myanut' --
    po-imenovat', po-minovenie -- po-imenovanie)(d) which
    translates into English roughly as "to remember -- to
    name", "remembrance -- naming", referring to being called,
    concrete naming as to estate, in other words, to possession
    since being called is an introduction to property,
    appropriation; -- 2) of the first person pronoun, of the
    accusative/genitive case: "mya" (from "menya") and 3) "men-
    y", of the exchange (obmen) (in part of the sign for a
    thing) closing the topology of ya-imeni-imeniya (I-name-
    estate) to the act of power, submission and governing that
    which stands apart, the external, non-articulated.(5)
    Because -- as it follows from Western tradition's
    experience, only in the title, in the re-tention (con-
    tent)(e) of the name, in the retaining of the established
    connection between name and thing the retention of the "I"
    and the world is possible.  However, are there etymological
    premises relevent, despite the seduction-ceremony of their
    reading in the protocol of deconstruction, to the true mis-
    en-scene of these meanings today?
    
    It is difficult to refrain from making Jean Baudrillard's
    statement about the transformation of the very nature of
    the sign. To talk about Western culture means, in his
    opinion, first of all to talk about the principles and
    modes of its co-sociability(f), which must collect the
    world into a single entity, more precisely, to return to it
    its primordial wholeness (6), belief in this wholeness and,
    nevertheless:
    
         All  the  Western  faith  and  good  faith  was
         engaged in  this wager on representation: that a
         sign  could   exchange  for   meaning  and  that
         something could  guarantee this exchange -- God,
         of course.  But  what  if  God  himself  can  be
         simulated, that  is to say, reduced to the signs
         which  arrest  his  existence?  Then  the  whole
         system  becomes  weightless;  it  is  no  longer
         anything but a gigantic simulacrum. (7)
    
    Of course, if we touch upon positions, which must some way
    or another guarantee the "symbolic exchange", it would be
    more important to consider the instance "pure, invulnerable
    (absolute) memory", along with that and "space" in which
    such an exchange is possible, that is, a gigantic
    simulation machine (8) - "absolute historical memory"
    (Nietzsche). But even having proposed such absolute memory,
    we can say that being completely-almighty, memory is
    powerless to penetrate, bring out, preserve one thing --
    the sources of one's own co-being/o-ccurence(g) the trace
    of which is memory itself.  It's strange "beginning", the
    striving to remember, to preserve the function of Freud's
    Thanatos constantly slips away, having become memory before
    carrying the name of forgetfulness (h) which exists between
    its infinite impulse to activity, to work, to
    repetition/creation.(i)  The writing of poetry bears a
    close relation to this.
    
         The reverse of memory spreads oblivion.  But what
    happens there?
    
         Once again the Russian verb "zapamyatovat'", "to
    forget"(j) means to go out beyond memory, beyond its
    limits, consequently to cross the border of "mya", that is,
    "I" ("ya"), "name" (imeni), "self-property" (imenie). But
    what, then, can be found "beyond" (k)?  Only the "absence
    of definition"?  Of duration?  Of continuity?  Of that from
    which the word habitually develops in propositions and
    modalities?  Simply "absence"?  Or maybe we'll phrase the
    question another way: what happens in the very act of
    "forgetting"?  Doesn't language itself point out in its
    etymological luminescence that for-getting/beyond-being is
    literally a transgression (9), that is, a crime(l) of being
    (m), waste of reserve, or otherwise, of the former
    existence as from the noun created from the verb, otherwise
    -- a twice-halted present? Such is poetry, immutably and
    courageousely going out to the border, where the dark glow
    of the indifferent something, unheard of, having never
    existed, but the Genesis "of which", penalizing not even
    the word "time"(n), meets the concealing smoke of human
    vanity.
    
         Beyond the border of memory, if we believe in the
    topography of Preispoden(o) (reverse-side) we find Leto.
    On her banks grow poppies. On her shores oblivion reigns,
    the transparency of which is transmitted to the world,
    drawn into her game, confusing one with another, the times
    and intentions, words and silence, -- opening the
    transparency of the absence of any scales whatsoever - here
    "this" is simultaneously "there", "now" - everywhere
    "after" or "already always then".  The waters of Leto never
    reflect -- it is that place, locus classicus(p) -- where
    the myth of Narcissus, seduced by the yearning for another
    in himself, ceases to be a source of light in the mirrored
    rooms of the human "I"(10).  Peering into the sources,
    memory enters into the most intimate and closest relations
    with Oblivion, which represents to her (memory) her own
    death.  It is impossible to imagine a certain smile which
    is so easy to take for an enigmatic grimace... but where
    then do pains come from?
    
         And here the conclusion of the fragment from the gold
    plate becomes clear -- the question is full of perplexity
    since the questioner in the question-answer about its
    double nature nevertheless confirms its belonging to
    Heaven, to Dionysus, Transgression, Oblivion, Poetry --
    that is, the body of language, speech, which confirms
    itself to being torn to shreds, to dismemberment by the
    Titans, by Mimesis, having seized him (the questioner) in
    the labyrinth of the mirror, in the labyrinth of logic
    which rules reflection (vt/tv-orenie;
    repitition/creation)(q), in other words of that which is
    always seen as the basis of the art of speech... There is
    no point in continuing the list of that which, according to
    the critics, "reflects" or "depicts/represents", at the
    same time appropriating, the word... It doesn't appropriate
    but removes layer by layer from the wax table of memory-
    warp that by definition possesses neither meaning or trace,
    that... which exists in its own disappearance.
    
         However, Night attracts even this mute rustling.
    Night, like poetic speech is sourceless and so steps over,
    erasing any possible interpretation, her language, her
    speech, her intentions , her now, her memory.  Squandering
    all of this in her own disappearance, poetry possesses
    nothing,
    
    only:
    
    **********
    
    Author's Notes:
    
    2) It is noteworthy that this memorandum is inscribed on
    material whose nature is ambivalent in its presentation -
    gold, sun, and light are inseparable in the mythological
    consciousness from ashes (in the Russian language the very
    etymology of this word points to their unanimity). Sunlight
    is in the same way life-creating, ash-creating and light
    itself, more precisely its source, the sun, is inseparable
    from "darkness", blindness, like a vision through the wall
    of optico-centrism, which controls not only epistemiology
    but the metaphysics of culture.
    
    3) The motif which the British poet Robert Graves used in
    one of his poems and which I have added to the final piece
    of "Ksenia" in part as an answer to Graves.
    
    4) The thirst for memory is equal to the thirst for blood -
    a drop of blood gives a moment of memory to the soul of a
    dead person.
    
    5) Unfortunately, there is not room here to refer to yet
    another nuance of meaning, ehich adds through the meaning
    of the word "mnit'" -- to imagine, and for this reason a
    signficant problem of memory -- imagination does not fall
    in with the intent of today's discussion.  In connection
    with this it seems to me that Bashlyarovsky's dream should
    not be considered exactly as non-memory, as non-
    imagination.
    
    6) See Lyotard's meta-recite.
    
    7) Jean Baudrillard, Selected Writings. Stanford U. Press,
    1988, p. 170. ("All of Western faith and good faith was
    engaged in this wager on representation:  that a sign could
    refer to the depth of meaning, that a sign could exchange
    for meaning and that something could guarantee this
    exchange - God, of course.  But what if God himself can be
    simulated, that is to say, reduced to the signs which
    attest his existence?  Then the whole system becomes
    weightless; it is no longer anything but a giant
    simulacrum...")
    
    8) Precisely this point, apparently, compels J.L. Borges to
    create the metaphor Funes-Miracle-Memory, a metaphor of the
    reciprocal devouring of memory and the remembered: of their
    factual, monstrous coincidence.
    
    9) Jacques Derrida makes the following distinction between
    transgression and reduction-epoche: "The phenomenological
    epoche is a reduction that pushes us back toward meaning.
    Sovereign transgression is a reduction of this reduction:
    not a reduction to meaning, but a reduction of meaning."
    Jacques Derrida.  Writing and Difference.  U. Chicago
    Press, 1978. p. 268.
    
    10) Memory-mirror-titans; the torn, dismembered Dionysus,
    etc.
    
    11) From the book XENIA (by this author)? Lyn has this
    poem.
    
    Translator's notes:
    
    a. The Russian prefix "za-" in the works of this author
    reflects the multivalency of one word or invented words due
    to the creative morphology of the language.  The existing
    word "zabyvanie" means literally "forgetting".  But there
    is also a verb "byvat", "to be", which the author here
    fuses with the prefix "za-" which can mean "trans-" or, as
    a preposition, "behind", "beyond", "at", "after", "because
    of".  The noun "zabyvanie" does not exist in Russian (no!
    Vanessa is wrong!), therefore the meaning is open to
    interpretation and associations.
    
    b. "sobytie" without hyphen means "happening, occurence,
    event" which, according to the author, is the result of
    "co-being".
    
    c. "imeni" is a declined form of "imya", "name" in the
    nominative case.
    
    d. the author inserts an "i" into the root of the verb
    "pomyanut'" ("to remember") to emphasize what he sees as
    the semantic connection between the words.
    
    e. In Russian these two words have identical roots but
    different prefixes - uderzhanie, soderzhanie.
    
    f. "so-obshitel'nost'" hinting at the word "soobshit'" to
    inform, announce and "obshitel'nost'" - sociability.
    
    g. see note b.
    
    h. this word also contains the elements "za" and "byt" and
    could also allude to the verb "zabyt'" - to forget. See
    also note a.
    
    i. a play on sounds/words: "vtorenie-tvorenie".  The first
    word does not exist (O, Vanessa, dear, this word exists
    too) on its own but the "vtor" root implies repeating,
    something done a second time. The second word literally
    means creation or creating; the consonant pair is simply
    reversed or "turned around".
    
    j. "zapamyatovat'" is a less commonly used form of the verb
    "zabyvat'/zabyt'", "to forget", and, as the reader can see,
    contains both the particles "za" and "mya".
    
    k. see note a.
    
    l. "prestuplenie" which literally means "crime", is
    semantically related to the verb "perestupat'/perestupit'"
    meaning "to step over" and figuratively "to overstep,
    transgress", thus linking the words "crime" and
    "transgression".
    
    m. as taken from the verb "byvat'".
    
    n. "vremya" ("time") which contains the elements "mya" and
    "ya" from the preceding discussion.
    
    o. Tartarus of Greek mythology.
    
    p. in Latin in the original.
    
    q. See note i.

     
    Date: Sun, 1 Nov 1992 14:46:37 EST
    From:         Lyn Hejinian <70550.654@COMPUSERVE.COM>
    Subject:      xeniaX-To:  symposia@ncsuvm.cc.ncsu.edu
    
    November 1, Sunday:
    
    Dear Colleagues: I'm amused that our symposium in its first week
    has resembled my only other e-mail experience, namely messages
    from Arkadii Dragomoshchenko; I bought a modem solely in order to
    communicate with him during the long period when Soviet and then
    Russian postal system was only sporadically operative, and when
    strange (good) fortune gave Arkadii access to e-mail.
           In any case, both Arkadii and Eyal have asked me to add
    something from Arkadii's forthcoming booklength poem XENIA to our
    discussion. The American translation (in manuscript) is a little
    over 100 pages long, and it's difficult to excerpt from the
    whole, since the "argument" accumulates, like an unfolding
    discourse (or in multiple discourses).  So I've decided just to
    send you the first several pages, with the alternation between
    poetry and prose which is characteristic of the work as a whole.
           The essay on Memory that Arkadii sent to us, by the way,
    will be published in POETICS JOURNAL (the next issue), but the
    version you read is slightly rough (no fault of the author's or
    Vanessa Bittner's--Arkadii's prose is very difficult to
    translate) and we will try to revise a bit before
    publication--with Vanessa's help.
    
           from XENIA
    
                        You see the mountains
                        and think them immobile
                        but they float like clouds.
                             Al-Djunayd
    We see only what
    we see
    
    only what
    lets us be ourselves--
    seen.
    
    The photograph refuses
    to let into itself
    what it created by studying us.
    The frenzied braiding of salts,
                             ashes of silver.
    
    A cock will crow three times
    as dawn arrives. Sight
    (in a game of tossed bones? an opening in the body?
    shoelaces?
    in the autobiography approaching
    from behind your head?), finding
    no object, seems lost.
    
    History begins
    only when powerlessness is acknowledged. I
    can't understand: the embraces of father and mother?
    The transition of one to the other?
    This is the boundary dancing at the threshold
    where an echo slowly floats around reason.
    
    To go on.
    
    Death is not an event, but an ex-
    foliation:
    the past is a knot of ellipses--
                                  noon
    with the sun spot removed
    whose depths are raised to the simple surface
    by the mosquito wind of things,
    
    objects' chips, sucked
    in vain
    into description--sight--
    or the rules for rendering
    a two-dimensional representation multi-dimensional--
    a question of optics (or allegories).
    
    Flight fades into the porous yellow ice
    of the pages flowering between the dry fingers.
    The smoke is black.
    
                   The azure's shrieking.
    
    Senselessly cloud falls to the south.
    And stuck together, like candies of happiness,
    demons with their meditations control the eyes
    like fire whose net is irridescent and plain
    and monotonous too
    like the pendulum of love.
    
    It's not death that's "disturbing," but rather--
    until one is able to move in metabolic particles--
    the absence discovered at every point in the splash
                                  of the day
    whose halves are shut
    behind the shadow's back (yes, definitely, embraces,
    before all else) everywhere
    
    where it can occur
    coupling non-becoming with intercession--
    
    the unravelled tissue's decay. Speed.
    Skid. The division of time: the roar in a child's seashell.
    Surroundings.
    The site of wandering examines
    its own expectations. The mouth
    takes on a definite form
    so that the word sky takes on the density of pebbles
    smashing the shell of reflections.
    
    Now for the story of the branching city. Complexity doesn't mean
    endless additions. The proto-perception of dreams. The multitudes
    are mutinous (the more money you give me the more I'll have--and
    what do you need it for?). This playful twig sticks up in the
    air: attentiveness. But also the epistolary style, exhaustive,
    following trackes (are you talking about me? the day before
    yesterday you said that you needed me in order to experience
    yourself through me), evading possible signs, one's own presence,
    Khlebnikov--the ruins of never-erected cyclopic constructions. A
    stellar swarming in the absolute transparency of subject and
    object. The rustle of a stone flying downward. Slowly I bend
    toward you. The slope is open to the south wind. What for you is
    a moment, for me is a millenium, augmented by anticipation.
    Patience? The foreknowledge that is fated not to answer questions
    about death--not to sprout in the skull of matter. Unhurried
    oxydation, but also the epistolary method, reaching an
    inadmissable surplus: an intersec/ruption, not giving the sought
    for sense of conclusion in any point of the splash, rousing the
    night with ex-. What distinguishes a "judgment" from an
    "utterance"? Look in the dictionary, you say. Look in the
    dictionary and the word is already turning into the word that
    endlessly approximates a fading voice. As for snow in the
    branching story of the city. I bend down toward her and in front
    of me the thinnest droplet discloses the time frame of China.
    Behind the window there's snow. No. Contaminations of the city.
    We'll bring this elm into the map's field. A crow, not knowing
    loss. Instead, so as to come nearer, opening--it moves away,
    until it disappears completely beyond the boundaries of the
    phrase.
    
    *********
    translated by Lyn Hejinian and Elena Balashova. Sun and Moon
    Press will be publishing the book in January of next year. My
    apologies for any typos--I don't know how to call up files into
    my e-mail program, so anything you get from me is typed "in
    realtime"--and generally, as fast as I can type it.
    
    Lyn Hejinian

     
    Date:         Tue, 3 Nov 1992 16:28:22 -0500
    From:         "Jerome J. Mc Gann"
    
    Subject:      memory again
    
    I was moved to the following reflections after reading Arkadii's
    essay.  I would be much interested in any other reactions.
    
                   "Thoughts on `Zapamyatovat'"
    
         What follows are some reactions to Arkadii D's
    essay/meditation "Eroticism of For-Getting, Eroticism of
    Beyond-Seeing".  I am moved to write them because AD's essay
    exposes some of the most cherished illusions of the west.  And
    also because from the west may yet come (do now come, and have
    been coming always) other voices and imaginations that stand
    counter to those mostcherished in Memory.  Other possible
    "memories".
         AD mentions Plato in passing -- Plato, who deplored writing
    because it threatened one of his touchstone values: Memory.  But
    according to Lyn H "Writing is an Aid to Memory".
         LH's is a distinctly anti-platonic thought.  And what she
    means by "Memory" is not at all what Plato means.  Plato's is the
    meaning you, AD, sketch in the opening of your essay -- the
    meaning of the known and ordered world, the remembered world.
         AD also mentions Baudrillard, a quintessential (or so we
    have judged) "postmodern thinker".  His however is, I believe,
    the deconstructive dead end of the Platonic/Enlightenment line.
    Out ofthe ground of reality Baudrillard spins the precession of
    the simulacra.  Or: either Memory or Oblivion.  Being and
    Nothingness. Presence and Absence.  And all these ordered along
    the platonic grid of "the real" (the Forms) and the "unreal" (the
    Shadow plays).
         "But what if God himself can be simulated, reduced to . .
    .signs?  Then the whole system becomes. . . a gigantic
    simulacrum."(Baudrillard)  In Baudrillard this famous question
    comes as a deconstructive threat -- is posed as such, is received
    as such (generally).
         That is to say, Baudrillard is not serious.
         But Baudrillard may be taken seriously.  His whole system
    canbe reduced to a system of signs, a gigantic simulacrum, as
    ideal as god himself.  Himself.
         We may think otherwise than this -- say, according to Blake,
    for whom all gods reside in the human breast.  God (to be
    capitalized here as the subject of this sentence) and the gods
    always were creatures of the human imagination, ie, in postmodern
    terms, constructed systems of signs; it was merely a special
    system of signs -- one that asserted it wasn't a signifying
    system, but was self-identical ("I am that I am"), that (mis)led
    us into the transcendental imagination of reality.
         "Absolute historical memory" in this perspective is a
    special conception -- a heuristic tool, literally a signifying
    system.  We must not take it for either god or the "set of all
    (memorial) sets".  It is simply (and profoundly) the idea of such
    a set -- an idea we may want to invoke and use for particular
    immediate and practical purposes.
         So, "zapamyatovat": "to go beyond memory", to cross
    itsborder, is to enter another territory, the geography of
    "oblivion".  Here is Leto, the land (in English) of Swinburne:
         Here where the world is quiet,
         Here where all trouble seems
         Dead winds and spent waves' riot
         In doubtful dreams of dreams. . . .etc.
    Most emphatically not an "absence" or a nothing: it is
    "positivenegation" (terrifying to Coleridge's idealistic mind,
    splendid andcomforting to Swinburne's sensational mind).  To
    enter this (new)world is (in William Morris's words) to "Forget
    six counties overhung with smoke", etc.  It is to get, literally,
    "News from Nowhere".
         "Zapamyatovat": we have no such wonderful word in our
    language, so I thank you for it, AD.  But it is a word known to
    all the poets, and especially to those for whom there is a world
    of imagination.  The Swinburnian Land of Oblivion, Byron's
    Manfred, Blake's Los[s].
    
    jerome mcgann

     
    From: jenglish@sas.upenn.edu (James English)
    Subject: Rabate/Chernetsky
    Date: Thu, 5 Nov 92 21:47:27 EST
    
    To the symposium participants:
    
         Having only recently arrived from France to take up his new
    post at the University of Pennsylvania, Jean-Michel Rabate is
    having difficulties getting set up with functional computer
    hardware and software.  The computer that has just been installed
    in his office, for example, is equipped with a French keyboard
    but can only read the keyboard input as though it were standard
    American.  In any event, Jean-Michel regrets that it is
    impossible for him to participate in the symposium.  He has,
    however, solicited a response to the early symposium postings
    from Vitaly Chernetsky, a colleague in the Comparative Literature
    and Theory department.  I have slightly edited Vitaly's text,
    which follows.
    
                   --Jim English
    
            WHY THE RUSSIAN POSTMODERN?
    
           "Russian postmodernism: an oxymoron?"--this is the
    question posed by the title of Marjorie Perloff's essay.  What
    happens to the cultural phenomenon which according to most
    cultural theorists is the product of late capitalism, consumer
    society, commodity culture, etc., when it is transposed into the
    society where the most basic commodities are in short supply?
    And if there exists Russian (or, more correctly, Soviet)
    postmodern culture, how does it sustain the claim of being
    postmodern, in what postmodernist activities does it engage?  To
    my disappointment, I found that what Russian postmodernism is
    is precisely the question Perloff's essay is not willing to
    address.  Perloff's agenda seems to be only to underscore that
    the two groups--the heterogeneous Russian postmodern poets and
    the American language poets--differ considerably; her way of
    proving it seems to be to claim that cultural production in the
    late Soviet Union has little if anything to do with its Western
    postmodern contemporaries.  Although she herself admits that "to
    generalize from so few examples is, of course, dangerous,"
    Perloff is nevertheless willing to do so.  In this I see a
    possibility that a forum like ours could degenerate into an
    enterprise which I would call "paleontological": to
    "reconstruct," as Georges Cuvier claimed to be able to do with a
    prehistoric animal, the entire Russian postmodern scene out of
    one or two of its "bones."  Need one to say that the postmodern
    culture is not a coherent "organism," and that in these
    paleontological attempts we end up creating ghosts like the
    mysterious Foma Akvinskii (instead of St. Thomas Aquinas) who
    appears in the English translation of Aleksei Parshchikov's essay
    "New Poetry" in _Poetics Journal_?  Can we thus hope actually to
    produce a meaningful discussion and not just a simulacrum of it?
          Another problem that I find potentially present in the
    argument advanced by Perloff and some other critics is reducing
    postmodernism from a culture's condition simply to a movement or
    even a sum total of stylistic devices (unfortunately, that also
    happens to be the predominant view of postmodernism expressed by
    the Russian critics within the former Soviet Union).  And, in my
    opinion, it is the question why the culture both in the US and in
    the former USSR has taken the forms it did, what are these
    changes symptomatic of, that needs most urgently to be addressed.
          It has been said at various occasions that "cultural
    phenomena that reached [Russia] from the West. . . acquired
    features utterly unfamiliar to their progenitors and relate to
    their Western kin only in name" (Dmitrii Prigov, interview in
    _Poetics Journal_ 8, pp. 12-13).  Many would argue that it were
    often not even the phenomena themselves but rather the names for
    them.  The case often seems to be that the names were
    appropriated for various cultural practices which were not
    imported from the West, but conditioned in their emergence by
    Russian culture's internal development.  But the very fact that
    the shapes taken by this cultural production happened to have
    striking similarities with their Western counterparts suggests
    that the homology goes further than it might seem at first; and
    one does not need to be labeled a Slavophile when one asserts
    that sometimes Russian practitioners of culture may even be ahead
    of their colleagues abroad (remember Marinetti's amazement when
    upon his arrival in Russia he was told by the Russian Futurists
    that he wasn't going far enough in handling language).  Marjorie
    Perloff seizes upon the vague, almost "impressionistic"
    formulations ofEpstein's account of contemporary Russian poetry,
    easily susceptible to criticism.  I would like to draw attention
    to another essay by Epstein, "After the Future: On the New
    Consciousness in Literature,"the English translation of which was
    published in the Spring 1991 issue of _South Atlantic Quarterly_,
    one of the most noteworthy attempts to date of theorizing the
    cultural condition of the late Soviet empire, stating that "by
    the 1980s, the basic premises ofartistic consciousness in [the
    USSR] were quite postmodern, perhaps even more radically and
    consistently than in the West."  "Was it not the case," writes
    Epstein,
          that our culture began creating simulacra, that is, the
          utmost faithful copies that do not have an original,
          much earlier and in greater quantities that in the West?
          How does one have to deal with the figure of Brezhnev,
          embodying the 'businesslike constructive approach' and
          'the progressive development of the mature socialism?'
          In difference with the sinisterly modernist, Kafkaesque
          figure of Stalin [here Epstein's point of view is akin to
          that of Boris Groys, elaborated in his The Total Art of
          Stalinism: Avant-Garde, Aesthetic Dictatorship, and
          Beyond (Princeton, 1992), who interprets Stalin's Soviet
          Union as a kind of Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk, a
          total(itarian) work of art; this also leads us to assert
          once more the profound homology of totalitarianisms in
          the fascist and Soviet states which both embarked on
          aesthetisizing the political project (see Walter Benjamin's
          "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
          Reproduction" in his Illuminations)], Brezhnev is a
          typical simulacrum, a postmodernist perfunctory object,
          even a hyperrealistic object of some kind, behind which
          there is no reality to be found.  Long before the
          Western video technology started creating in abundance
          true-to-life images of the nonexistent reality, this task
          was already being solved by our ideology, media,
          statistics that counted up to a hundredth of a percent
          the crop that had never been gathered." (440 [I have
          modified the translation to be closer to the original
          Russian.])
    "The triumph of the self-valorizing ideas," he continues, "that
    imitate and abolish reality assisted in creating the
    postmodernist mentality not less than the domination of video
    communications which also create the folded in itself world of
    the transfixed time" (443, modified translation again).
          Since I have brought up Boris Groys's book which from the
    moment of its original publication in German provoked a heated
    debate among the academics engaged in the study of Russian
    culture, I would like to point out some of this book's
    unquestionable merits.  Groys positions the cultural production
    which occasioned the present forum within the context of the
    Soviet empire's own development.  I strongly disagree with
    Marjorie Perloff when she talks about "the long midcentury hiatus
    of Stalinist years."  While from the point of view of aesthetic
    value (recently a very much attacked concept) culture of the
    Stalin years probably loses the competition with cultural
    products of other times and places, its aesthetical system, its
    governing logic should by no means be discarded by a cultural
    theorist.  Recently there have been trends to explain Stalinist
    art both as a modernist and as a postmodern phenomenon.  In fact,
    in Groys's book the two seem to be conflated, as manifested, for
    example, in his insightful remark that "Stalinist culture looks
    upon itself as postapocalyptic--the final verdict on all human
    culture has already been passed."  "Socialist realism,"
    Groyscontinues, "regards historical time as ended and therefore
    occupies no particular place in it" (48, 49).  Of socialist
    realism's simulacric concern with verisimilitude he writes:
          Its heroes . . . must thouroughly resemble people if
          people are not to be frightened by their true aspect,
          and this is why the writers and artists of socialist
          realism bustle about inventing biographies, habits,
          clothing, physiognomies, and so on.  They almost seem
          to be in employ of some sort of extraterrestrial bureau
          planning a trip to Earth--they want to make their
          envoys as anthropomorphic as possible, but they cannot
          keep the otherworldly void from gaping through all the
          cracks in the mask. (63)
          We must, then, talk not about a Russian postmodernism, but
    probably about three of them: the postmodernism of the peak of
    Stalin years, the one of the 1970s and 80s, and some new
    post-Soviet culture which is probably emerging now.  The culture
    that our forum is trying to address, then, could be named the
    postmodernism of the late (using both meanings of the word
    "late") Soviet empire.  The fascinatingly rich scene of the new
    Russian poetry that emerged during the past fifteen years or so
    has been rather unlucky in the critical/theoretical treatment it
    received.  Attempts at analysis ended up in imposition of rigid
    classificatory grids (a project suspicious tobegin with), and if
    Epstein's trichotomy "conceptualism/metarealism/presentism"
    offered in his essay "Metamorphosis" (a bowdlerizedversion of
    which appears as an afterword to _Third Wave_) is debatable,
    Wachtell's and Parshchikov's pseudo-Bakhtinian dichotomy
    "monological/pluralistic" found in their "Introduction" to
    _ThirdWave_, which happens to place all of conceptualists and
    those close to them under the former rubric, is hair-raising.
    The merit of"Metamorphosis" is that, despite all its weaknesses,
    it is still the only attempt to date in any language to offer a
    somewhat coherent and inclusive picture of the new wave of
    Russian poetry (why this wave should be counted "third" remains a
    mystery to me).  Perloff finds Russian conceptualism not standing
    up to its name, seeing in it the urge to "expose." If anything,
    this urge to "expose" (inaugurated in Russian culture by
    Vissarion Belinsky [1811-1848]) is something quite alien to the
    works in question; they do not"expose"--they deconstruct.  In
    fact, they precisely "take up the challenge presented by Duchamp"
    (Perloff about Western conceptualism).  How else would you
    classify V. Komar and A.Melamid's gesture of signing the Lenin
    "quotation" "Our goal is communism"?  (This quote was to be found
    multiplied through millions of posters all over the Soviet
    Union.)  And, to look in the realm of poetry, doesn't, for
    example, such a specimen of American language poetry as Bob
    Perelman's poem "China," which Fredric Jameson analyses in his
    essay "Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logicof Late Capitalism,"
    strikingly resemble "catalogs" by the Russiancon ceptualist Lev
    Rubinshtein (which returns us to Wachtell's and Parshchikov's
    puzzling gesture of calling Russian conceptualist poets
    "monological")?
          What, then, I would suggest as a possible course of
    discussion--which has already been begun by our forum and which
    should by all means be continued--is both to try to investigate
    the multiplicity of paradigms of postmodern cultural production
    in the former Soviet empire, to try to single out in what and why
    it is both similar to and different from cultural phenomena found
    in the US and the rest of the Western world, and, most
    importantly, to theorize these similarities and differences.  A
    Russian proverb says that "the first pancake comes out lumpy"
    (pervyi blin--komom).  Even if that might be the case, it should
    by no means stop us from frying more of them.
    
    Vitaly Chernetsky
    University of PA

     
    From:         Marjorie Perloff <0004221898@MCIMAIL.COM>
    Subject:      Vitaly Chernetsky's essay
    
    This is precisely the sort of response I hoped the symposium
    would generate.  Vitaly Chernetsky is right, of course, to say
    that my remarks were superficial; indeed, I only wanted to raise
    an issue that had come upbecause certain parallels were being
    drawn between the "language" poetsand "new Russian" poets that I
    found dubious and I was having a hardtime finding a connection.
    It's still hard: for a foreigner to understand the
    modernist/postmodernist strains in the Stalinist era is difficult
    and what we now need--and I hope will get from people like
    Chernetsky--is afuller account than the one Wachtel and
    Parschchikov give us in Third Wave of what the cultural
    determinants are and now they relate.  But I would like to ask
    Chernetsky how he proposes that those of us with little or no
    Russian begin?  Is there a bibliography he can suggest?  An
    important cultural study that might help U.S. readers? I would be
    very grateful for such information.  From the "lumpy pancake,"
    
    Marjorie Perloff

     
    Date:         Tue, 10 Nov 1992 14:54:45 EST
    From:         Bob Perelman 
    Subject:      Russian postmodernism
    
    November 10: Dear Colleagues: My first impulse is toward what
    Jakobson might term the phatic: hello, contact, tweet, cheep,
    bow-wow.
    
    Lyn, if I had _The Guard_ here I would love to quote the lines
    where you mime the operation of translating from the Russian, to
    the effect that the dog says quack, the goat says gruss or
    whatever. That seems emblematic of the space between contemporary
    Russian and American poetry. Vitaly, when I read that "China"
    "strikingly resembles" Lev Rubinshtein's catalogs, it feels like
    "quack" where I expect "bow-wow." I.e.,
    
     8.
     Foo! Right here in nearby dale
     Heartthrobs at the nightingale!
    
     9. Mischievous small nightingale
     Singing always in the dale!
     . . . .
    
     32.
     People surely get th' idea,
     If they're just not idiots!
    
     33.
     People are not idiots,
     Even if they miss th'idea! [_Third Wave_, 139, 141]
    
     There is something going on there involving, I would guess,
    sarcasm directed against the vatic mode; doggerel as vehicle for
    generous social emotion; repetion & permutation. But so much must
    be happening at the level of tone, aggressive echoes of cultural
    memory, that I'm at a loss to find much similarity to my own
    work.
    
     Arcadii, rereading your "Nasturtium," I thought of Williams's
    "Crimson Cyclamen." Not that the following sets of lines are all
    that much 'alike':
    
     Blades pocked with repetition
     (forty seconds spent searching for an analogy
                              to the upward branching
     at the throat of the stem--instead
     of this: "the emotions are
     a component of composition, and the expression,
           itself branching out into exclamation,
     means as much as
     the comma which proceeds its appearance")   [_Description, 99]
    
     The stem's pink flanges,
     strongly marked,
     stand to the frail edge,
     dividing, thinning
     through the pink and downy
     mesh--as the round stem
     is pink also--cranking
     to penciled lines
     angularly deft
     through all, to link together
     the unnicked argument
     to the last crinkled edge--
     where the under and the over
     meet and disappear
     and the air alone begins
     to go from them--
     the conclusion left still
     blunt, floating
     . . . .
     each petal tortured
    
     eccentrically
     the while, warped edge
     jostling
     half-turned edge
    
     side by side
     until compact, tense
     evenly stained
     to the last fine edge
    
     an ecstacy       [_Collected Poems_, Vol 1, 421, 423]
    
    It's just an analogy of course, but it strikes me that the
    distance between poem and flower, made central in "Nasturtium"
    and refused if not refuted in "Cyclamen," is like the distance
    between critical apprehension and poetry in many cases. In my own
    unofficial thought about these matters, and in the emphatically
    phatic contact zone of e-mail, such distances sholdn't exist, are
    false projections, reified backdrops for auratic arias.
    Nevertheless, as Williams puts it in "The Descent":
    
     Postmodernism beckons
           as modernism beckoned.
                   Critical genealogy is a kind
    
     of art prose,
           a sort of poetics,
                   even
    
     a poem, since the lines it rewrites are new lines
           read by readers
                   heretofore unaddressed,
    
     unmarked--
           since their eyes
                   are focused on new media
     (even though formally these were unaccredited).
    
     No poem is made up entirely of language--since
           the channels it leases are always conduits
                   formerly unarticulated. A
    
     world lost,
           a world unarticulated,
                   beckons to new genres
     and no aesthetic value (trashed) is so valuable as the memory
     of value
    
    Among others things, I hope the above will be heard as
    counterpoint to Arcadii's "Eroticism of For-getting."

     
    Date:         Thu, 12 Nov 1992 14:31:08 +0300
    From:         arkadii 
    Subject:      idle talk
    
    Dear colleagues,
    
    For me to answer some of the questions posed by Mr.
    Chernetsky or to oppose some of his arguments I would have
    to get back to my first remark about endless love of
    Russian criticism to Baudrillard's rhetoric which it
    believes is the most relevant instrument in studying the
    contemporary culture and the rest.
    
    But in this article I was most interested by some of his
    digressions which bring back memories of critical discourse
    of the time of Socialist Realism. so dear to the author of
    the article.  For example - "sometimes Russians practicers
    of culture may even be ahead of their colleagues abroad"...
    
    Certainly, nobody  claims inventing postmodernism but
    still... sometimes it happens! But what on earth being
    ahead means? Ahead of what? The head of a foreign
    colleague? Then what is a system of coordinates for the
    action? What do we refer ourselves to? A beginning? Then a
    beginning of what? Or an end? An end of history?
    
    No matter what all the subsequent reflections of Chernetsky
    on post-modernism will necessarily have to be looked at in
    the perspective of History reaching its completion. History
    which is not short of time, space or any features of
    creativity. Background of orthodox vision is obvious even
    in the very beginning of the passage quoted by Chernetsky,
    from Michael Epshtain - "our culture began creating
    simulacra (sic!) <...> much erlyer and in greater
    quantities..." . That is for sure. Dating back to the
    polemics of the Nicaea Council in 767 on _kenosis_ through
    the endless discussions of symbolism and up to the very
    recent past...
    
    In fact, all of this reminds of an attempt to play a game
    of chess using Go stones. As much as Michael Epshtain's
    poetic taxonomy. Just in case, one should keep in mind that
    it owes a lot to Goethe's theory of metamorphosis which
    according to Kassirer "fundamental altered the biological
    ideal of knowledge".
    
    And so on, and so forth. Meanwhile, to touch again our
    favorite conceptualism again seems pointless - it's as
    infinite as any other projection. But sometimes I can't but
    ponder whether the known slogan Jedem das Seine can
    become a cliche which being involved into the practice of
    ironic rethinking would become a surplus meaning of
    today's culture. Lyn Hejinian is right -- irony is a twin
    sister of nostalgia.
    
    Arkadii Dragomoshchenko.

     
         From: Mikhail Epstein, Department of Russian Studies, 403
         Candler Library, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322.
    
         To: Editors of PMC and all participants of the discussion on
         Russian postmodernism.
    
         November 15, 1992
    
         Dear colleagues and friends:
    
              I am entering the discussion with a delay because of my
         inability to cope with such a "postmodern" technical device
         as e-mail, which argues in favor of those who resist any
         parallels between Russian and Western "postmodern"
         mentalities.  My theoretical standpoint, however, is the
         relevance of these typological parallels: not in the sense
         that Russia belatedly "caught up with" the Western
         postmodernism, but in terms of their "alternate" (and
         complementary) developments, in such a way that Russia was
         the first to embrace the "post-apocalyptic" sensibility of
         postmodernism, whereas the West was the first to identify
         this sensibility in theoretical concepts and to give it the
         name of "postmodernism." Vitaly Chernetsky's proposal "to
         talk not about a Russian postmodernism, but probably about
         three of them: the postmodernism of the peak of Stalin
         years, the one of the 1970s and 80s, and some new post-
         Soviet culture which is probably emerging now" seems to me
         the most promising point of departure and the possible core
         of our subsequent discussion.  Vitaly Chernetsky refers to
         Boris Grois's book which regards Stalin's state as the
         fulfillment of modernist (avant-gardist) project; it should
         be added that the accomplishment of such a project (if it
         really was a success) transported Russian-Soviet culture
         into a new, postmodernist, "post-apocalyptic" dimension.  No
         more tension between the modernist project and reality: this
         is already postmodernism (at least the gates to this kingdom
         of simulacra).
              I suggest to your attention some excerpts from my paper
         on two Russian postmodernisms and their interrelationship
         with the Western one.  The paper was presented at the MLA
         conference in December 1991, at the same panel with Marjorie
         Perloff's and Barrett Watten's papers now proposed for this
         discussion.  Also, I will cite several passages from my
         recent pamphlet (of a very limited circulation) arguing for
         the purely "ideological", "Eastern" version of postmodernism
         as opposed to Fredric Jameson's influential theory which
         connects postmodernism with the economic basis of the "late
         capitalism" and therefore denies its possibility in non-
         Western countries (Mikhail Epstein, _Relativistic Patterns
         in Totalitarian Thinking: An Inquiry into Soviet Ideological
         Language_.  Kennan Institute of Advanced Russian Studies.
         Occasional Papers,  # 243.  Washington: Woodrow Wilson
         International Center for Scholars, 1991).  What I am going
         to say does not reflect latest interesting developments in
         Russian criticism where the question of "post-modernism"
         became as focal as the concept of "socialist realism" was in
         the 1930s (this is not an arbitrary connexion: actually, the
         later stage of post-modernism comes to succeed the earlier
         one).  In particular, I would like to address you to the
         articles of Vyacheslav Kuritsyn "Post-modernism: new ancient
         culture" and Sergei Nosov "Literature and Play", accompanied
         by editorial comments in _Novyi Mir_ (Moscow), 1992, No.2.
         pp.225-239.
    
         [Editor's note: Mikhail Epstein's work is included in the
         file SYMPOS-2.193 in this issue of PMC.]

     
    Date:         Sun, 22 Nov 1992 12:02:21 EST
    From:         "(James English)" 
    Subject:      Vitaly C. Remarks
    
    To the Symposium participants:
    
    Here is a follow-up correspondence on the Third Wave from Vitaly
    Chernetsky.
                                                   --Jim English
    
    Dear Bob, dear colleagues:
         It is always a dangerous enterprise to offer a reading
    (especially a sketchy one) in the presence of the author(s) of
    the text(s) one is talking about.  I still believe that comparing
    Bob's "China" to some of Lev Rubinshtein's work (notice: I am not
    attempting to establish an equation between larger corpuses of
    their works) is not entirely a misreading (a "quack" when on
    expects a "bow-wow").  By the way, in Russian the ducks say
    "krya-krya" and the dogs say "gav-gav," but still one can say
    with a degree of certainty that Russian ducks and dogs (and other
    creatures) "strikingly resemble" their American counterparts.
         I would even venture to extend this comparison: I believe
    that Rubinshtein is not only about doggerel-like lines as
    "vehicle for social emotion" (see, for example, the other catalog
    included in Third Wave, "From Thursday to Friday" [Bob quotes "A
    Little Nighttime Serenade"]).  I apologize for not being able to
    present here, due to time constrains, a convincing proof of my
    argument, but let me elaborate the parallel a little more.  I do
    find some of Rubinshtein's texts ("Poiavlenie geroia" ["The
    Appearance of the Hero"], "Vse dal'she i dal'she" ["Further and
    Further On"] and others) to some extent "Perelmanian," while in
    some of Bob's poems (here I would mention, in addition to
    "China," "Holes in the Argument" and "Doggerel Overtaken by
    Order") I see a mode present which is similar to that of some of
    the writings of, say, Rubinshtein or Druk.
         A few words about Third Wave.  Producing an anthology of the
    new Russian poetry in English is a most praiseworthy idea.  I
    believe, however, that the "pancake" offered by this book is much
    too "lumpy."  To my knowledge, another such anthology is being
    prepared for publication (as far as I can understand, completely
    independently from Third Wave).  I hope that it avoids some of
    Third Wave's drawbacks (although that could be problematic, too:
    the project is "marred" by the involvement of Yevtushenko as a
    co-editor).
         First, why Third Wave? The title is misleading, because the
    term "third wave" is customarily applied to the culture of the
    Russian emigration of the Brezhnev years (Joseph [or Iosif, but,
    for heavens sake, not "Josef," as it is in the introduction to
    Third Wave] Brodsky, Sasha Sokolov, Vasily Aksenov, Sergei
    Dovlatov, Lev Losev, Bakhyt Kenzheev, Yuz Aleshkovsky, etc.).  In
    fact, a collection of essays entitled exactly The Third Wave and
    devoted to these and other writers of that generation was
    recently published in this country.  If anything, the emergence
    on the literary scene of the generation represented in the
    anthology in question is posterior to "third wave."  (Besides,
    virtually all of the poets represented in the anthology did not
    emigrate from the Soviet Union in the Brezhnev era.)
         Second, the choice of poems is sometimes surprising
    (although perhaps it is not the editors' fault), and omissions of
    certain poets (Igor' Irten'ev, Evgenii Bunimovich, Aleksandr
    Levin and Mikhail Sukhotin to mention just a few) are hard to
    explain (as well as perhaps the inclusion of some of the others).
    Most importantly, I think that in this particular case the fact
    that the original texts are not printed together with the
    translations is especially unpardonable: the Russian publications
    of these poems are dispersed between various official and
    underground journals, almanacs, collections, etc.; there does not
    yet exist a single representative anthology of the writings of
    this generation in their original language.  This is even more
    true when one considers the fact that some of the translations of
    these poems, in which the play with linguistic and cultural codes
    is one of the most relevant elements of construction, are not
    entirely reliable; in my opinion, Vladimir Druk was particularly
    unlucky in this respect, and I could list dozens of other
    instances where I disagree with the translations offered.  It
    would be unfair, though, not to add at this point that some of
    the translations, for example those by Michael Palmer, are
    excellent.
         One of the most problematic parts of Third Wave is the
    introduction by Parshchikov and Wachtell.  Some of their
    assertions simply run counter to historical facts.  (They claim,
    for example, that Mayakovsky and Blok were "unpublishable in the
    USSR between 1934 and the late 1950s" while these two have been
    part even of the secondary school curriculum.)  The most
    questionable, though, is the pseudo-Bakhtinian dichotomizing
    division to which I referred earlier; the mere reading of the
    works by the "monological" and "pluralistic" poets (to call
    postmodern poetry "monological" hardly makes sense to begin with)
    unsettles it completely. And do we really have, in our postmodern
    age, to be fed explanations in terms of binary oppositions?
    Thus the anthology is framed by two highly idiosyncratic texts
    (the introduction and Epstein's afterword), abounding in various
    undercurrents evident to the reader familiar with the poetry in
    question, which may serve only as an element of confusion (the
    way they confused, I believe, Marjorie Perloff).
         Finally, Third Wave is not, as it claims to be, the first
    anthology of new Russian poetry to be published in English. It
    was preceded by The Poetry of Perestroika, ed. Peter Mortimer and
    S.J. Litherland, published in Britain two years ago.   A note
    about the possibility of homologies between the cultural
    phenomena in the US and in the former USSR. One should talk, I
    believe, not about the homology of movements, but about a number
    of similarities, certain shared aspects of the postmodern
    cultural condition.   As far movements go, Russian conceptualism
    is the only actual movement among the classificatory terms we are
    offered in Third Wave (there isn't a "metarealist movement" or
    school, etc.). This movement spans across genres: visual arts
    (including happenings and performances, and through them,
    avant-garde theater); poetry; prose; most recently -- film.
    Together with the conceptualists, under the same cover (and
    within the same "umbrella" groups, such as the Moscow Club
    "Poetry" [Moskovskii klub "Poeziia"], which are highly
    heterogeneous), one finds poets whose writing is much more
    hermetic and esoteric, whose writing practice is to a great
    extent conditioned by the situation of a narrow circle; in some
    bizarre way they resurrect the paradigm of poetry's existence in
    medieval Europe before printing -- poetry circulating within a
    limited circle of friends and patrons.
         Emerging from underground in the second half of the 1980s,
    these heterogeneous literary groups developed differently. Some
    came into the foreground of the cultural scene, gaining attention
    of the critics and the media, etc.; some remained "widely known
    in narrow circles."  It is really sad, though, that sometimes
    these circles are much too narrow; and in this respect I
    especially welcome the happy event of the present symposium which
    breaks through the barriers of these narrow circles. Once again,
    I believe that the new Russian poetry is fascinatingly rich and
    diverse, just like the entire culture of the Soviet postmodern.
    We need more events like this one to open it up to intellectual
    communities across the globe so that it achieves the recognition
    it deserves.
    
                                  Sincerely,
    
                                  Vitaly Chernetsky

     
    Date:         Mon, 23 Nov 1992 07:42:00 GMT
    From:         Marjorie Perloff <0004221898@MCIMAIL.COM>
    Subject:      Vitaly Chernetsky's commentary
    
    Dear Colleagues, I just read Vitaly Chernetsky's comments on THE
    THIRD WAVE and want to say I appreciate them very much.  I myself
    had wondered about the title, the lack of bilingual texts, and
    some of the translations.  I could not judge the omissions.  I
    also had reservations about the monologic/dialogic dichotomy that
    Andrei and Andy Wachtel sketched out. Still, I think we should be
    grateful for THIRD WAVE as a first stab at the problem.  The
    difficulty, when material is so new, is that translations will
    vary greatly in quality, that the editing will be less than
    meticulous, and that Introductions and Afterwords may be
    misleading.  On the other hand, Andrew Wachtel, working with
    Alexei Parschikov, was willing to take on the project and to see
    it through and, given time constraints, translation problems, and
    availability of materials, I think it was useful. Clearly, it
    will take some time before we get the kind of anthology we want
    and, even then, what anthology, even of our own poetry, is ever
    ideal, ever comprehensive?  Increasingly, U.S. publishers are
    reluctant to print the original language when they bring out
    translations; I know Ron Padgett had to fight to get the French
    into his beautiful edition of Blaise Cendrars's poetry--and then
    only in the back of the book!
    
    The real problem THE THIRD WAVE has faced--and I don't know how
    this  will be resolved--is that unfortunately now that the Soviet
    Union is no more Americans have become much less interested in
    the "new new poetry," have lost the thrill of coming into contact
    with "forbidden" perestroika poetry.  Now Russian poetry is just
    one more foreign poetry and increasingly, U.S. readers seem not
    to care too much about poetry in other languages.  So what we
    need to do is keep up the momentum initiated by THIRD WAVE, even
    if the anthology is flawed.  This symposium and the help people
    like Chernetsky have given is a step in the right direction.  And
    I look forward to that next anthology he talks about.
    
    Best wishes, Marjorie Perloff

     

  • From Phosphor

    Arkadii Dragomoshchenko

    St. Petersburg, Russia
    atd@HM.SPB.SU

     

    Habits of mind result from a redistribution of the places on which the eyes fall. Yes, I’m probably right about this. What I’m thinking about at this particular moment allows me to assume so. A rusty rat crossing the street. A soft, interminable twilight, and above it the night lights burning. The room in which we lived was almost eighteen meters long. In the mornings, on streets billowing steam, I went around the corner, bare foot but for sandals, to drink a cup of hot milk and eat cheese pastry. Liteiny Prospekt was blinding. I shuffled along in unbuckled sandals. Amid mocking seagulls and love cries. Through a courtyard to the Fontanka, passing the library, toward the circus, the bridge. This is about many things. It’s about emigration. About T.S. Eliot and Turgenev. But what are you thinking about? What did or what does your life consist of? I like your question. In the kitchen in a glass jar she kept demons (warring with cockroaches) which she fed with poppyseeds. Your question comes at absolutely the right moment, although it makes me slightly nauseous, the way roses or moldy dolls might–vertigo. By evening my skin stung from the sun. It happened the first time on an anthill. They rushed frantically toward the river. As if through a magnifying glass. In the future, if he’s to recount a couple of the plots that interest him (let’s suppose), he will have to get rid of her. But of whom, one wants to know! History? Geometry? Mental habits? One of these plots begins with a murder.

     

    A yellow-edged photograph. Beads of laughter on his glasses, on the windshield. Thought is a system, producing systematic eliminations. At the same time, a question arises–as to whether or not it is right to assume, having left one’s message on the answering machine, that the resulting communication will be from a living person. “I’m not home,” for example, “I can’t come to the phone now,” or, “You have reached so-and-so,” etc. This question, however, despite its apparent silliness, is essentially theological, since it inevitably touches on the question of the life force, the soul, its migrations, and the places it inhabits, suggesting “voices of existence,” too, not to mention routine speculation as to presence and absence. And indeed, if my voice reaches your ear across a particular stretch of time (or period of endurance–the experience being in what remains), it presupposes a “distance,” since you are never I. Does my voice, even being inside me, a single being–does my voice reach you, that is, my essential “I” (our breathing is an out-terance, a crazy moment dangling between “out” and utterance), which does exist, but not for you, in your complete acceptance of flickering, glittering matter, shrouded in the most delicate rustle of awakening that flows from your pursuing vision, where the present has already existed? Where do our identifyings take place? A vibration of the surrounding atmosphere–microwinds, a mystical notebook. And “who” or “what”? Moreover, the people involved in a narrative, in other words the characters, don’t in themselves represent much of anything, except in the case of a woman who takes an important role in the action (and there is such a portrait: a familiarly shaped mouth, wide lips, a habit of adjusting the shoulders of her dress, etc.–and another, intimate portrait, more transparent: her brownish pubic hair cut short, an imponderable scar on her waist, wide pale aureoles around her nipples, the trace of a tattoo between them), whose son died a few years ago. There is some thought that he didn’t “simply die” but that he was killed near Kandahar not far from Thebes, but instead of this romantic invention most people prefer the truth, namely that he was hanged on the 14th of May in the assembly hall of his school by his classmates, using a silk cord from the white curtain; and possibly, due to unforeseeable circumstances, one of them has some notion concerning the silk cocoon of the window and a tedious description of a flight across the Atlantic, abounding in similes and necessary to the progress of future events.

     

    One would have to be an idiot to speak of a “sequel” to the new. This is impossible to explain to artists. It’s utterly impossible even to explain it to the man who sits rubbing the crystal eyes of the fish swallowed into the museum’s lottery drum. Ball lightning, rocking, froze over my grandfather’s glass of vodka and after a few moments crept in through the window, where my grandmother, because of her nearsightedness, took it for one of the demons living in the kitchen in her glass jar which had somehow slipped past the cockroach patrols. The terra-cotta colored morocco leather of the book bindings, the faded imprint embossing the leather, the copper coolness of the sextant, the mother-of-pearl sheen of blackened silver inlaying the yellow bone paper knife–that day is no different from yesterday. There are two types of suicide (of course, it’s possible there are more). First, when your will and the world’s desires meet and you are shattered while attempting to enclose them in your own existence–you become too strong, sturdy, bulky, heavy–and I don’t pity you–like a porcelain Christmas bird. Second, when you suddenly find yourself in a realm of deafness, where nothing reflects anything else and where for a while a terrifying image of a false world is erected: what surrounds you surrounds you, fingers flowing into the porous substance of matter, every second thought finding uniquely correct solutions. No questions exist. You are born, you die, you eat, you explain the essence of phenomena, enumerating all of them. Or you don’t enumerate them. In which case, I don’t pity you.

     

    What, one asks, is there to pity? Probably some contradiction between “desire” and “wish.” The more intense the desire, the stronger the non-wishing. A person, realizing this, dedicates himself to Demeter. The morning flowed smoothly, like a comparison slowly unfolding into similarities. And this was all in the course of things. What is this “there are no senses”?….

     

    No? Could it possibly be “no”? But they waved sunflowers after us, which had turned gold like their eyes, withered by grief and yet also by consciousness of the happiness which had befallen them; or rather, of course, first by one and then by the other; but they simply hadn’t managed to figure out that they had been happier in other times when other models of happiness had been offered them. But we already know how the smoothly flowing morning takes a bend toward the nightingale darkness, when night, snow white as a sable, nurtures the phosphorous in a half-sphere of a porcelain cup. And to that extent we know the figure of fate and the theory of catastrophes, painstakingly illustrated by the dazzling pulse of a system which upsets all calculations as to how they’ll behave–in the same way, gusts of wind strike one’s face with the finest sands and with crackling leaves when the street is parched with yellow like a throat sifting the granular air. A mothy murk. I suggest we take the following walk. Beginning on our street, we’ll cross the intersection at the point where the huge shadow of a nut is falling on the sidewalk, its sound momentarily making voices completely unintelligible; then we’ll proceed straight ahead toward the school where after all I happen to have studied and from which I was expelled as from so many others, although I suppose it’s inappropriate to mention this. Then we’ll go through a sparse grove of mulberry trees and barren apple trees and come to the chemical plant’s sedimentation tanks, incredible in their magnitude, always astounding both his and my (that is, to put it another way, your and my) imagination–to the cyclops-like squares and rectangles formed by the embankments, which were formed in prehistoric times by bulldozers and are, as always, filled in some places with milky nacreous slush and in others with a substance startling in the beauty of its unearthly color, an “electric,” azure emerald threaded with some kind of fibrous, brass gold spasm, shot in some places with jasper blazing up at the very moment you look away and streaked like rainbowed spots of oil in the sun, and in yet others with a hellish red plasma, and all this in one sense forms a single field as far as the forsaken shooting range: in its terrifying flatness, a mirror, in whose zenith is placed the formula for the inversion of light. It would be naive, in light of this field, to think about your brother’s bones, brittle, whittled like a wafted message, or about your sister’s hair. The girl here doesn’t comb her braids, the geese don’t honk, our meeting here is set for noon. And further on we’ll come to the shooting range, empty cartridge cases, willows. In a two hour walk among the hunted wormwoods there’s much else to be found. A map of poetry. The broken mirrors of the foliage. The broken mirrors of number. Tendrils of conclusion. The “humane” is washed from a body endowed with feelings–not one single reflection falls on the object. On an uninhabited island an object replaces memory as that which proceeds toward the future. A decision has been made. Torquato Tasso’s first visit to Don Carlos took place at the end of the 80s, the second at the beginning of the 90s. It’s worth noting that comment regarding a collaborative writing of madrigals, and not only such poems as they both wrote about the prince but also about his wife, including stanzas on his first wife’s death. Hounded by madness, Tasso dashes from one courtyard to another. The autumn weather remains dry. Near Kherson the stubble is burning. The first visit. Some correspondence. A second visit.

     

    The musicians–one must give them their due–were quite good. But Monteverdi! Why, he began composing when he was fifteen…. That time whose splinters resemble broken mirrors of foliage has never come.

     

  • Post-Soviet Subjectivity in Arkadii Dragomoshchenko and Ilya Kabakov

    Barrett Watten

    University of California, San Diego

     

    While it has often been said that since the purported “fall of communism” the Soviet Union has become in reality a collection of Third World countries with nuclear weapons and a subway system, this is an untruth. It is the “Second World”–and what is that?

     

    (Watten, in Davidson, 23)

     

     Subjectivity is not the basis for being a Russian person. . . . “Protestants,” said Arkadii, “go to church to mail a letter to God, the church, it’s like a post office. The Orthodox church–the building is not symbolic–it is considered to be the real body of God, and Orthodox people too are God because they are together here, not alone, and speaking, by the way, has nothing to do with it.”

     

    (Hejinian, in ibid., 34-35)

     
    The break-up of official culture, even the “official/unofficial” dialectic that was a part of it, in the Soviet Union led to aesthetic developments characterized by an intense, utopian, and metaphysically speculative subjectivity that I am going to call “post-Soviet” even if it had its origins in earlier periods. Beginning in the 1960s with the optimistic horizons prior to the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, extending through the Brezhnev “era of stagnation” of the 1970s with its fully articulated counterculture, through the opening to the West and the influence of emigration in the 1980s, a series of these developments anticipate their reception as “postmodern culture” in the West. Identifying these “post-Soviet” developments with postmodernism would be to misunderstand them, however; as poet Dmitrii Prigov has said of the Moscow conceptual art of the 1970s, “When [Western conceptualism] entered our part of the world, [it] discovered the total absence of any idea of the object and its inherent qualities or of any hint whatsoever of fetishism” (12). The subsequent valorization of Andy Warhol would have has yet-to-be-determined (though not unimaginable) consequences; so the “Women Admirers of Jeff Koons Club” I encountered in Leningrad in 1989 would be the sign of an emerging feminism as much as an acceptance of the Reagan-era consumerism of Koons’s work. Even the culture of Russian modernism, refracted through Western connoisseurship, has been reinter- preted in the new post-Soviet context in a way discontinuous with its historical origins. In order to understand these developments as not simply the colonization of Western postmodernism, it will be necessary to develop models for Second World discourses of subjectivity. A prospective conclusion is that contemporary post-Soviet culture, once it has expanded to integrate both unofficial and international influences, does not simply mean an uncritical embrace of Western postmodernism but reveals a post-Soviet “subjectivity” that is not simply reducible to the various national identities now contesting the ground of the former Soviet state. I see aspects of this subjectivity in Moscow conceptual art, originating in the 1970s and producing internationally recognized figures such as Komar and Melamid, Erik Bulatov, and Ilya Kabakov, and in the 1980s “meta” literature from Moscow and Leningrad, now being translated in the West, exemplified by poets Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, Ivan Zhdanov, Alexei Parshchikov, Ilya Kutik, and Nadezhda Kondakova.

     

    A Metapoetics of Memory

     

    Arkadii Dragomoshchenko’s poetry, it was said, “is unlike anything else being written in the Soviet Union today” (Molnar, 7), and direct observation bears this out. At the Leningrad “Summer School” of 1989, Dragomoshchenko was unique in abandoning the (often complex) metrical forms and performative theatricality that, however inflected by skewed and difficult sound patterns and semantics, look back to a precedent “classical tradition . . . as in the Acmeism of Akhmatova or early Mandelstam, [which] stood for heroically distanced emotion and a European cultural intertext” but which often led to poetic norms reduced to “ruthless metricality and relentless rhyming” (Molnar, 10). Dragomoshchenko read his poems as if they were written texts rather than oral presentations of cultural memory embodied in the poet as much as in the poet’s rhymes–unlike Ivan Zhdanov, who declaimed the highly wrought language of his richly textured and difficult lyrics as if ab eterno, directly from memory, to great effect. One listener afterward complained to Dragomoshchenko, “What you are doing isn’t poetry”–because it lacked the generic markers by which poetry had been set apart, in ways directly related to Osip Mandelstam’s memorization and embodiment of his poetry as a standard of truth set against ideological lies. While equally based in an internalized self-consciousness, Dragomoshchenko’s poetry rips a hole in the lyrical fabric of tradition’s modernist authority–not simply for anti-authoritarian motives but to create a new poetics that challenges conventional meaning and its entailments of common knowledge. It would be hard to underestimate the radical effect of this break with the overdeterminations of sound and sense that have provided the standards for Russian verse–and the resulting demand it conveys for a redefinition of collective memory and objective truth.

     

    A poetics of collective memory in opposition to official history (often meeting at a middle ground in official/unofficial poets such as Yevgenii Yevtushenko, Andrei Voznesensky, and Bella Akhmadulina) is one of the implicit goals of Russian modernism–the poet (seen as survivor) becomes a living embodiment of memory. But in Dragomoshchchenko’s poem “Nasturtium as Reality,” memory is fractured and refigured by means of a relentless epistemological critique toward a more complicated horizon. The poem begins by essaying “An attempt / to describe an isolated object / determined by the anticipation of the resulting whole– / by a glance over someone else’s shoulder” (93). Spatial and temporal vectors specify the dynamics of this attempt: the poem predicates a temporal series on a “missing X” that precedes it, presumably the nasturtium but also a grammatical “there exists.” This predicative address likewise introduces the “nasturtium” in the second stanza as parallel and equivalent to the “attempt”–with both to be resolved in the “resulting whole” that will make either possible. Equally determining, however, is the opacity of the “glance over someone else’s shoulder”–that which interferes with vision equally motivates it. The nasturtium is seen as if a window were both transparent and opaque, not to the nasturtium but to itself–the “window” is an opaque analogy to transparent language through which a nasturtium normally would be seen: “A nasturtium composed / of holes in the rain-spotted window–to itself / it’s `in front,’ // to me, `behind.’” This “rain-spotted window” is the language of the poem, through whose constructed elisions occurs the possibility of description; on the surface of language, description is “in front,” though from the point of view of subjectivity in the poem the nasturtium is “behind” language (from an easier perspective, of course, “in front” and “behind” mean the nasturtium’s relation to the window). Where a window, like description, is conventionally transparent, here it is a shattered opacity of perspectives, interfering with and determining the gaze much like “someone else,” that leads to grounds of certainty and belief posed grammatically as a question: “Whose property is the gleaming / tremor / of compressed disclosure / in the opening of double-edged prepositions / in / a folded plane / of transparency which strikes the window pane?” Anything but transparently, we begin to see the nasturtium as if in double-edged language that predicts a “resulting whole” of description preceded by “an isolated object.” In the ensuing working through of the poem, memory is displaced and refigured in the spaces opened up by such knowledge through similar means; the poem is a construction of memory and knowledge between a past and a future it will formally embody. Futurity will have accounted for the nasturtium that preceded the poem, making possible the “compressed disclosure” of an intensely sub- jective continuity of memory and perception taking place in and of its language.

     

    In stages of approach, the poem sharpens the edges of prospective meaning figured in the nasturtium, often defining the space where it would exist by negation, in terms of its absence from other spaces: “A sign, inverted– not mirror, not childhood. // (A version: this night shattered apart / by the rays of the dragonflies’ concise deep blue / drawing noon into a knot of blinding / foam” (94). In this way, the poem typically shifts “thematic” address to noncontiguous objects of a fractured nature such as this dragonfly (later a specific tree, a flight of “swifts”). Occasional eruptions of what V. N. Voloshinov would have called ideological speech (“A sign sweats over the doorway: `Voltaire has been killed. Call me immediate- ly”) likewise shift the poem away from its “object,” but they cannot detract from its expanding subjective truth: “the knowledge, which belongs to me, / absorbs it cautiously, tying it / to innumerable capillary nets: / the nasturtium–it is a section of the neuron / string” (96). This knowledge is presented not as a report to some transcendent observer–a comparison with Marianne Moore’s aesthetics of natural grandeur in “An Octopus” would fail at this point–but through the substance of language produced from a variety of sites. So shifts away from the ostensible subject of the poem are “only a continuation / within the ends’ proximity” (97); the poem expands to include fragments of dialogue, self-reference (“Arkadii / Trofimovitch Drago- moshchenko describes / a nasturtium, inserts it in his head”; 99), along with its observation of spatial and temporal discontinuities. An increasing axis of meta-commentary is created through the language of the poem by means of such semantic shifts: “The nasturtium / and anticipation rainy as the window and wind- / ow behind wind- / ow / (he in it, it in him) / like meanings smashing each other / [I don’t say, metaphor . . .] / drawn / by emptiness / one of the distinct details–“; 100). Through its insistent reduction of similarity to contiguity– description turning to language–poetry becomes virtually a kind of physics (“The mechanism / of the keys, extracting sound, hovering over / its description // in the ear, // protracted with reverberation into the now”) which depends, for its assertion of palpable reality, on a continual undermining of language by itself (“When? Where? / Me? Vertigo conceives / `things’”; 101). In this expanding horizon of meaning, sense is made “only / through another / (multiplication tables, game boards, needles, a logarithmic / bird,” i.e., anything presentable in language, “and the point isn’t which kind” (103). The poem oscillates between intensely subjective states and objective properties of description, attempting both in either’s negation: “I contemplated the truth behind events listening to the vivid- ness / of the erased words / ready to expound on the defects of precision” to become definitive of poet’s self-canceling voice: “And here in the 41st year of life / A pampered fool, whose speech continually / misses the point” (106). “The Nasturtium” is an account of subjectivity seen through such intensities of language: “I follow from burst to burst, from explosion to explosion, / faces, like magnesium petals floating by, which permit those who remain a misprint in memory / to be recognized” (108), but it makes no assump- tions about a continuity of nature behind the poem as the basis for these effects. Rather, the poem moves directly from the negated description of objective reality to expanded systems of meaning encompassing it: “Conjecture is simple– / the nasturtium is not /// necessary. It is composed from the exceptional exactness / of language / commanding the thing–`to be’ / and the rejection of understanding” (110-11). The poem locates the objective world by placing the language of description under erasure, opening language to many languages and in this way deter- mining what its relation to nature is going to be: “The nasturtium–it is the undiminished procession / of forms, the geological chorus of voices crawling, / shouting, disclosing each other” (112).

     

    It is through this clash of languages tending toward future objectivity that a space for refigured subjectivity, seen in purely material strands of memory, can be located. In that futurity is connected here to a poetics of many languages, it is important that Dragomoshchenko is by birth Ukrainian (born in postwar occupied Potsdam, raised in multilingual environs of Vilnitsa, now living in St. Petersburg), although he writes in Russian. He has, in other poems, shifted to Ukrainian as poetic counterpoint specifically to bring up a kind of archaic subtext under the surface of ordinary language, thus allying his epistemological concerns with those of cultural memory. In “The Nasturtium,” such archaic subtexts appear in two autobiographical narratives that emerge out of its nonnarrative continuum. In one such vignette, a typically cinematic moment of self-knowledge, “tossing her skirt on the broken bureau / with wood dust in her hair / a neighbor girl, spreading her legs / puts your hand where it is hottest” (103)–which leads, not quite as typically, to anxious spasms of linguistic cross-cutting. It is as if the eruption of the feminine demands a release of poetic authority, as it does in the next section in a more measured way where an account of the death of a woman close to the poet, again in and of language, locates another range for the outer horizons of the poem: “and all the more unbearable the meaning of `her’ ripened in you / while the quiet work went on revealing / thoughts / (you, her) from the sheath of feminine pain / the silent symmetry crumbling in the immense proximity of the end” (105). In this way “the meaning of `her’” aligns with both memory and objectivity; while there is a difficult cultural truth in this admission of women only at the extremes of authorizing self-knowledge, at least the Russian poetic convention of transcendent nature (think of waving fields of grain as equivalent to verse in a Sovkino documentary of Yevtushenko) is being broken down in its assumptions.

     

    This location of a poetics in a refiguring of memory through the limits of objectivity aligns Dragomoshchenko’s work with related projects in post-1960s Soviet culture. So the films of Andrei Tarkovsky, a prior reference point for the semantically shifting world of Dragomoshchenko’s work, crop up in his recent article on poetic subjectivity. Making a figure for collective knowledge, Dragomoshchenko says that the poet may return, like a blind bee, to a “hive” of understanding, but there is no hive. It disappears at the very moment when understanding comes close to being embodied in itself and its “things,” which to all appearances is really the “hive.” We wander through a civilization of destroyed metaphors: road, home, language, a man on a bicycle, embraces, Tarkovsky’s films, moisture, “I,” memories, history, and so forth. (“I(s),” 130)For Dragomoshchenko, “the problem of subjectivization is tautological,” fractally reproduced in the dispersion and refiguring of a collective center, “the hive,” in culture’s unreified objects. Wandering through this “civilization of destroyed metaphors,” one can only figure the holistic tenor from its dispersed vehicles. Such a demetaphorization occurs similarly in a film such as Tarkovsky’s The Mirror (by means of techniques intended as the opposite of Eisenstein’s constructed film metaphors). Nonnarrative, intuitive sequences displace memory, continuity, futurity onto a fragmented world of objects comprising several registers of image. In one, the burning house in the countryside to which mother and son have been removed during the war stands as mnemonic placeholder for the future return of the father that is always to come (there is a question for the viewer if it “really” takes place). In another, the multiple, sidelong, disjunct views down corridors of the state publishing house where the mother worked in the 1930s as proofreader enacts the moment where the collective “hive” dissolves into “things”; millennial horizons become fragments of presence, as in the hinted propaganda poster barely glimpsed on the way to other rooms. Finally, the insertion of documentary footage of the Spanish Civil War argues the film’s subjectivity against the intrusiveness of represented history, which takes on memorial value as loss. Images in Dragomoshchenko have similar organizing dynamics; so “the nasturtium bearing fire” which closes Dragomoshchenko’s poem stands in place of memory’s anticipated return; the overlapping and mutually contradictory frames of descriptive language dissolve certainty into isolated moments; and the interruptions of narrative displace subjectivity toward expanded horizons. Closure–the father’s return or the nasturtium as realized object–is distributed through these registers as partial resolution.

     

    The relation between empirical reality and a deferred future that exceeds nature but in terms of which it can only be known (figured here in the form of the poem) is also a central theme in recent discussions in Soviet (and post-Soviet) science. The opening invocation of our “Summer School” was to “be scientific,” but what followed led rapidly away from any question of empirical verification toward a prospective, metaphysical hyperspace in which, for example, “futurist art [like that of Khlebnikov’s post-Euclidean mathematics of world correspondence] has its own dominant in consciousness” (Watten, in Davidson, 43). So a recent article by Moscow philologist Mikhail Dziubenko describes a scientific project that would unite the problem of “new meaning” in poetry and art with an idiosyncratic branch of Soviet science known as the “Linguistics of Altered States of Consciousness”–a quest for a new approach to method characteristic of a wide range of Soviet science. For Dziubenko, “At deep levels of consciousness (which acquire primary meaning in the creative process) the ability to penetrate into the logic of other languages is established. Artistic creativity, then, involves a break- through into another language, which uses the character- istics and lacunae of the original” (27). Such a language, in addition, is based in material, sensed reality, but only for its future potential:

     

    We must understand that there is only one linguistic universum, uniting all world languages in the massive entity of their historical development and functional applications. This universum is not a scientific abstraction. It is manifested concretely, on the lowest, phonetic level, in naming, where moreover language differentiations do not play any definitive role, and on the highest, grammatical-syntactic level, in art, which is only possible by virtue of the existence of different languages and which is itself an unconscious borrowing of foreign language structures.(29-30)

     

    Here, “the knowledge of one language is knowledge of all languages,” leading to a research program in which “there is no doubt that a Persian specialist could contribute a great deal to the study of Khlebnikov’s works” (30-31). Creativity expands language into a utopian “linguistic universum” in a romantic philology that recalls Wilhelm von Humboldt’s fantasy of whole nations thinking in each of their various languages. There are several points to this excursus into late-Soviet discussions of scientific method: the first is that creativity is thought to have ontological implications; the second is that as material reality, crea- tive language extends, “through characteristics and lacunae,” into a greater reality that contains it; and a third would be that, structuring language in the variety of its altered states as well as being structured by it, subjectivity is not permitted the transcendent distance of the observer but instead experiences loss due to an expanded suprasubjectivity whenever the grounds for language (altered states, presumably) historically change. So the impact of the creative on scientific method is to open a space of loss of certainty that can then be aligned with a need for a reconstituted memory–as it is for Dragomoshchenko. “Nasturtium as Reality” is not only a reconstitution of lyric subjectivity but a parallel text to post-Soviet considerations of collective memory and empirical truth. Clearly “an authoritarian complex” involving several strands in Soviet culture–lyric voice, embodied memory, and scientific objectivity–is being dismantled as the occasion of poetic address.

     

    The Fall of Soviet Man

     

    The theatricality of Ilya Kabakov’s conceptual albums, paintings, and installations is at a polar remove from Dragomoshchenko’s expansive interiority. Ten Characters, a series of installations with accompanying narratives published as a book of the same name based on the theme of the kommunalka or communal apartment, was presented by Kabakov at the Ronald Feldman Gallery in New York and the Institute for Contemporary Art, London, in 1988-89. These projects had been under development since at least the early 1980s, but one imagines their everyday materials to have been collected, and various components worked on, over the preceding decade. Installation itself, understood as one of the forms by which traditional genres such as painting and sculpture have become destabilized in postmodernism, takes on a culturally hybrid value in Kabakov’s work as most of what was seen in the active Soviet underground of the 1970s was itself “installed” in some nongallery setting such as an apartment or open-air happening; the bulldozer art exhibition of the late Brezhnev era in this sense could be the outer social horizon for the form. The genre continued in Moscow conceptual art in what has been called “Aptart,” which was characterized as uniting a social scale of presentation based in everyday life with a diverse and often aggressively dissonant range of issues, materials, and strategies. This work seems more a cultural breeding ground for new ideas than a finished product, while Kabakov’s installations have all the finish and framing of the most professional work in the genre as it has developed as a component of museum programs over the last fifteen years in the West–witness his inclusion in the recent Dislocations show at the Museum of Modern Art. It would be interesting to chart Kabakov’s movement from Soviet oppositional scale to that of Western postmodernism; this could be read, thematically, in his work as a movement from the simultaneously millennial and dystopian horizons of the Soviet context through to another kind of transcendence implied in Kabakov’s showing, outside the Soviet Union, works that depict its deepest, most interior reality.

     

    Subjectivity in Kabakov, rather than being read along some razor’s edge of language in nonnarrative forms addressed to metaphysical horizons, is narratively defined in the life histories of disjunct, created personae configured around the communal apartment seen from a transcendent perspective (even if it is still linked to the metaphysical as an enabling point of reference for the work). Transcendence is really the only option for a social reality modeled on such living arrangements, which, from the Revolution through the Khrushchev housing boom and into the present, typically crammed the urban working class into multi-family dwellings, often one family per room, where everyone shared the collective amenities and, according to Kabakov, life was open-ended verbal abuse. Given this premise, Kabakov has created a world of discontinuous, extreme personality types to be imagined as somehow, impossibly, sharing the same communal space while inventing wildly adventurous behaviors and systems of belief to accommodate themselves to their world. The short narrative accounts that accompany Kabakov’s meticulously detailed physical installations are anything but anecdotal; rather, these narratives form a template through which the realities of Soviet systems of belief can be represented as they would be experienced in everyday life (or byt, a central term in Kabakov’s work, and one that evinces from many post-Soviets an unutterable horror: “Our everyday life, you cannot imagine how boring it is!” once remarked poet Alexei Parshchikov). There is a system of interlocking, mutually supporting belief systems in Kabakov’s byt, a structuring intersubjectivity that gives an accurate value to the represented world of May Day parades, the Moscow Metro, Soviet theme parks outside. “The kommunalka presents a certain collective image, in which all the ill-assortedness and multileveledness of our reality is concentrated and vividly revealed” for Kabakov (Tupitsyn, 50), a reality figured as an “autonomous linguistic organism,” “an extended childhood,” “a repressive sea of words,” “the madhouse,” and so on (51-54). Alternatives emerge: one can go into oneself (“Some of the inhabitants of the communal apartment lead a mysterious, even secretive existence”; Kabakov, 52) or “leap out of oneself,” as Kabakov himself says he did (“While formally I haven’t ceased to live inside myself, I observe what happens from repeatedly shifting positions”; Tupitsyn, 55). Beyond either possibility, “some powerful, lofty, and faraway sound is clearly audible. A higher voice” (54) for both artist and communal residents. Listening to the voice of the “beyond” will be one of the organizing metaphors of Kabakov’s project–it is simultaneously the voice of collective life and the position of transcendence from which the komunalka‘s voices can be heard.

     

    So in “The Man Who Flew into His Picture,” subjectivity is drawn as if by a magnet to a negating white space, a ground for pure projection: “He sees before him an enormous, endless ocean of light, and at that moment he merges with the little, plain figure that he had drawn.” At this moment of self-undoing, however, “he comes to the conclusion that he needs some third person, some sort of witness [to be] present to watch him `from the side’” (7). Such a witness is given embodiment as merely the case of delusions in the next room, where “The Man Who Collects the Opinions of Others,” “standing behind the door, immediately writes down in his notebook everything which is said, no matter what” (9). This quest for objectivity yields only another structured fantasy:

     

    According to his view, opinions are arranged in circles. Beginning at any point, they then move centrifugally and as they move away from the centre they meet "opinions" moving from other centres. These waves are superimposed, one on top of another; according to him, the entire intellectual world is a gigantic network, a lattice of similar dynamic intersections of these waves. He compared all this to the surface of a lake, where 10-20 stones are randomly and uninterruptedly thrown all at once. (9)

     

    “In talking about this, it was as though my neighbour actually saw these magical, shining circles” (10); Kabakov visualizes them likewise in his installation of tidy mock-ups of the character’s notebook pages arranged around the “objects” that gave rise to the “opinion waves.” While this is clearly high satire of venerable Russian literary pedigree, there is an identification with these delusional modes of organizing reality that makes Kabakov’s project unlike the realist mode of describing the subject positions of, say, the flophouse in Gorky’s The Lower Depth (which Kabakov cites in an interview). The meticulous details of Kabakov’s miniature mock-up and full-scale realization of the scene from “The Man Who Flew into Space from His Apartment” reveal a complicity with monumental obsessiveness, as do his “characters’” collections of objects and albums of kitsch postcards. It is Kabakov himself who assembled these Soviet versions of Trivial Pursuit, reframing his activities through the various personae. In each of these works, the space of culture and everyday life is seen as the opposite of the transcendental perspective and monumental organization of Soviet society’s official self-presentation (given the dominant red of numerous cheap posters covering the walls). The explosion that rips a hole in the top floor of the communal apartment, sending its resident into orbit, creates a negative space from Soviet monumentalism, while the orbits of Yuri Gagarin and followers ironically mimed here stand for state-sponsored transcendence purveyed to the masses at large. The desire to substitute material reality for ideological abstraction created this negative space: “I asked him why there were metal bands attached to the model and leading upward from his future flight” (13). Such kitsch futurism–the mechanical predictability of “We are Going to Communism”–seems to have created, in this char- acter, a highly developed metaphysics to explain how it will be:

     

    He imagined the entire Universe to be permeated by huge sheets of energy which "lead upwards somewhere." These gigantic upward streams he called "petals." . . . The Earth together with the sun periodically crosses through one of these enormous "petals." If you knew this precise moment, then you could jump from the orbit of the Earth onto this "petal," i.e., you could enter, join this powerful stream and be whirled upwards with it.

     

    Fabricating a contraption made of rubber “extension wires” and explosive charges, the resident realizes his objective and blasts into orbit, thus creating a monumental gap in the explanatory fabric of everyday life which others rationalize in a characteristic way: “Maybe he really did fly away, that sort of thing happens.” In the ideological space vacated by monumental trajectories and transcendent goals one can see a cultural breeding ground for rumors, speculations, and theologies of all sorts.

     

    Such systems of belief, orbiting as it were around a vacant belief, are made equivalent, in yet another irony, to the material culture that was supposed to provide them with normative expectations. So a metaphorized collecting, a simple accumulation of bits and pieces of culture, becomes the activity of the artist; material reality replaces a more conventionally redemptive collective memory. In works like “The Short Man,” “The Collector,” “The Person Who Describes His Life Through Characters,” and “The Man Who Never Threw Anything Away,” Kabakov makes his art an inductive process adding up to indeterminate but compelling horizons that motivate his fractal characters. The “short man’s” project of accumulation and re-presenting cultural detritus in fold-out albums is a parodic version of realism seen as representing the world “in little”: “Everything that goes on in our communal kitchen, why, isn’t that a subject, it’s actually a ready-made novel!” (20); however, the only people who can stoop so low as even to read this little world are, like its author, little (as the poet Louis Zukofsky wrote, “Strabismus may be of interest to strabismics; those who see straight look away!”); others invited in to view the work merely step over it as an obstacle. The substratum of material culture, reinterpreted as past not present reality, initiates a process of individuation and recuperation in “The Man Who Never Threw Anything Away”: “A simple feeling speaks about the value, the importance of everything. This feeling is familiar to everyone who has looked through or rearranged his accumulated papers: this is the memory associated with all the events connected with each of these papers” (44). So this character initiates a project of collecting, preserving, and labeling all the discarded items found in the kommunalka‘s hallway in order to recover this value: “An enormous past rises up behind these crates, vials, and sacks. . . . They cry out about a past life, they preserve it” (45).

     

    “The Person Who Describes His Life Through Characters” continues this process of induction to uncover a principle of individuation through his subjects: “that even these variegated fragments belonged not to his single conscious- ness, his memory alone, but, as it were, to the most diverse and even separate minds, not connected with each other, rather strongly different from each other” (34), while “The Untalented Artist” modulates this effect of individuation through structures of the state that in fact produce it; the paradoxical success of his paintings (in the actual installation an excessively beautiful group of large-scale, ideologically inflected works by Kabakov) is described as based equally in the artist’s partly realized native talent and in the lacunae of official projects (various official notices and posters) he was commissioned to paint: “What re- sults is a dreadful mixture of hackwork, simple lack of skill, and bright flashes here and there of artistic premonitions and `illuminations’” (17)–a kind of suprasubjective intention. In “The Collector” a similar suprasubjective horizon looms as the dissociation of identity through collective culture proceeds; arrangements of numerous color postcards on state tourist and memorial themes become “enormous, complex pictorial works which are worthy of a very great professional talent” (31). Recombining disparate strands of the culture produces an effect of “the power of ORDER”; “This is the triumph of the victory of order over everything.” There is a paradox here, however; while it is the artist who in fact created this order by making his arrangements of cultural materials, the voice of order points beyond individuality: “It seemed to me that in some terrible way, some kind of, how shall I say it, idea of COMMUNALITY, was expressed in [the arrangements], that very same thing which surrounded us all in our common overcrowded apartment” (32). This drawing out of the collective voice is pursued in “The Composer Who Combined Music with Things and Images,” whose staged mass productions in the kommunalka hallway, like a miniature version of a Stalinist sports extravaganza, trades the sovereignty of the artist who arranges reality for a collective voice heard by all: “Gradually those who are reading the [arranged] texts begin to notice that beyond the sound of their voices is a faintly heard, special kind of sound” (27)–a transcendent moment reproducing, I would argue, an idea of communality.

     

    So we have come full circle, from an obsessively material collocation and implicit satire on Soviet collective life to the question of higher, transcendent, metaphysical perspectives. In “The Rope,” a piece that serves as a comment on his “characters,” Kabakov essays the point at which materialism breaks off and spirituality begins: “So these empty ends of rope . . . represent the soul before and after `our’ life, and in the middle is depicted its life, so to speak, in its earthly segment” (48). Working out from these middles toward the open ends of the soul, Kabakov recuperates the multiple identities of his communal apartment in terms of a single, collective destiny–albeit otherworldly. His project here could not be less like George Perec’s description of multiple lives in the same building in La Vie mode d’emploi, where each life means a separate history, a different outcome rendered in the reified space of owned or rented individual dwellings. Kabakov, in his ironic rejection of Soviet culture, still maintains a totalizing attitude toward history–at the risk of a virtual nihilism in regard to the things of this world, an attitude necessary, it would seem, to maintain a totalizing coherence. In a short text on the status of the “beyond” in relation to material reality, Kabakov speaks of “emptiness” as conditions of his work: “First and foremost I would like to speak about a peculiar mold, a psychological condition of those people born and residing in emptiness . . . . Emptiness creates a peculiar atmosphere of stress, excitedness, strengthlessness, apathy, and causeless terror” (Ross, 55). In the negated space once occupied by a a transcendent, materialized state, there is now the inescapable horizon of a totalizing “stateness”:

     

    The stateness in the topography of this place is that which belongs to an unseen impersonality, the element of space, in short all that serves as an embodiment of emptiness. . . . A metaphor comes closest of all to a definition of that stateness: the image of a wind blowing interminably alongside and between houses, blowing through everything by itself, an icy wind sowing cold and destruction. . . . What sort of goals does this wind, this stateness, set for itself, if they exist at all? These goals always bear in mind the mastery of the scope of all territory occupied by emptiness as a SINGLE WHOLE.(58)

     

    From this single whole of Soviet reality it is but one step to a profound nihilism (and one that is more socially significant than simply the attitude of an artist): “Nothing results from anything, nothing is connected to anything, nothing means anything, everything hangs and vanishes in emptiness, is born off by the icy wind of emptiness” (59). These collective emptinesses interpret the nonexistent fullnesses, the pasts and futures at both ends of Kabakov’s individual, material rope.

     

    Values for transcendence in the project would thus seem to refer importantly to two diverse registers: the this-worldly perspective of the artist-as-character who organizes reality in some compensatory way, and the other-worldly vision of the collective/individual subject, who would seem to have no other option than to await the dystopian millennium. Kabakov, in his position outside and beyond Soviet reality in commenting on his installation for the Museum of Modern Art, explicitly resolves these two versions of transcendence:

     

    The installation as a genre is probably a way to give new correlations between old and familiar things. By entering an installation, these various phenomena reveal their dependence, their "separateness," but they may reveal as well their profound connection with each other, which was perhaps lost long ago, which they at some time had, and which they always needed. And particularly important is the restoration of that whole that had fallen into its parts [the separation of art from the "mystical"] I had spoken of.

     

    The “mystical” union of restored parts within a formal whole would be one that Kabakov had induced from the ideological horizons of his characters but which, as artist working as it were “outside” the kommunalka, can realize in his chosen form. There is an explicit self-contradiction here; so when Kabakov says in an interview, “Upon discharge from the madhouse, I cease to exist. I exist only insofar as I am the resident of a kommunalka. I know no other self” (Tupitsky, 54), it is clear that his “outside” position as installation artist in the Museum of Modern Art, Kabakov’s position as quasi-Soviet emigre’ (he maintains studios in France and in Moscow), can only be another version of the transcendence strategized from within the confines of collective life. Re-sited within the museum’s horizon, however, this insistence on wholeness becomes reinterpreted as tragic separation and loss, as the Fall of Communism that so comforts the curatorial perspective of Dislocations:

     

    Kabakov's reconstruction of the Tenants' Club of Moscow Housing Project No. 8 gives one a sense of the dreary mediocrity of Soviet society. . . . This unwelcome gathering place has been set up for an official lecture on the demerits of unofficial art, examples of which are propped against the drab gray walls between oxblood banners. Although the work of artists outside the system, the paintings nonetheless exemplify some of the bleakness and awkwardness of mainstream Soviet life to which they are the oppositional exception.(Storr, 16-17)

     

    Nothing in Kabakov’s work could be construed as endorsing such a view of “opposition”; indeed, it is explicit purpose is to induce a metaphysical wholeness that reinterprets “the unity of opposites we learned about in school.” How then to understand the central conceit of Kabakov’s MOMA installation, that “apparently, someone or something was to appear in the city that evening, and not just anywhere, but right in the middle of the club hall.” The appearance and disappearance of this person occurs: “There is no single description of what happened–the reports of various witnesses maintain the most adamant discrepancies” but leading to a negative vision of sorts: “After all the commotion had subsided, the entire floor in the center of the hall was littered with groups of little white people, constantly exchanging places.” It is almost too easy to view this moment as an allegory for the collapse of central authority leading to a negative social space in which the masses circulate aimlessly, without direction. The too-availability of this reading does seem to indicate an influence of the Museum’s interpretative horizons, trading on Soviet history in a representative installation of Kabakov’s totalizing process. This is the crisis of emigration, of the literal materialization of the transcendent position outside a totality it organizes, and here it leads Kabakov’s partial, metaphysically sited narratives to a grand narrative of somewhat lesser interest. However, it may be said here, as elsewhere, that nothing is lost even in translation, for the likewise evident effect of Kabakov’s piece is to make each of the other installations in this mainstream extravangza–by Adrian Piper, Chris Burden, David Hammons, Louise Bourgeois, Bruce Nauman, and Sophe Calle, indeed the entire permanent collection of MOMA used by Calle as the site for her work–interpretable as the compensatory projects of other residents of an expanded communal apartment. This sovietization of cultural horizons–an opening up from the oppositional politics of the Cold War to the reality of collective horizons–is a hopeful reason to reject Kabakov’s integration into the MOMA show as an imperial trophy collected under the banner of Western postmodernism.

     

    Whose Subject?

     

    Two aspects of post-Soviet subjectivity are evident in the examples of Dragomoshchenko and Kabakov. In the former, authority is impossibly sited from immanent horizons that entail voices of lyric subjectivity, collective memory, and scientific objectivity. The entire activity of the poem– its creation of new meaning in and of itself–is central to its implicit thesis that subjectivity, while everywhere in its own undoing, cannot be known from a transcendental position. The formal dimensions of Dragomoshchenko’s work– nonnarrative, fractal, predicative, and continually metaleptic–are an instance of a “world-making” poetics that works out of a continuity of fabricated worlds. Central to these constructions is their conveyance of futurity; the lyric voice will have been the authority of present address from a point in the distant future; both collective memory and scientific truth will have been revealed in similar ways. In order to understand the implications for post-Soviet culture here, it will be necessary to develop an account of Soviet subjectivity in relation to such utopian, transcendent, and immanent horizons–survivals, as indicated in the epigraph above, of an embodied collectivity (not necessarily national) preceding the state.

     

    In Kabakov’s constructions, a converse implication for the subject may be descried, one that is more amenable to the international horizons of postmodern culture simply because it dismantles transcendence in the process of post-Soviet emigration. These displacements of subjectivity and authority are literally enacted in Kabakov’s shows in the high-rent collective apartments of the West, and in so doing take part in the process by which Soviet authority has been undermined through the foreign contacts that the Stalinist state did so much to prohibit. This new horizon is nothing if not ironic, and the emptying out of the “full presence” of the collective apartment into the nihilism of “stateness” illustrates an eerily dystopian moment. The difference from Western discourses of the postmodern, with their anchoring in rationality and critique, should equally be apparent–with the unforeseen result that the post-Soviet project makes the postmodern one appear even more qualified by an imaginary totality. Here the construction of the postmodern as an effect of Cold War oppositions–hinted at by Fredric Jameson’s citing of it as consequence of the “era of national revolutions” and to that extent inflected by their lost horizons–shows its “cultural specificity” to the West when compared to the emerging post-Soviet horizons.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Davidson, Michael, Lyn Hejinian, Ron Silliman, and Barrett Watten. Leningrad: American Writers in the Soviet Union. San Francisco, 1991.
    • Dragomoshchenko, Arkadii. Description. Trans. Lyn Hejinian and Elena Balashova. Los Angeles, 1990.
    • —. “I(s).” Trans. Lyn Hejinian and Elena Balashova. Poetics Journal 9 (June 1991): 127-37.
    • —. “Syn/Opsis/Taxis.” Trans. Lyn Hejinian and Elena Balashova. Poetics Journal 8 (June 1989): 5-8.
    • Dziubenko, Mikhail. “`New Poetry’ and Perspectives for Philology.” Trans. Lyn Hejinian and Elena Balashova. Poetics Journal 8 (June 1989): 24-31.
    • Jameson, Fredric. Introduction to Postmodernism; or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham, N.C., 1991.
    • Kabakov, Ilya. Artist’s statement and text for installation, Dislocations, Museum of Modern Art, 1991.
    • —. “Dissertation on the Cognition of the Three Layers . . . ” In Margarita Tupitsyn, Margins of Soviet Art, 144-47.
    • —. “On Emptiness.” In Ross, Between Spring and Summer, 53-60.
    • —. Ten Characters. London, 1989.
    • Molnar, Michael. Introduction to Dragomoshchenko, Description, 7-16.
    • Parshchikov, Alexei. “New Poetry.” Trans. Lyn Hejinian and Elena Balashova. Poetics Journal 8 (June 1989): 17-23.
    • Perec, Georges. La Vie mode d’emploi. New York, 19xx.
    • Prigov, Dmitrii. “Conceptualism and the West.” Trans. Michael Molnar. Poetics Journal 8 (June 1989): 12-16.
    • Ross, David, ed. Between Spring and Summer: Soviet Conceptual Art in the Era of Late Communism. Boston, 1990.
    • Storr, Robert. Catalogue essay on Kabakov in Storr, ed., Dislocations. New York, 1991.
    • Tarkovsky, Andrei. Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema. Trans. Kitty Hunter-Blair. Austin, Tex., 1986.
    • Tupitsyn, Margarita. Margins of Soviet Art: Socialist Realism to the Present. Milan, 1989.
    • Tupitsyn, Victor. “From the Communal Kitchen: A Conversation with Ilya Kabakov.” Trans. Jane Bobko. Arts 66, no. 2 (October 1991): 48-55.