Category: Volume 3 – Number 3 – May 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) _A Postmodern Reader_
      2) _Black Ice Books_
      3) _Black Sacred Music_
      4) _boundary 2_
      5) _The Centennial Review_
      6) _College Literature_
      7) _Contention_
      8) _Differences_
      9) _Discourse_
     10) _Electronic Journal on Virtual Culture_
     11) _Future Culture_
     12) _GENDERS_
     13) _its name was Penelope_
     14) _Minnesota Review_
     15) _Nomad_
     16) _No More Nice Girls_
     17) _Nous Refuse_
     18) _October_
     19) _Representations_
     20) _RIF/T_
     21) _South Atlantic Quarterly_
     22) _SSCORE_
     23) _Studies in Popular Culture_
     24) _VIRUS 23_
     25) _Zines-L_
    
         Calls for Papers and Participants:
    
     26)  PMC-MOO
     27)  Cyborg Conference Call
     28)  Call for Papers on Don DeLillo
     29) _Hypertext Fiction and the Literary Artist_
     30) _Minnesota Review_
     31) _Phage_
     32) SUNY Press book series on postmodern culture
     33) _PSYCHE:  an interdisciplinary journal of research on
              consciousness_
     34) _Verse_
     35) Feminist Theory and Technoculture
     36) Telematic Art Installation on Serbian Border
    
         Conferences and Societies:
    
     37) _International Conference on Refereed Electronic Journals_
     38) _MONTAGE 93:  INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL OF THE IMAGE_
    
         Networked Discussion Groups:
    
     39) _FEMISA:  Feminism, Gender, International Relations_
     40) _HOLOCAUS:  Holocaust List_
     41) _Utne Reader Internet Email Salons_
    
    1) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _A POSTMODERN READER_
    
    edited by Joseph Natoli and Linda Hutcheon
    
    Table of Contents:
    
    Introduction: Reading a Postmodern Reader
    
    I. Modern/Postmodern
       Preface
    * Zygmunt Bauman              "Postmodernity, or Living with
                                  Ambivalence."
    
    * Hans Bertens                "The Postmodern Weltanschauung
                                  and its Relation to Modernism:
                                  An Introductory Survey."
    
    * Jean-Francois Lyotard       from _The Postmodern Condition:
                                  A Report on Knowledge_
    
    * Jurgen Habermas             "Modernity versus Postmodernity."
    
    * Andreas Huyssen             "Mapping the Postmodern."
    
    * David Herman                "Modernism versus Postmodernism:
                                  Towards an Analytic Distinction."
    
    II. Representing the Postmodern
        Preface
    
    * John McGowan                from, _Postmodernism and its
                                  Critics_
    
    * Jacques Derrida             "Structure, Sign, and Play in the
                                  Discourses of the Human Sciences."
    
    * Linda Hutcheon              "Beginning to Theorize
                                  Postmodernism."
    
    * Ihab Hassan                 "Toward a Concept of
                                  Postmodernism."
    
    * Charles Russel              "The Context of the Concept."
    
    III. Entanglements and Complicities
         Preface
    
    * Fredric Jameson             from, _Postmodernism, Or the
                                  Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism_
    
    * Michel Foucault             from, _The History of Sexuality:
                                  Volume I:  An Introduction_
    
    * Jean Baudrillard            "The Precession of Simulacra."
    
    * Thomas Kuhn                 "The Resolution of Revolutions."
    
    * Cornel West                 "Black Culture and Postmodernism."
    
    * Barbara Creed               "From Here to Modernity:  Feminism
                                  and Postmodernism."
    
    * Jane Flax                   from, _Thinking Fragments_
    
    * Stephen Slemon              "Modernism's Last Post."
    
    IV. Postmodern Practices
        Preface
    
    * Henry Giroux                "Postmodernism as Border Pedagogy:
                                  Redefining the Boundaries of Race
                                  and Ethnicity."
    
    * Agnes Heller                "Existentialism, Alienation,
                                  Postmodernism: Cultural Movements
                                  as Vehicles of Change in the
                                  Patterns of Everyday Life."
    
    * bell hooks                  "Postmodern Blackness."
    
    * Paul Maltby                 from, _Dissident Postmodernists_
    
    * Houston Baker Jr.           "Hybridity, the Rap Race, and
                                  Pedagogy for the 1990's."
    
    * Catherine Belsey            "Towards Cultural History."
    
    State University of New York Press
    (518) 472-5000
    
    2) --------------------------------------------------------------
    
    Announcing:
                            _BLACK ICE BOOKS_
    
    _Black Ice Books_ is a new alternative trade paperback series
    that will introduce readers to the latest wave of dissident
    American writers.  Breaking out of the bonds of mainstream
    writing, the voices published here are subversive, challenging
    and provocative.  The first four books include:
    
    _Avant-Pop:  Fiction for a Daydream Nation_
    
    Edited by Larry McCaffery, this book is an assemblage of
    innovative fiction, comic book art, unique graphics and various
    other unclassifiable texts by writers like Samuel Delany, Mark
    Leyner, William Vollmann, Kathy Acker, Eurdice, Stephen Wright,
    Derek Pell, Harold Jaffe, Tim Ferret, Ricardo Cortez Cruz and
    many others.
    
    _New Noir_
    Stories by John Shirley
    
    John Shirley bases his stories on his personal experience of
    extreme people and extreme mental states, and on his struggle
    with the seduction of drugs, crime, prostitution and violence.
    
    _The Kafka Chronicles_
    a novel by Mark Amerika
    
    The _Kafka Chronicles_ is an adventure into the psyche of an
    ultracontemporary twentysomething guerilla artist who is lost in
    an underworld of drugs and mental terrorism, where he encounters
    an unusual cast of angry yet sensual characters
    
    _Revelation Countdown_
    by Cris Mazza
    
    Stories that project onto the open road not the nirvana of
    personal freedom but rather a type of freedom more resembling
    loss of control.
    
    Discount Mail-Order Information:
    
    You can buy these books directly from the publisher at a
    discount.  Buy one for $7, two for $13, three for $19 or all four
    for $25.  We pay US postage!  (Foreign orders add $2.50 per
    book).  Please make all checks or money orders payable to:
    
    Fiction Collective Two
    Publications Unit
    Illinois State University
    Normal, IL 61761
    
    3) --------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _Black Sacred Music_
    A Journal of Theomusicology
    
    Jan Michael Specer, editor
    7:2 (Fall 1993)
    
    Presenting the proceedings of an important conference held in
    Blantyre, Malawi in November of 1992, this volume represents a
    significant step for the African Christian church toward
    incorporating indigenous African arts and culture into its
    liturgy.  Recognizing that the African Christian church continues
    to define itself in distinctly Western terms, forty-nine
    participants from various denominations and all parts of Africa--
    Uganda, Kenya, Malawi, Mozambique, Madagascar, Mauritius,
    Zimbabwe, Zambia, Sierra Leone, Cameroon--and the United States
    met to share ideas and experiences and to establish strategies
    for the indigenization of Christianity in African churches.
    
    Other special issues available by single copy:
    
    The William Grant Still Reader
    presents the collected writings of this respected American
    composer.  Still offered a perspective on American music and
    society informed by a diversity of experience and associations
    that few others have enjoyed.  His distinguished career spanned
    jazz, traditional African-American idioms, and the European
    avant-garde, and his compositions ranged from chamber music to
    opera.
    
    Sacred Music of the Secular City
    delves into the American religious imagination by examining the
    religious roots and historical circumstances of popular music.
    Includes essays on musicians Robert Johnson, Duke Ellington,
    Marvin Gaye, Madonna, and 2 Live Crew.
    
    Subscription prices:  $30 institutions, $15 individuals.  Single
    issues:  $15.  Please add $4 for subscription outside the U.S.
    Canadian residents, add 7% GST.
    
    Duke University Press/Box 90660/Durham NC  27708
    
    4) --------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _boundary 2_
    an international journal of literature and culture
    
    Paul Bove, editor
    
    Forthcoming in 1993:
    
    The Violence of Light in the Land of Desire; or, How William
    Jones Discovered India / Jenny Sharpe
    
    Veiled Woman and Veiled Narrative in Tahar Ben Jelloun's _The
    Sandchild_ / John D. Erickson
    
    The Ideologies and Semiotics of Fascism:  Analyzing Pound's
    _Cantos 12-15_ / Stephen Hartnett
    
    Lionel Trilling, _The Liberal Imagination_, and the Emergence of
    the Cultural Discourse of Anti-Stalinism / Russell J. Reising
    
    Divine Politics:  Virginia Woolf's Journey toward Eleusis in _To
    the Lighthouse_ / Tina Barr
    
    _Saxa loquuntur_:  Freud's Arcaeology of the Text / Sabine Hake
    
    Deleuze's Nietzsche / Petra Perry
    
    A Tyranny of Justice:  The Ethics of Lyotard's Differend / Allen
    Dunn
    
    Thinking\Writing the Postmodern:  Representation, End, Ground,
    Sending / Jeffrey T. Nealon
    
    Three issues annually
    Subscription prices:  $48 institutions, $24 individuals, $16
    single issues.  Please add $6 for postage outside the U.S.
    
    Duke University Press/ Box 90660 /Durham NC  27708
    
    5) --------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _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.
    
    **SPECIAL ISSUE**
    
    POLAND:  FROM REAL SOCIALISM TO DEMOCRACY
    Winter 1993
    
    Guest Editor:  Stephen Esquith
    Essays on events and ideas in recent Polish history, culture, and
    politics.
    
    Adam Michnik:
    _An Interview with Leszek Kolakowski_
    
    Marek Ziolkowski:
    _The Case of the Polish Intelligentsia_
    
    Marian Kempny:
    _On the Relevance of Social Anthropology
    
    to the Study of Post-Communist Culture_
    
    Plus:  Lagowski, Narojek, Szszkowska, Buchowski, and others.
    
    Please begin my _CR_ subscription:
    
    ___ $12/year (3 issues)
    
    ___ $18/two years (6 issues)
    
    (Add $4.50 per year for mailing outside the US)
    
    Please send me the special issue:
    
    ___ Poland: From Real Socialism to Democracy
    
    Please make your check payable to _The Centennial Review_.  Mail
    to:
    
    _The Centennial Review_
    312 Linton Hall
    Michigan State University
    East Lansing MI  48824-1044
    
    6) --------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _College Literature_
    A Triannual Literary Journal for the Classroom
    
    Edited by Kostas Myrsiades
    
    "_College Literature_ has made itself in a short time one of the
    leading journals in the field, important reading for anyone
    teaching literature to college students."
         J. Hillis Miller
         University of CA, Irvine
    
    "Congratulations on some extremely important work; you certainly
    seem attuned to what is both valuable and relevant."
         Terry Eagleton
         Oxford University
    
    "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 that _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
             Individual      $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
    
    7) --------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _CONTENTION_
    Debates in Society, Culture, and Science
    
    _Contention_ is:
    
    "...simply a triumph from cover to cover."
                                       Fredrick Crews
    
    "...extremely important."
                                       Alberta Arthurs
    
    "...the most exciting new journal
        that I have ever read."
                                       Lynn Hunt
    
    "...superb."
                                       Janet Abu-Lughod
    
    "...an important, exciting, and
        very timely project."
                                       Theda Skocpol
    
    "...an idea whose time has come."
                                       Robert Brenner
    
    "...serious and accessible."
                                       Louise Tilly
    
    Subscriptions (3 issues) are available to individuals at $25.00
    and to institutions at $50.00 (plus $10.00 for foreign surface
    postage) from:
    
    Journals Division
    Indiana University Press
    601 N. Morton
    Bloomington IN  47104
     ph: (812) 855-9449
    fax: (812) 855-7931
    
    8) --------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _Differences_
    A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies
    
    QUEER THEORY: LESBIAN AND GAY SEXUALITIES
    (Volume 3, Number 2)
    Edited by Teresa de Lauretis
    
    Teresa de Lauretis: _Queer Theory:  Lesbian and Gay Sexualities
                         An Introduction_
    Sue Ellen Case:     _Tracking the Vampire_
    Samuel R. Delany:   _Street Talk/Straight Talk_
    Elizabeth A. Grosz: _Lesbian Fetishism?_
    Jeniffer Terry:     _Theorizing Deviant Historiography_
    Thomas Almaguer:    _Chicano Men:  A Cartography of Homosexual
                         Identity and Behavior_
    Ekua Omosupe:       _Black/Lesbian/Bulldagger_
    Earl Jackson, Jr.:  _Scandalous Subjects:  Robert Gluck's
                         Embodied Narratives_
    Julia Creet:        _Daughter of the Movement:  The
                         Psychodynamics of Lesbian S/M Fantasy_
    
    THE PHALLUS ISSUE
    (Volume 4, Number 1)
    Edited by Naomi Schor and Elizabeth Weed
    
    Maria Torok:        _The Meaning of "Penis Envy" in Women (1963)_
    Jean-Joseph Goux:   _The Phallus:  Masculine Identity and the
                         "Exchange of Women"_
    Parveen Adams:      _Waiving the Phallus_
    Kaja Silverman:     _The Lacanian Phallus_
    Charles Bernheimer: _Penile Reference in Phallic Theory_
    Judith Butler:      _The Lesbian Phallus and the Morphological
                         Imaginary_
    Jonathan Goldberg:  _Recalling Totalities:  The Mirrored Stages
                         of Arnold Schwarzenegger_
    
    Emily Apter:        _Female Trouble in the Colonial Harem_
    
    Single Issues:  $12.95 individuals
                    $25.00 institutions
                    ($1.75 each postage)
    
    Subscriptions (3 issues):  $28.00 individuals
                               $48.00 institutions
                               ($10.00 foreign surface postage)
    
    Send orders to:
    
    Journals Division
    Indiana University Press
    601 N Morton
    Bloomington IN  47404
     ph: (812) 855-9449
    fax: (812) 855-7931
    
    9) --------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _DISCOURSE_
    
    Volume 15, Number 1
    
    SPECIAL ISSUE
    
    FLAUNTING IT:  LESBIAN AND GAY STUDIES
    
    Kathryn Baker:  _Delinquent Desire:  Race, Sex, and Ritual in
                    Reform Schools for Girls_
    
    Terralee Bensinger:  _Lesbian Pornography:  The Re-Making of (a)
                         Community_
    
    Scott Bravmann:  _Investigating Queer Fictions of the Past:
                     Identities, Differences, and Lesbian and Gay
                     Historical Self-Representations_
    
    Sarah Chinn and Kris Franklin:  _"I am What I Am" (Or Am I?):
                                    The Making and Unmaking of
                                    Lesbian and Gay Identity in _High
                                    Tech Boys_ _
    
    Greg Mullins:  _Nudes, Prudes, and Pigmies: The Desirability of
                   Disavowal in _Physical Culture Magazine_ _
    
    JoAnn Pavletich:  _Muscling the Mainstream:  Lesbian Murder
                      Mysteries and Fantasies of Justice_
    
    David Pendelton:  _Obscene Allegories:  Narrative Structures in
                      Gay Male Porn_
    
    Thomas Piontek:  _Applied Metaphors:  AIDS and Literature_
    
    June L. Reich:  _The Traffic in Dildoes:  The Phallus as Camp and
                    the Revenge of the Genderfuck_
    
    Single Issues:  $12.95 individuals
                    $25.00 institutions
                    ($1.75 each postage)
    
    Subscriptions (3 issues):  $25.00 individuals
                               $50.00 institutions
                               ($10.00 foreign surface postage)
    
    Send orders to:
    
    Journals Division
    Indiana University Press
    601 N Morton
    Bloomington IN  47404
     ph: (812) 855-9449
    fax: (812) 855-7931
    
    10) ------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _The Electronic Journal on Virtual Culture_
    
    We are very pleased by the great interest in the _Electronic
    Journal on Virtual Culture_.  There are already more than 1,280
    people subscribed.
    
    The _Electronic Journal on Virtual Culture_  (EJVC) is a refereed
    scholarly journal that fosters, encourages, advances and
    communicates scholarly thought on virtual culture.  Virtual
    culture is computer-mediated experience, behavior, action,
    interaction and thought, including electronic conferences,
    electronic journals, networked information systems, the
    construction and visualization of models of reality, and global
    connectivity.
    
    Contact Ermel Stepp Editor-in-Chief or Diane Kovacs Co-Editor at
    the e-mail addresses listed below. You can retrieve the file EJVC
    AUTHORS via anonymous ftp to byrd.mu.wvnet.edu (pub/ejvc) or via
    e-mail to listserv@kentvm or listserv@kentvm.kent.edu
    
    Cordially,
    
    Ermel Stepp, Marshall University, Editor-in-Chief
    MO34050@Marshall.wvnet.edu
    Diane (Di) Kovacs, Kent State University, Co-Editor
    DKOVACS@Kentvm.Kent.edu
    
    11) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _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 format
    subscribe digest    -subscribe in daily-digest (1msg/day)
    subscribe faq       -subscribe to faq only (periodical updates)
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    help                -send help on subscribing and general info
    send info           -receive info on the FutureCulture
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    send faq            -this file
    
    FutureCulture list maintainer and keeper of this FAQ:
    andy
    ahawks@nyx.cs.du.edu
    ahawks@mindvox.phantom.com
    
    Contact on Internet:  ahawks@nyx.cs.du.edu
    
    12) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _GENDERS_
    
    Ann Kibbey, Editor
    University of Colorado, Boulder
    
    Since 1988, _GENDERS_ has presented innovative theories of gender
    and sexuality in art, literature, history, music, photography,
    TV, and film.  Today, _GENDERS_ continues to publish both new and
    known authors whose work reflects an international movement to
    redefine the boundaries of traditional doctrines and disciplines.
    
                        Spring 1993 Special Issue
    
                     _CHALLENGING ABUSE AND ASSAULT_
    
           Anne Allison   Dominating Men:  Male Dominance on
                          Company Expense in a Japanese Hostess Club
    
         Samuel Kimball   _Into the light, Leland, into the light_:
                          Emerson, Oedipus, and the Blindness of Male
                          Desire in David Lynch's _Twin Peaks_
    
              Vinay Lal   The Incident of the _Crawling Lane_:  Women
                          in the Punjab Disturbances of 1919
    
           Sandra Runzo   Intimacy, Complicity, and the Imagination:
                          Adrienne Rich's _Twenty-one Love Poems_
    
       Grace A. Epstein   Bodily Harm:  Female Containment and Abuse
                          in the Romance Narrative
    
                            ------------------------------
    
        _GENDERS_ is published triannually in Spring, Fall, Winter
            Single Copy rates:  Individual $9, Institution $14
                       Foreign postage, add $2/copy
           Subscription rates:  Individual $24, Institution $40
                 Foreign postage, add $5.50/subscription
    
    Send orders to:
    
    University of Texas
    Box 7819
    Austin TX  78713
    
    13) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    Eastgate Systems, Inc. announces:
    
    its name was Penelope
    by Judy Malloy
    
    (Cambridge, MA) Eastgate Systems has announced the publication of
    _its name was Penelope_, an important new interactive novel by
    Judy Malloy.
    
    _its name was Penelope_ explores the boundaries of performance
    art, hypertext, interactive fiction and poetry.  It is a woman
    artist's story--a story about making art, of love, sex, and work,
    of being very young and growing older.  The reader is invited to
    step into the mind of narrator Anne Mitchell, to see things as
    she sees them, to share her memories.  _its name was Penelope_ is
    filled with uncomfortable truths, closely observed and stunningly
    retold:  the rituals enacted at the opening of art shows of men
    dying of AIDS, the conflict between the demands of love and art,
    the pain and sacrifice and, occasionally, the rewards of a life
    in the arts.  In her introduction, artist and hypertext author
    Carolyn Guyer writes:
    
         If you've never been able to make up your mind whether an
         artist's life is divine or hellish, read _its name was
         Penelope_.  Judy Malloy tells the truth.
    
    Judy Malloy's artists books and electronic narratives, including
    _its name was Penelope_, have been exhibited at galleries and
    exhibitions throughout the world.  1992-3 venues include:
    
         The Computer Is Not Sorry               The Houston Center
         (Boston)                                for Photography
    
         Women and Technology                    The National Library
         (Beverly Hills)                         of Lisbon
    
         Ringling School of Art                  Intl. Symposium
         and Design                              Electronic Art
                                                 (Australia)
    
    An associate editor of _Leonardo_, Malloy has lived all over the
    world, from a tent on a small island in the Rhine to a house in
    the Colorado Rockies.  She currently resides in Berkeley,
    California.
    
    Like all Eastgate hypertext titles, _its name was Penelope_ is
    carefully crafted for interactive performance on the computer.
    No conventional, paper version of the work exists, or can exist.
    The program runs on all Macintosh computers, models Plus or
    better.  _its name way Penelope_ sells for $19.95.  No additional
    software is required.
    
    Since 1982, Eastgate Systems, Inc. has been a leading publisher
    of quality hypertexts and hypertext writing tools, including
    Storyspace (tm) and Hypergate (tm) hypertext writing
    environments, Michael Joyce's _Afternoon, a story_, Sarah Smith's
    _King of Space_, and Stuart Moulthrop's _Victory Garden_.
    
    _its name was Penelope_ is available from:
    
    Eastgate Systems, Inc.
    PO Box 1307, Cambridge MA 02238 USA
    (617) 924-9044 (800) 562-1638
    
    14) ------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _Minnesota Review_
    
    Tell your friends!  Tell your librarians!
    The new _Minnesota Review_'s coming to town!
    
    **now under new management**
    
    Fall 1992 issue (n.s. 39):  "PC WARS"
    
    includes essays by:
    
    * Richard Ohmann              "On PC and related matters"
    * Michael Berube              "Exigencies of Value"
    * Barry Sarchett              "Russell Jacoby, Anti-
                                   Professionalism, and the Politics
                                   of Cultural Nostalgia"
    * Michael Sprinkler           "The War Against Theory"
    * Balance Chow                "Liberal Education Left and Right"
    
    Spring 1993 issue (n.s. 40):  "THE POLITICS OF AIDS"
    Poetry, Fiction, Interviews, Essays.
    
    topics include:
    
    * Queer Theory and activism.
    * Public image of AIDS.
    * Politics of medical research.
    * Health care policies.
    
    Subscriptions are $10 a year (two issues), $20
    institutions/overseas.  The new _Minnesota Review_ is published
    biannually and originates from East Carolina University beginning
    with the Fall 1992 special issue.
    
    Send all queries, comments, suggestions, submissions, and
    subscriptions to:
    
    Jeffrey Williams, Editor
    _Minnesota Review_
    Department of English
    East Carolina University
    Greenville, NC  27858-4353
    
    15) ------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _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.
    _Nomad_ is published biannually and subscriptions are $9 for one
    year (2 issues).  For information contact:
    
    Mike Smith
    406 Williams Hall
    Florida State University
    Tallahassee, FL  32306
    
    E-mail:
    Mike Smith
    msmith@garnet.acns.fsu.edu
    
    16) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _NO MORE NICE GIRLS_
    author:  Ellen Willis
    
    In her new collection of journalism and cultural criticism, _No
    More Nice Girls_, Ellen Willis "offers serious readers the fruits
    of her wide-ranging curiosity, thoughtful analysis, penetrating
    insights, and utterly unapologetic commitment to freedom and
    pleasure as liberating, radical ideas" (_Booklist_).  _No More
    Nice Girls_ will be published by Wesleyan/University Press of New
    England on February 26, 1993.
    
    A former columnist and senior editor at the _Village Voice_,
    Willis is the author of a previous collection, _Beginning to See
    the Light_ (also available from Wesleyan/UPNE), which was hailed
    as "stimulating and satisfying" by the _New York Times_ and as
    the work of an "outspoken, articulate and thoughtful woman" by
    the _Los Angeles Times_.  _No More Nice Girls_ brings her project
    of cultural critique into the contemporary era of conservative
    backlash.
    
    Available through:
    
    University Press of New England
    23 South Main Street
    Hanover  NH  03755
    tel: (603) 643-7107
    fax: (603) 643-1540
    
    17) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _NOUS REFUSE_
    
    a new electronic collective
    a new place to make news
    a new place to write
    a new place
    
    contributors to date include:
    
    joe amato
    charles berstein
    michael blitz
    don byrd
    luigi-robert drake
    nancy dunlop
    chris funkhouser
    carolyn guyer
    pierre joris
    michael joyce
    andrew levy
    stuart moulthrop
    derek owens
    martha petry
    david porush
    martin rosenberg
    armand schwerner
    juliana spahr
    kali tal
    katie yates
    
    to get involved, contact joe amato:
    JAMATO@UX1.CSO.UIUC.EDU
    
    18) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _October_
    Art | Theory | Criticism | Politics
    
    The MIT Press
    
    Edited by:  Rosalind Kraus
                Annette Michelson
                Yve-Alain Bois
                Benjamin H.D. Buchloh
                Hal Foster
                Denis Hollier
                John Rajchman
    
                                  "OCTOBER, the 15-year old
                                  quarterly of social and cultural
                                  theory, has always seemed special.
                                  Its nonprofit status, its cross-
                                  disciplinary forays into film
                                  and psychoanalytic thinking, and
                                  its unyielding commitment to
                                  history set it apart from the
                                  glossy art magazines."
                                            --Village Voice
    
    As the leading edge of arts criticism and theory today, _OCTOBER_
    focuses on the contemporary arts and their various contexts of
    interpretation.  Original, innovative, provocative, each issue
    examines interrelationships between the arts and their critical
    and social contexts.
    
    Come join _OCTOBER_'s exploration of the most important issues in
    contemporary culture.
    Subscribe Today!
    
    Published Quarterly ISSN 0162-2870.  Yearly Rates:  Individual
    $32.00; Institution $80.00; Student (copy of current ID required)
    and Retired:  $22.00.  Outside USA add $14.00 postage and
    handling.  Canadians add additional 7% GST.  Prepayment is
    required.  Send check payable to _OCTOBER_ drawn against a US
    bank, MasterCard or VISA number to:  MIT Press Journal / 55
    Hayward Street / Cambridge, MA 02142-1399 / TEL: (617) 233-2889 /
    FAX: (617) 258-6779 / E-Mail:  journals-orders@mit.edu
    
    19) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _REPRESENTATIONS_
    
    "...conveys an excitement
      rarely seen in academic
      periodicals.  The array of
      subjects is dizzying."
               -- Wendy Steiner
      Times Literary Supplement
    
    SPECIAL ISSUE:  FUTURE LIBRARIES
    
    Number 42 * Spring 1993
    Edited by R. Howard Bloch and Carla Hesse
    
    ROGER CHARTIER
    "The Library Without Walls:  Fifteenth to Twenty-First
    Centuries."
    
    DOMANIQUE JAMET and HELENE WAYSBORD
    "History, Philosophy, and Ambitions of the Bibliotheque de
    France."
    
    EMMANUEL LE ROY LADURIE
    "The Everyday Life of an Administrator of the Bibliotheque
    Nationale."
    
    GEOFFREY NUNBERG
    "The Place of Books."
    
    ALAIN GIFFARD and GERALD GRUNBERG
    "New Reading Technologies."
    
    PROSSER GIFFORD
    "Information and Democracy:  The Libraries of Eastern Europe."
    
    ANTHONY VIDLER
    "The Site of Reading:  Urban Libraries from Labrouste to
    Perrault."
    
    KENNETH DOWLIN and CATHY SIMON
    "The New San Francisco Public Library:  Reprisals of the Civic
    Mission."
    
    Subscriptions:  Individuals $30.00, Students $22.00, Institutions
    $57.00.  Outside U.S. add $6.00 postage.
    
    To order, write:
    
    _Representations_
    University of California Press
    Journals Division
    2120 Berkeley Way
    Berkeley CA  94720
    fax: (510)643-7172 (VISA/MC only)
    
    20) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _RIF/T_
    E-Poetry Literary Journal
    
                                  In all arts there is a physical
                                  component...We must expect great
                                  innovations to transform the entire
                                  technique of the arts.
                                                      --Paul Valery
    
    This list was formed to serve as a vehicle for (1) distribution
    of an interactive literary journal: _RIF/T_ and related exchange
    (2) collection of any information related to contemporary
    poetics.
    
    _RIF/T provides a forum for poets that are conversant with the
    media to explore the full potential of a true electronic journal.
    Dynamic--not static, _RIF/T_ shifts and riffs with the diction of
    "trad" poetry investigating a new, flexible, fluid poetry of
    exchange.
    
    _RIF/T_ has the listserv name e-poetry: to subscribe to e-poetry,
    send the command
    
    SUB e-poetry your name
    
    to:  LISTSERV@UBVM or LISTSERV@UBVM.CC.BUFFALO.EDU via mail
    message (again, as the first line in the body of the mail, not
    the Subject: line).  For example:  SUB e-poetry John Doe
    
    Owner:  Ken Sherwood
    v001pxfu@ubvms.cc.buffalo.edu
    
    21) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _South Atlantic Quarterly_
    Winter 1993 (Volume 92, Number 1)
    
    _The World According to Disney_
    
    Guest Editor:  Susan Willis
    
    Contents:
    
    Critical Vantage Points on Disney's World
    Susan Willis
    
    Reality Revisited
    Karen Klugman
    
    Of Mice and Ducks:  Benjamin and Adorno on Disney
    Miriam Hansen
    
    It's a Small World After All:  Disney and the Pleasures of
    Identification
    Jane Kuenz
    
    The Cartoonist's Front
    Holly Allen and Michael Denning
    
    Disney World:  Public Use/Private State
    Susan Willis
    
    The Contemoprary Future of Tommorow
    Shelton Waldrep
    
    Technological Utopias
    Alexander Wilson
    
    Theme Park
    Arata Isozaki
    
    Subscription Prices:  $48 institutions, $24 individuals.  Single
    issues $12.  Please add $8 for postage outside the U.S.
    
    Duke
    University
    Press
    Journals
    Division
    Box 90660
    Durham,
    N.C. 27708
    
    22) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _SSCORE_
    Social Science Computer Review
    
    G. David Garson, Editor
    Ronald Anderson, Co-Editor
    
    The official journal of the Social Science Computing Association,
    _SSCORE_ provides a unique forum for social scientists to acquire
    and share information on the research and teaching applications
    of microcomputing.  Now, when you subscribe to _Social Science
    Computer Review_, you automatically become a member of the Social
    Science Computing Association.
    
    Recent articles:
    
    Social Impacts of Computing:  Codes of Professional Ethics
    Ronald Anderson
    
    Teledemocracy and Political Science
    William H. Dutton
    
    Trends in the Use of Computers in Economics Teaching in the
    United Kingdom
    Guy Judge and Phil Hobbs
    
    The Essentials of Scientific Visualization:  Basic Techniques and
    Common Problems
    Steve E. Follin
    
    Psychology:  Keeping up with the State of the Art in Computing
    Charles Huff
    
    Computer Assistance in Qualitative Sociology
    David R. Heise
    
    Automating Analysis, Visualization, and Other Social Science
    Research Tasks
    Edwin H. Carpenter
    
    From Mainframes to Micros:  Computer Applications for
    Antropologists
    Robert V. Kemper, Ronald K. Wetherington, and Michael Adler
    
    Quaterly
    Subscription prices:  $48 individuals, $80 institutions
    Single Issue:  $20
    Please add $8 for postage outside the U.S.
    Canadian residents add 7% GST
    
    Duke University Press/ Journals Division / Box 90660 /Durham NC
    27708
    
    23) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _Studies in Popular Culture_
    Dennis Hall, editor.
    
    _Studies in Popular Culture_, the journal of the Popular Culture
    Association in the South and the American Culture Association in
    the South, publishes articles on popular culture and American
    culture however mediated:  through film, literature, radio,
    television, music, graphics, print, practices, associations,
    events--any of the material or conceptual conditions of life.
    The journal enjoys a wide range of contributors from the United
    States, Canada, France, Israel, and Australia, which include
    distinguished anthropologists, sociologists, cultural
    geographers, ethnomusicologists, historians, and scholars in mass
    communications, philosophy, literature, and religion.
    
    Please direct editorial queries to the editor:
    Dennis Hall
    Department of English
    University of Louisville
    Louisville KY  40292
    tel: (502) 588-6896/0509
    Fax: (502) 588-5055
    Bitnet:  DRHALL01@ULKYVM
    Internet:  drhall01@ulkvm.louisville.edu
    
    All manuscripts should be sent to the editor care of the English
    Department, University of Louisville, Louisville, KY 40292.
    Please enclose two, double-spaced copies and a self-addressed
    stamped envelope.  Black and White illustrations may accompany
    the text.  Our preference is for essays that total, with notes
    and bibliography, no more than twenty pages.  Documentation may
    take the form appropriate for the discipline of the writer; the
    current MLA stylesheet is a useful model.  Please indicate if the
    work is available on computer disk.  The editor reserves the
    right to make stylistic changes on accepted manuscripts.
    
    _Studies in Popular Culture_, is published semiannually and is
    indexed in the _PMLA Annual Bibliography_.  All members of the
    Association receive _Studies in Popular Culture_.  Yearly
    membership is $15.00 (International:  $20.00).  Write to the
    Executive Secretary, Diane Calhoun-French, Academic Dean,
    Jefferson Community College-SW, Louisville, KY 40272, for
    membership, individual issues, back copies, or sets.  Volumes I-
    XV are available for $225.00.
    
    24) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _VIRUS 23_
    
    For those brave souls looking to explore the Secret of Eris, you
    may wish to check out _VIRUS 23_.
    
    2 and 3 are even and odd,
    2 and 3 are 5,
    therefore 5 is even and odd.
    
    _Virus 23_ is a codename for all Erisian literature
    
    Don Webb
    6304 Laird Dr.
    Austin, TX 78757
    0004200716@mcimail.com
    
    _VIRUS 23_ is the annual hardcopy publication of A.D.o.S.A, the
    Alberta Department of Spiritual Affairs.  This is what a few of
    cyberculture's luminaries have had to say about it:
    
    All issues are available at $7.00 ppd from:
    
    _VIRUS 23_
    Box 46
    Red Deer, Alberta
    Canada
    T4N 5E7
    
    Various chunks of _VIRUS 23_ can be found at Tim Oerting's
    alt.cyberpunk ftp site (u.washington.edu, in
    /public/alt.cyberpunk. check it out).
    
    For more information online contact Darren Wershler-Henry:
    grad3057@writer.yorku.ca
    
    25) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _Zines-L_
    
    announcing a new list available from:  listserv@uriacc
    
    To subscribe to _Zines-L_ send a message to:
    listserv@uriacc.uri.edu
    
    on one line type:
    SUBSCRIBE ZINES-L first name last name
    
    26) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
                 _Postmodern Culture_ announces PMC-MOO
    
    PMC-MOO is a new service offered (free of charge) by _Postmodern
    Culture_.  PMC-MOO is a real-time, text-based, virtual reality
    environment in which you can interact with other subscribers of
    the journal and participate in live conferences.  PMC-MOO will
    also provide access to texts generated by _Postmodern Culture_
    and by PMC-TALK, and it will provide the opportunity to
    experience (or help to design) programs which simulate
    object-lessons in postmodern theory.  PMC-MOO is based on the
    LambdaMOO program, freeware by Pavel Curtis.
    
    To connect to PMC-MOO, you *must* be on the internet.  If you
    have an internet account, you can make a direct connection by
    typing the command
    
    telnet dewey.lib.ncsu.edu 7777
    
    at your command prompt.  Once you've connected to the server, you
    should receive onscreen instructions on how to log in to PMC-MOO.
    
    If you do not receive these onscreen instructions, but instead
    find yourself with a straight login: and password: prompt, it
    means that your telnet program or interface is ignoring the 7777
    at the end of the command given above, and you will need to ask
    your local user-support people how to telnet to a specific port
    number. If you have the Emacs program on your system and would
    like information about a customized client program for PMC-MOO
    that uses Emacs, contact pmc@unity.ncsu.edu by e-mail.
    
    27) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    *******************************
    Call for papers/participants in
    interdisciplinary conference on
    Cyborgs.
    *******************************
    
    Please contact:
    
    Steven Mentor
    Dept. of English
    GN-30
    University of Washington
    Seattle WA  98195
    e-mail:  cybunny@U.Washigton.edu
    
    We welcome all disciplines and perspectives including historians,
    philosophers, computer scientists, bio(nic?) engineers, medical
    technologists, cognitive psychologists, anthropologists,
    sociologists, science fiction writers, poets, artists, and of
    course, cyborgs them/ourselves.  We are planning to put on the
    conference in Winter, 1994, so please write us with issues,
    questions, quandaries, directions, permutations.
    
    28) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    Call for Papers on Don DeLillo
    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    
    Papers are solicited on the topic of the writings of Don DeLillo
    (his fiction, drama, and journalism) for possible inclusion in a
    cluster section of a future issue of _Postmodern Culture_.
    Selected essays may also be included in a book collection planned
    for later publication.
    
    Inquiries may be sent to Glen Scott Allen at:
    
    E7E4ALL@TOE.TOWSON.EDU
    
    or by mail to:
    
    Stephen D. Bernstein
    English Department
    University of Michigan
    Flint, MI 48502
    
    29) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    *********************
    Call for Submissions
    *********************
    
    _Hypertext Fiction and the Literary Artist_ is a research project
    investigating the use of hypertext technology by creative
    writers.
    
    The project consists of evaluations of software and hardware,
    critiques of traditional and computerized works, and a guide to
    sites of publication.
    
    We would like to request writers to submit their works for
    review.  Publishers are requested to send descriptions of their
    publications with subscription fees and submission formats.  We
    are especially interested to hear from institutions which teach
    creative writing for the hypertext format.
    
    To avoid swamping our e-mail account, please limit messages to a
    page or two in length.  Send works on disk (IBM or Mac) or
    hardcopy to:
    
    _Hypertext Fiction and the Literary Artist_
    3 Westcott Upper
    London, Ontario
    N6C 3G6
    E-mail:  KEEPC@QUCD.QUEENSU.CA
    
    30) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+
    Call for Papers/Fiction/Poetry
    _Minnesota Review_ Fall, 1993
    *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+
    
    Fall Issue (n.s. 41, 1993):  "The Institution of English"
    
    Professional context and institutional formation of literature.
    We welcome articles and particularly review-essays on recent
    trends in criticism, theory, and literature such as "The New
    Medievalism" or the _boundary 2_ school, as well as on
    institutional structures, such as NEH, MLA, graduate
    assistantships, SCT, the rise of cultural studies programs, new
    journals, book series, and the politics of publishing.
    
    Essays, interviews, and reviews due by June 1, 1993.
    
    Send all queries, comments, suggestions, submissions, and
    subscriptions to:
    
    Jeffrey Williams
    Editor
    _Minnesota Review_
    Department of English
    East Carolina University
    Greenville NC  27858-4353
    
    31) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _PHAGE_
    
    Welcome to the Future
    ---------------------
    
    _PHAGE_ is a new magazine for people who are living on the new
    edge, surfing along the new wave of radical thought.  This
    magazine was born from the need for a forum for new ideas in
    print media.
    
    _PHAGE_ will be designed and produced on the Macintosh computer,
    in an 8 1/2 x 11" format, and each issue will be in the area of
    64 pages.  We are planning to sell the magazine at a cover price
    of $3.50 (US), but until costs are measured, we cannot say for
    sure.
    
    We are looking for submissions and assistance with this project
    from all angles:  fiction writers, essayists, ranters, graphic
    designers, artists, poets, etc..  Submissions are welcome in any
    form, in any style or tone, though that is not a guarantee that
    everything we receive will be printed.  We are looking for
    submissions as soon as possible, but feel free to send them
    whenever you like.  However, due to a lack of available
    resources, we are unable, for now, to reward monetarily those who
    contribute to _PHAGE_.  While we have little money, our primary
    interest is producing the highest-quality magazine possible,
    containing an immense spectrum of information.
    
    Possible topics include:
    
    Focusing on the Edges of Culture, examining the Fringes of Reason
    and the Reasons of the Fringe, the Here and Now and Soon-to-Be,
    via unstructured Tones that Ebb and Flow from In-Form Information
    to Formless Rants of Altered States.
    
    If you would like to contribute to _PHAGE_ in any way, please
    send all queries, submissions, tips, words of wisdom, etc., to us
    on the Internet at:
    
    obscure@mindvox.phantom.com
    obscure@zero.cypher.com
    
    or
    
    ahawks@nyx.cs.du.edu
    
    If you do not have Internet access, please send mail to:
    
    _PHAGE_ Magazine
    PO Box XXX
    Green Bay, WI  54304
    
    32) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    [PMC editor's note: the SUNY Press Series _Postmodern Culture_ is
    not affiliated with the electronic journal _Postmodern Culture_.]
    
    *************************************
    Announcement and Call for Submissions
    _Postmodern Culture_
    *************************************
    
    _Postmodern Culture_
    A SUNY Press Series
    
    Series Editor:  Joseph Natoli
    Editor:         Carola Sautter
    
    Center for Integrative Studies, Arts and Humanities
    Michigan State University
    
    We invite submissions of short book manuscripts that present a
    postmodern crosscutting of contemporary headlines--green politics
    to Jeffrey 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 "postmodernist 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
    
    33) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    Call for Papers
    _PSYCHE:  an interdisciplinary
    journal of research on consciousness_
    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    
    You are invited to submit papers for publication in the inaugural
    issue of _PSYCHE:  an interdisciplinary journal of research on
    consciousness_ (ISSN:  1039-723X).
    
    _PSYCHE_ is a refereed electronic journal dedicated to supporting
    the interdisciplinary exploration of the nature of consciousness
    and its relation to the brain.  _PSYCHE_ publishes material
    relevant to that exploration from the perspectives afforded by
    the disciplines of Cognitive Science, Philosophy, Psychology,
    Neuroscience, Artificial Intelligence, and Anthropology.
    Interdisciplinary discussions are particularly encouraged.
    _PSYCHE_ publishes a large variety of articles and reports for a
    diverse academic audience four times per year.  As an electronic
    journal, the usual space limitations of print journals do not
    apply; however, the editors request that potential authors do not
    attempt to abuse the medium.  _PSYCHE_ also publishes a hardcopy
    version simultaneously with the electronic version.  Long
    articles published in the electronic format may be abbreviated,
    synopsized, or eliminated from the hardcopy version.
    
    Submitted matter should be preceded by:  the author's name;
    address; affiliation; telephone number; electronic mail address.
    Any submission to be peer reviewed should be preceded by a 100-
    200 word abstract as well.  Note that peer review will be blind,
    meaning that the prefatory material will not be made available to
    the referees.  In the event that an article needs to be shortened
    for publication in the print version of _PSYCHE_, the author will
    be responsible for making any alterations requested by the
    editors.
    
    Any figures required should be designed in screen-readable ASCII.
    If that cannot be arranged, figures should be submitted as
    separate postscript files so that they can be printed out by
    readers locally.
    
    Authors of accepted articles assign to _PSYCHE_ the right to
    publish the text both electronically and as printed matter and to
    make it available permanently in an electronic archive.  Authors
    will, however, retain copyright to their articles and may
    republish them in any forum so long as they clearly acknowledge
    _PSYCHE_ as the original source of publication.
    
    Subscriptions
    
    Subscriptions to the electronic version of _PSYCHE_ may be
    initiated by sending the one-line command, SUBSCRIBE PSYCHE-L
    Firstname Lastname, in the body on an electronic mail message to:
    
    LISTSERV@NKI.BITNET
    
    34) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+
    Call for Papers on the
    work of Derek Walcott
    *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+
    
    _VERSE_ is calling for submissions for a special issue devoted to
    the work of Derek Walcott:  12-15 page articles on his poetry or
    plays; poems that are indebted to Walcott in some way.  _VERSE_
    is a journal published both in the UK and out of the College of
    William and Mary in Virginia.  The articles should be written for
    an informed, but not necessarily academic, audience.  Deadline:
    end of August.
    
    Please direct inquires to:
    
    Susan M. Schultz
    Department of English
    1733 Donaghho Road
    University of Hawaii-Manoa
    Honolulu HI  96822
    (h) 808-942-3554
    (w) 808-956-3061
    
    35) -----------------------------------------------------------
    
    CALL FOR PAPERS
    
    PANEL: Feminist Theory and Technoculture
    CONFERENCE: Northeast Modern Language Association (NEMLA)
    DATE: April 8 & 9, 1994
    PLACE:  Pittsburgh, PA
    
    This panel will address a variety of feminist theories
    (poststructuralist, Marxist, Gender and Sexuality Studies,
    ecofeminism, etc.) as they respond to the problems and
    possibilities of the culture of technology.  Topics include (but
    are not limited to) the Internet (incl. bbs, lists, email,
    electronic conferences, MUSHES, MUDS, etc); television,
    telephone, fax and other electronic media; and technoliterature.
    
    Send inquiries to lxh16@po.cwru.edu
    
    Send abstracts and papers by September 1 to
    Prof. Lila Hanft
    Dept. of English
    11112 Bellflower Rd.
    Case Western Reserve Univ.
    Cleveland, OH  44106-7117
    
    36) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _International Conference on Refereed
    Electronic Journals:  Towards a Consortium
    for Networked Publications_
    
    October 1-2, 1993
    (Friday & Saturday)
    
    Sponsored by:
    
    Medical Research Council
    Natural Sciences & Engineering Research Council
    Social Science & Humanities Research Council of Canada
    The University of Manitoba
    
    The Delta Winnipeg Hotel
    288 Portage Avenue
    Winnipeg, Manitoba
    R3C 0B8
    
    The aims of the conference are: (1) to make academic merit the
    sole consideration in the publication of journal-type research,
    (2) to advance the idea that the academic community should have a
    hand in determining what gets published and how it is
    disseminated, (3) to provide an outlet for research publication
    that is not subject to the severe economic constraints of
    traditional paper-journal publishing, (4) to make collective use
    of the scholarly advantages of network publication (savings in
    production costs, increased speed in publication and
    dissemination process), (5) to provide an effective and low-cost
    means for universities and learned societies to play a greater
    role as disseminators of research information, and not only as
    producers and consumers.
    
    This historic two-day event will be organized as a series of
    plenary working sessions that will include presentations from
    major resource people from a variety of fields.  An exhibition of
    the latest computer technology is also planned.  Registration is
    limited to 200 participants.
    
    Registration Information
    
    Fees:
    
         If paid by September 1, 1993:           $150.00 (Cdn)
         If paid after September 1, 1993:        $200.00 (Cdn)
         Dinner for Guests of participants:      $ 30.00 (Cdn)
    
    Requests for information or the completed Conference Registration
    Form together with payment should be sent to:
    
    Ms. Helga Dyck, Co-ordinator
    Institute for the Humanities
    Room 108 Isbister Bldg.
    Winnipeg, Manitoba R3T 2N2 Canada
    ph.: (204) 474-9599
    fax: (204) 275-5781
    e-mail:  umih@ccu.umanitoba.ca
    
    37) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
                   "THE WATCH-TOWERS OF PEACE"
    
              An Art Installation By Fred Forrest (FR)
                   May 28th - 4th June 1993
    
              Installation telephone Numbers:
    
                   0043 3453 5411
                   0043 3453 5412
                   0043 3453 5413
    
    SEND YOUR MESSAGES OF PEACE TO FORMER YUGOSLAVIA FROM ACROSS THE
    BORDER IN AUSTRIA.
    
    RING THESE NUMBERS FROM EVERY CORNER OF YOUR PLANET TO COVER THE
    LAND OF WAR WITH SLOGANS OF PEACE.
    
    DISSEMINATE YOUR ENERGIES IN REAL TIME THROUGH POSITIVE WAVES.
    
    We would like to draw your attention to an installation that will
    be realised by the artist Fred Forrest within the framework of
    the European Month of Culture in Graez.  The installation will
    incorporate the general theme "Entegenzte Grenzen" (Dismissed
    Borders) and function as leading project.  It will open in April
    and can already be considered as extraordinary and exemplary.
    
    The technological communication media Fred Forrest is going to
    install at the Slovenian border will be placed in such a way that
    they will look in the direction of the former Yugoslavian
    territory and are called
    
    "OBSERVATION TOWERS FOR PEACE".
    
    These technological communication media will consist of five
    sound amplifiers connected to computers and the INTERNATIONAL
    TELEPHONE NETWORK.  The metal structures designed to carry these
    strong amplifiers will be erected in Ehrenhausen, directly at the
    Austrian-Slovenian border.  Through these amplifiers, peace
    messages are to be emitted in real-time mode.  These peace
    messages will be transmitted to the amplifiers via telephone from
    the whole world over.
    
    A computer will be used to transform the messages via synthesizer
    into one collective sound signal.  The modulation of this
    whistling sound will change in accordance with both the number of
    incoming phone calls and the distance from which they come.
    
    There is no doubt that the interaction of Fred Forrest's project
    and its symbolic dimension in view of the present geopolitical
    situation make the installation a first class media event and
    emphasize the meaning of our modern society's new forms of
    communication.
    
    For more information, please write to:
    
              Fred Forrest
              Territoire Du MZ,
              60540 Anserville,
              France
    
              Tel 44 08 43 05
              Fax 44 08 59 67
    
    38) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
    _MONTAGE 93:  INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL OF THE IMAGE_
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    39) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
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    Formally, _FEMISA_ was established to help those members of the
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    41) -------------------------------------------------------------
    
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  • Women and Islam

    Lahoucine Ouzgane

    Dept. of English
    University of Alberta

    LOUZGANE@vm.ucs.ualberta.ca

     

    Ahmed, Leila. Women and Gender in Islam: Historical Roots of a Modern Debate. New Haven and London: Yale UP, 1992. Pp. viii + 296. Cloth, $30.00

     

    Leila Ahmed’s Women and Gender in Islam centers on the conditions and lives of women in Middle Eastern Arab history. It is a response both to the growing strength of Islamist movements, which urge a return to the laws and practices set forth in the core Islamic discourse, and to the way in which Arab women are discussed in the West.

     

    The book is divided into three parts. “Part One: The Pre-Islamic Middle East” includes a chapter on Mesopotamia and another on The Mediterranean Middle East. Citing archeological evidence, Ahmed points out that the subordination of Middle Eastern women became more or less institutionalized with the rise of urban centers in the valleys of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers between 3500 and 3000 B.C.E. These centers gave rise to military competitiveness, the patriarchal family, the exclusion of women from most of the professional classes, the designation of women’s sexuality as the property of men, and the use of the veil to differentiate between “respectable” and “disreputable” women. Challenging the assumption that Islamic societies are inherently oppressive to women–a task that she undertakes throughout her book–Ahmed stresses the fact that the “Mesopotamian, Persian, Hellenic, Christian, and eventually Islamic cultures each contributed practices that both controlled and diminished women, and each also apparently borrowed the controlling and reductive practices of its neighbors” (18).

     

    Reviewing, for example, some of the salient features of Byzantine society, Ahmed notes that the birth of a boy (but not that of a girl) was greeted with cries of joy, that, “barring some general disaster, women were always supposed to be veiled” (26), and that the system of relying on eunuchs to enforce the separation of the sexes was already in place. To show continuity with the rigid Byzantine customs, Ahmed turns to Classical Greek, and specifically Aristotelian, theories which conceived of women “as innately and biologically inferior in both mental and physical capacities–and thus as intended for their subservient position by ‘nature’” (29). Citing several scholars–Sarah Pomeroy, Dorothy Thompson, Naphtali Lewis, Jean Vercoutter, and Christiane Desroches Noblecourt–Ahmed finds that only the “remarkably nonmisogynist” culture of the New Kingdom in Egypt “accorded women high esteem” (31). But neither Ahmed nor her sources explain this anomalous situation. The rest of the chapter outlines how, in the centuries immediately preceding the rise of Islam, the politically dominant Christianity brought with it “the religious sanction of women’s social subordination and the endorsement of their essential secondariness” (34).

     

    The four chapters of Part Two are grouped under the heading of “Founding Discourses.” Here, the text deals with Arabia at the time of the rise of Islam, carefully delineating the changes brought about by the new religion when it spread to the rest of the Middle East. When Muhammed became the established prophet, women lost their economic independence, their autonomy, and the right to a monogamous marriage. The period also witnessed the institution of the patrilineal and patriarchal marriage (Aisha was ten years old when she was married to Muhammed). After the prophet’s death in 632, the mechanisms for controlling women’s lives were more clearly articulated by the succeeding caliphs. Under Umar’s reign (634-44), for instance, segregated prayers were established (with a male imam for the women); and polygamy and marriage of nine- or ten-year-old girls were sanctioned. Umar himself was very harsh toward women both in private and in public.

     

    At the end of this chapter, Ahmed makes one of the most important points of her argument: what has been consistently overlooked, she declares, is “the broad ethical field of meaning” in which these restrictive practices against women were embedded–“the ethical teachings Islam was above all established to articulate” (62). Her point has far-reaching implications for how we understand Islam’s attitude toward women. “When those teachings are taken into account,” she says,

     

    the religion's understanding of women and gender emerges as far more ambiguous than this account might suggest. Islam's ethical vision, which is stubbornly egalitarian, including with respect to the sexes, is thus in tension with, and might even be said to subvert, the hierarchical structure of marriage pragmatically instituted in the first Islamic society.(62-63)

     

    To prove that Islam recognizes the “identicalness of men and women and the equal worth of their labor” (65), Ahmed quotes the following Quranic verse: “I suffer not the good deeds of any to go to waste, be he a man or a woman: The one of you is of the other.” But even if one were to overlook the problem of translation (another translator, N.J. Dawood, renders the passage in question this way: “I will deny no man or woman among you the reward of their labours. You are the offspring of one another”), it is hard to argue for a “stubbornly egalitarian” vision when the only Quranic Sura entitled “Women” is addressed to men, and where one can read that “Men have authority over women because God has made the one superior to the other, and because they spend their wealth to maintain them. Good women are obedient. . . . As for those from whom you fear disobedience, admonish them and send them to beds apart and beat them. Then if they obey you, take no further action against them” (Sura 4: 34).

     

    From Ahmed’s point of view, Muslim women suffered the worst excesses of the pragmatic teachings of Islam under the Abbasid dynasty ruling at Baghdad (749-1258). The Abbasid elite men kept enormous harems of wives and concubines and sanctioned polygamy and the seclusion of women; an enormous number of Arab soldiers who arrived in Irak took wives and concubines from the local non-Muslim populations; and “one young man,” we are told, “on receiving his inheritance, went out to purchase ‘a house, furniture, concubines and other objects’” (83). To survive in this kind of atmosphere, women had to resort to manipulation, poison, intense rivalries, and falsehoods. (“Zubaida, royal-born wife of Harun al-Rashid, jealous of his attachment to a particular concubine, was advised to stop nagging–and felt the need to make up for her jealous lapse by presenting al-Rashid with ten concubines.”) Once again, Ahmed observes, the ethical injunctions of Islam were rarely translated into enforceable laws. Only texts that orthodox theologians, legists, and philosophers (the likes of Al-Ghazali) created were–and continue to be–regarded as the core prescriptive texts of Islam. But Ahmed also makes it clear that this intense misogyny was neither originally nor exclusively Muslim in character, but rather the consequence of a cultural negotiation between Islam and “an urban Middle East with already well-articulated misogynist attitudes and practices”:

     

    [B]y licensing polygamy, concubinage, and easy divorce for men, originally allowed under different circumstances in a different society, Islam lent itself to being interpreted as endorsing and giving religious sanction to a deeply negative and debased conception of women.(87)

     

    “Part Three: New Discourses” is narrow in focus– dealing mainly with Egypt from early 19th Century to the present–but crucial to a good understanding of Islam and women today. The period witnessed the Western economic encroachment on the Middle East and the emergence of the “modern” states. While the inroads made by European goods in Egypt were decidedly negative for women–who worked mainly in textiles–the process of change set in motion would prove broadly positive for them. Most importantly, Ahmed notes, the period saw “the emergence of women themselves as a central subject for national debate. For the first time since the establishment of Islam, the treatment of women in Islamic custom and law–the license of polygamy, easy male access to divorce, and segregation–were openly discussed . . .” (128). But the debates about “women” and social reform always took place in a European context, so to speak: the Muslim society felt the need to catch up to a relatively “advanced” European culture. This, indeed is one of Ahmed’s central arguments. The problem with proponents of “improvement in the status of women,” she observes, is that they had

     

    from early on couched their advocacy in terms of the need to abandon the (implicitly) 'innately' and 'irreparably' misogynist practices of the native culture in favor of the customs and beliefs of another culture--the European.(129)

     

    Ahmed extends this discussion in Chapter 8: “The Discourse of the Veil”–one of the best treatments of the subject I have seen and, for me, the strongest part of Ahmed’s study. The chapter begins with Ahmed’s examination of Qassim Amin’s The Liberation of Woman, a book that provoked intense and furious debate upon its publication in 1899 (with more than thirty books and articles appearing in response) and that is traditionally regarded as marking the beginning of feminism in the Arab world. Amin argues passionately for the abolition of the veil and for fundamental changes in culture, society, and even in Arab character. Of Egyptian women he writes that they are

     

    not in the habit of combing their hair every day . . . nor do they bathe more than once a week. They do not know how to use a toothbrush and do not attend to what is attractive in clothing, though their attractiveness and cleanliness strongly influence men's inclinations. They do not know how to rouse desire in their husband, nor how to retain his desire or increase it. . . .(Quoted in Ahmed, 157)

     

    At this point, Ahmed remarks that the fusion of the issue of women and culture and the expanded signification of the veil originated in the discourses of European societies:

     

    Those ideas were interjected into the native discourse as Muslim men exposed to European ideas began to reproduce and react to them and, subsequently and more persuasively and insistently, as Europeans--servants of Empire and individuals resident in Egypt--introduced and actively disseminated them.(149)

     

    Throughout this segment of her argument, Ahmed insists that “the peculiar practices of Islam with respect to women had always formed part of the Western narrative of the quintessential otherness and inferiority of Islam” (149). Prior to the seventeenth century, Western ideas about Islam derived mainly from travelers and crusaders. The other source of Western ideas of Islam came from the narrative of colonial domination regarding the inferiority of all other cultures and societies, a narrative that successfully co-opted the language of feminism and whose thesis was that “Islam was innately and immutably oppressive to women, that the veil and segregation epitomized this oppression, and that these customs were fundamental reasons for the general and comprehensive backwardness of Islamic societies” (151-52). If the situation of Egyptian women was to improve, Lord Cromer deemed it essential that Egyptians “be persuaded or forced into imbibing the true spirit of western civilization” because the practices of veiling and seclusion constituted “the fatal obstacle” to the Egyptians’ “attainment of that elevation of thought and character which should accompany the introduction of Western civilization” (quoted in Ahmed, 153).

     

    But when Ahmed examines Cromer’s policies in Egypt, they turn out to be extremely detrimental to Egyptian women: he placed restrictions on government schools, raised school fees, and discouraged the training of women doctors because, as he declared, “throughout the civilized world, attendance by medical men is still the rule.” Ahmed also underscores the fact that “This champion of the unveiling of Egyptian women was, in England, founding member and sometime president of the Men’s League for Opposing Women’s Suffrage” (1953). Others besides the official servants of empire shared and promoted Cromer’s ideas. For the missionaries, the degradation of women in Islam was legitimate ground for their attacks on native culture, so missionary-school teachers actively attacked the practice of veiling by trying to persuade girls to defy their families and not wear one. Ahmed quotes a missionary woman’s conviction that marriage in Islam was “not founded on love but on sensuality” and that a Muslim wife, “buried alive behind the veil,” was regarded as “prisoner and slave rather than . . . companion and help-mate” (154). To show how insiduous and widespread this campaign against the veil was, Ahmed cites the case of the well-meaning European feminist Eugnie Le Brun, who earnestly encouraged young Egyptian women to cast off the veil as their first step toward female liberation (154).

     

    Qassim Amin, “son of Cromer and colonialism,” had apparently internalized the colonialist perception of Egyptian culture, and his Liberation of Woman merely replicated this perception. Cromer’s well-known pronouncements (on the differences between, on the one hand, the European man’s close reasoning, his clarity, his natural logic, and his love of symmetry, and, on the other hand, the Oriental’s slipshod reasoning) are echoed in Amin’s assertion that

     

    For the most part the European man uses his intellect, but when circumstances require it, he deploys force. He does not seek glory from his possessions and colonies, for he has enough of this through his intellectual achievements and scientific inventions.(Quoted in Ahmed, 155)

     

    As colonialists and missionaries have always maintained, to change a culture, il faut chercher la femme. To make Muslim society abandon its backward ways, Amin argued, required changing the women–for whom, as noted earlier, he reserved his most virulent contempt: “The grown man is none other

     

    than his mother shaped him in childhood," and this is the essence of this book. . . . It is impossible to breed successful men if they do not have mothers capable of raising them to be successful. This is the noble duty that advanced civilization has given to women in our age and which she fulfills in advanced societies.(Quoted in Ahmed, 156; emphasis in original)

     

    The irony here, Ahmed argues, is that it is Western discourse that in the first place determined the new meanings of the veil: Muslim men exposed to European ways felt the humiliation of being described as uncivilized because “their” women were veiled. Amin’s ideas can thus be explained only in the context of the authority and global dominance of the Western world, for, as Ahmed says, “the connection between the issues of culture and women, and more precisely between the cultures of Other men and the oppression of women, was created by Western discourse” (165). Ahmed does not deny that Islamic societies oppressed women: “They did and do; that is not in dispute.” Rather, she wants to emphasize “the political uses” of the idea that Islam oppressed women, so as to challenge the “vague and inaccurate understanding of Muslim societies,” an understanding derived from what patriarchal colonialists identified as the sources and main form of women’s oppression in Islamic culture. In short, the attention given to the issue of the veil far outweighs its significance and obscures the real and substantive matters of women’s rights, including their right to identify what they (and not Cromer or Amin) define as significant sites of struggle.

     

    Chapter 9, “The First Feminists,” looks at the two founding feminist discourses that appeared in Egypt in the first three decades of this century. While the dominant voice, closely allied with the westernizing and secularizing tendencies of society, promoted the desirability of progress toward Western-type societies, the alternative voice, wary of and opposed to Western ways, searched for ways of articulating female subjectivity within a native Islamic discourse (174). Here, Ahmed deals briefly with the work of such figures as Huda Sharawi, Malak Nassef, Mai Ziyada, Alila Rifaat, and Nawal El-Saadawi. For the first time, Egyptian women themselves were exploring the implications of a male-gendered debate and its fixation on the veil.

     

    In the last chapter, “The Struggle for the Future,” Ahmed examines the significance of a “new” phenomenon in Egypt known as al-ziyy al-islami or the Islamic dress:

     

    Men complying with the requirement of modesty may wear Arabian-style robes (rather than Egyptian robes), sandals, and sometimes a long scarf on the head, or they may wear baggy trousers and loose shirts. Women wear robes in a variety of styles. . . . but the skirts are ankle-deep and the sleeves long . . . and some of them, depending on how they personally interpret the requirement for modesty, wear face veils."(220- 21)

     

    Ahmed’s point is that the Islamic dress might be seen as a democratic one, erasing class origins; it is also economical, and most importantly for women, it gives them a great deal of social mobility while preserving their native culture. Ultimately, the Islamic dress “is the uniform of arrival, signaling entrance into, and determination to move forward in, modernity” (225).

     

    As no other general survey of women and gender in Islam exists, Women and Gender in Islam is a welcome contribution to the subject and particularly to the current debates about the “inherently misogynist” nature of Islam. The book is a fascinating survey of Islamic debates and ideologies about women and gender in the Middle East, a part of the world that has exercised–and continues to exercise– a compelling influence on the Western imagination.

     

  • Cyfy Pomo?

    Eric Rabkin

    Dept. of English
    University of Michigan

    esrabkin@umich.edu

     

    Ketterer, David. Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy. Indiana University Press, 1992. ix + 206 pp. $27.50 cloth.

     

    McCaffery, Larry, ed. Storming the Reality Studio: A Casebook of Cyberpunk and Postmodern Fiction. Duke University Press, 1991. xvii + 387 pp. $17.95 paper.

     

    . . . The review was the color of an electron spinning to the frequency of anti-matter . . .

     

    “Love and Napalm: Export U.S.A.” shouts two simultaneous stories: in boldface, a three-sentence poster series of incestuous desire, erotic violence, and the military-industrial complex; intercut, five pages of media-spawned obsessive need for dripping flesh, mass mind control, mechanical sex, and orgasmic death. This is but one of the “compressed novels” in J.G. Ballard’s The Atrocity Exhibition (1967), a precursor text for both David Ketterer and Larry McCaffery.

     

    In ancient China, the followers of Mozi (c. 479-381 B.C.E.) believed that all judgments should rest on the distinction between usefulness and uselessness, but Zhuangzi (c. 369-286 B.C.E.) offered the parable of “The Useless Shu Tree.” Huizi complained that the huge Shu tree was too twisted to yield planks and too mottled to yield veneer. Zhuangzi replied that from the tree’s viewpoint these were useful traits because all the other trees in the forest had long since been cut down to make planks and veneer. Better, Zhuangzi advised, to find a different use for the tree, to sit beneath it and to rest in its shade.

     

    The books by Ketterer and McCaffery may look like they should be read, cover to cover, page by page. They should not. If it is useful to speak of readable and writable texts, perhaps it is also useful to speak of consultable and compilable texts. Telephone directories are both. Ketterer’s anthology of Canadian fiction is consultable; McCaffery’s “casebook” is compilable.

     

    In our postmodern times the ideology of realism has come increasingly under attack, and Canadian literature, no less than British or American literature, has turned increasingly to various nonrealistic and metafictional forms--which frequently include, or approximate, SF and fantasy. The present visibility of Canadian SF and fantasy, then, is largely attributable to the dissolution of the realistic paradigm.(Ketterer 3)

     

    Promise A: There will be a demonstration that Canadian literature has turned increasingly to F&SF. Discharge: A book-length narrative catalog–arranged in chapters by language (English and French) and historical period (e.g., before and after the 1984 publication of William Gibson’s Neuromancer!) and genre (F and SF), peppered by the occasional connected, often insightful, page or two on a single work (e.g., Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale)–showing that there is more Canadian F&SF, but no comparison is made with total Canadian literary production. Perhaps the country is simply producing more everything as means of production improve and population increases. Harlequin Books, after all, is Canadian.

     

    Promise B: There will be a demonstration that this Canadian generic turning arises from a postmodern assault on realism. Discharge: Canadian F&SF has ever more prominent practitioners (Gibson, Elizabeth Vonarburg) and Canada’s best known authors have turned from time to time to F&SF (Atwood and occasional passages by Robertson Davies and Margaret Laurence), but Gibson is a native of the U.S., Vonarburg of France, and the three native Canadians have returned to realism.

     

    Promise C: There will be a demonstration that Canadian literature has “present visibility.” Discharge: The heart of cyberpunk, the putative SF projection of postmodernism, is Neuromancer, but “there’s nothing here linking Gibson to any Canadian tradition” (143). Hail, Ballard!

     

    “What makes for the very best Canadian SF and fantasy does not have anything to do with Canada at all” (166).

     

    Whazza matter, Bucky? You say we have a non-subject? You say you want to yawn? You say you can’t imagine reading a hundred and sixty-six pages about F&SF in Canada that offer little extended argument and omit the magical Robert Kroetsch (e.g., What the Crow Said, 1978)? Well, listen up, ’cause this book has the most helpful Bibliography around on its targets and a cleverly detailed Table of Contents and a pretty darned good Index and you can use ’em all to track down languages and periods and genres and read just what the doctor ordered OR follow up on any of the twenty biggest Names, and, believe it or not, there are twenty–count ’em–twenty: Margaret Atwood, David Cronenberg, Robertson Davies, Charles de Lint, Gordon Dickson, William Gibson, Herbert L. Gold, Phyllis Gotlieb, Guy Gavriel Kay, W.P. Kinsella, Margaret Laurence, Stephen Leacock, Laurence Manning, Judith Merril, Brian Moore, Spider Robinson, Robert Service, William Shatner, A.E. van Vogt, Elisabeth Vonarburg. And a diverse and estimable bunch they are.

     

    Yeah, yeah, half these folks moved away from Canada and nearly half moved to it and some are only Big Names in g-e-n-r-e (de Lint, Robinson) and others are overpraised (Kay is not really Tolkien’s equal, except in annual sales, at least not yet), but think about it: van Vogt is indisputably one of the formative forces in ghetto SF of the “Golden Age” 1940s; Cronenberg’s Videodrome and The Fly and Dead Ringers make a body of F&SF film second only, if at all, to Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove and 2001 and The Shining; Gold’s editorial work was second only to that of John W. Campbell in determining the directions of SF; Shatner (with the help of Ron Goulart) actually can write a serviceable novel or two; Vonarburg was the first person outside France (and the first woman) to win France’s annual SF award; etc. Think of the poetry (Atwood, Gotlieb, Service)! Think of the humor (Leacock, Robinson)! Think of the movies (Cronenberg, Kinsella’s Field of Dreams)! And maybe think about folks you never thought of before. Consult this book.

     

    [A] the challenge of finding a suitable means to examine the 'postmodern condition' has produced a vigorous and highly energized response from a new breed of SF authors who combine scientific know-how with aesthetic innovation . . . [B] aesthetically radical SF exhibiting many of the features associated with postmodernism are evident as early as the mid-1950s and early 1960s, when literary mavericks like Alfred Bester, William S. Burroughs, J.G. Ballard, Philip K. Dick, and Thomas Pynchon began publishing books that self-consciously operated on the fringes of SF and the literary avant-garde. [C] During the 1970s and 1980s [writers such as Don DeLillo, Ted Mooney, Joseph McElroy, Denis Johnson, Margaret Atwood, William T. Vollman, Kathy Acker, and Mark Leyner], [w]hile writing outside the commercial SF publishing scene . . . produced works that perfectly fulfill the generic task of SF, described by Vivian Sobchack as 'the cognitive mapping and poetic figuration of social relations as these are constituted by new technological modes of "being in the world"' [D] . . . these mainstream novels (recently dubbed 'slipstream' novels by cyberpunk theoretician Bruce Sterling) typically portrayed individuals awash in a sea of technological change, information overload, and random--but extraordinarily vivid--sensory stimulations."(McCaffery 9-10)

     

    And so on. [A] (the guide letters are my insertions) ain’t quite right. The new breed of SF writers with technical know-how typically doesn’t write cyberpunk or anything remotely like it: David Brin, Robert Forward, James Hogan. And on the other prosthesis, Gibson is famous for having been inspired to write Neuromancer by watching folks in video arcades; he’d never even touched a computer before writing THE BOOK. But there are confirming examples: Rudy Rucker (mentioned by McCaffery) and, by some definitions, Gregory Benford (unmentioned).

     

    [A] and [B] are mutually inconsistent. But, hey, postmodernism frees us from history, right, Bucky?

     

    [B] is the giveaway: no distinctions made between Bester and Burroughs, Dick and Pynchon. But where oh where is Stanislaw Lem? What happened to Kobo Abe? McCaffery’s implicit polemic: there is a theory (mostly francophone but with some anglophones connected via conference calling) to support a world-wide (North Atlantic) movement that transcends genre (like SF or mainstream) and Genre (like fiction and music). Cyberpunk is its bleeding pump (speaking of Kubrick, anyone remember A Clockwork Orange?) and postmodernism is its daytime name.

     

    [C] don’t have no SF writers. Mainstreamers trip in the ghetto, but do the ghettees ever wash in the mainstream? Sure: Abe, Lem, George Lucas (of American Graffiti), Lewis Shiner (of Slam), Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (of late). But McCaffery ignores ’em ’cause they don’t help the cause. The original cyberpunkers–Gibson, Shiner, Sterling, et al.– were for a while called The Movement. McCaffery’s cause? To convince us that The Movement is the movement.

     

    [D]: the slipstream is Pierian. And the rest of the “casebook” (poor Gibson hero that he is, that hard Case: he gets used by every slash body) sets out to do it.

     

    Five sections, very nice: Introduction, Cyberpunk 101: A Schematic Guide to Storming the Reality Studio, Fiction and Poetry, Non-Fiction, Bibliography.

     

    Zhuangzi say, “The Introduction is the most useful part of the book.” (Maybe that’s why Russell Potter assigns this one in his course called “The Transit of the Fantastic: From the Gothic to the Postmodern”). McCaffery writes with the clash and bristle of the slipstream and takes us through a plausible polemic about the conflation of MTV, fragmented fiction, decentered subjects, artificial bodies, and soft machines, and about the need for a new fiction in Third Stage Capitalism (Frederic Jameson is always right). It’s a trip and a half and you come back either truly believing (tant pis) or really juiced to think about all this stuff. (I’ll take what’s behind door number two.)

     

    The “schematic guide” is “a quick list of the cultural artifacts that helped to shape cyberpunk ideology and aesthetics, along with the books by the cyberpunks themselves, in roughly chronological order” (17). Every “artifact” gets its paragraph blast (blurb is too weak a word). The paragraphs do not connect logically. Does anyone still care? They connect imagistically. Frankenstein (for brooding sexuality and love of body parts). Red Harvest (noir is noir). Society of the Spectacle (’cause they do theory right). Dub Music (duh). Never Mind the Bollocks (so that is the Sex Pistols’ best album!). Dawn of the Dead (so cannibalism, so?). MTV (how not?). Big Science (and here is Laurie Anderson when we need her). And so on. For more than a dozen pages. If you think you missed something on the way from George Eliot to George Romero, McCaffery in under half an hour will let you know what you might want to back and fill up on.

     

    Then comes the Fiction and Poetry anthology. Some of the short stories are finds (Pat Cadigan’s “Rock On”), and most of the pieces taken from books (as about two-thirds are) are cleverly enough extracted to be okay for tasting, but overall, what can you do with this collage? I’ve got it! Let’s give it to a lit class. You know, the kind that can’t read whole books? Nah. Better: let’s put it on reserve. Collage might work for postmodern artists but it doesn’t work here as postmodern crit. Nice touch, though: half the folks represented are “slipstreamers” and half SFers. The polemic rocks on.

     

    No SFers in the Non-Fiction anthology, though, except for McCaffery’s interview with Gibson and Sterling’s “Preface” to Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology. (There are others, you know, like Norman Spinrad.) This time we get more complete works, some of them quite useful, like Darko Suvin’s solid “On Gibson and Cyberpunk” and Takayuki Tatsumi’s fascinating “The Japanese Reflection of Mirrorshades” and George Slusser’s wide-ranging “Literary MTV.” But you know that urban legend making the rounds, the one about the guy in a strange city who thinks he’s “getting lucky” but wakes up two days later drug-muzzy and with a tiny band-aid on his back? They stole his kidney! It’s cyberpunk on the streets. Well, the Big Names in this book need to feel their backs. McCaffery has extracts from Jean Baudrillard, Jacques Derrida, Jameson, Jean-Francois Lyotard, et al.

     

    I’ve got it! Let’s put it on reserve.

     

    Funny, isn’t it, that with all this theorizing in French, all the fiction and poetry is in English? Hey, David, tell this guy about Elisabeth Vonarburg.

     

    And the Bibliography will keep you reading for years, if the imagistic polemic has you swinging that way.

     

    So, this was a compilable book. And I, for one, enjoy it: another day, another dollop.

     

    Ketterer’s book you can read when you need to; McCaffery’s when you want to. They both well repay dipping, each “after his kind” (Genesis 7:14).

     

    “The Heat Death of the Universe” (Pamela Zoline, 1967) is a postmodern, cyberpunk fiction (that no one ever called those names) in fifty-four numbered paragraphs (just like a PMC review) that run a shining riff on housework and entropy. Here is number 2:

     

    Imagine a pale blue morning sky, almost green with clouds only at the rims. The earth rolls and the sun appears to mount, mountains erode, fruits decay, the Foraminifera adds another chamber to its shell, babies' fingernails grow as does the hair of the dead in their graves, and in egg timers the sands fall and the eggs cook on.

     

    I wonder what criticism will look like in ten years?

     

  • Risk and the New Modernity

    Simon Carter

    MRC Medical Sociology Unit
    Glasgow, United Kingdom

    isb002@lancaster.ac.uk

     

    Beck, Ulrich. Risk Society: Towards a New Modernity. London: Sage, 1992.

     

    At 0123 hours (Soviet European Time) on Saturday 26 of April 1986, reactor number four of the Chernobyl nuclear power complex exploded, rupturing the reaction vessel and causing major structural damage to the plant buildings. The subsequent release of radioactive material caused acute radiation sickness in 200 individuals, 28 of whom subsequently died (Spivak 1992). The immediate effects of the catastrophe were therefore comparable to a minor air disaster, yet the possible long-term consequences went far beyond those suggested by such a comparison. A plume of radio-nuclides (i.e. strontium-90, iodine-131, and caesium-137) spread westwards over Europe presenting a danger that was invisible and therefore beyond direct human powers of perception. As a result, those living within “fallout” zones became aware that they might be suffering irreversible damage but, at the same time, they were dependent on the knowledge of “experts” to find out–a knowledge that was mediated through institutions, argument and causal interpretations and was therefore “open to a social process of definition” (Beck 88).

     

    The Chernobyl tragedy is just one, albeit particularly dramatic, example taken from a long list of other “invisible risks” in which the danger posed is socially disputable. For example, from within the nuclear economy we could add the names Windscale (now renamed Sellafield), Kyshtym, Three Mile Island and Oak Ridge and, moving outside this domain, we could point to concerns over food additives, pesticides, ozone depletion, air and water pollution, and AIDS. The project that Ulrich Beck has set himself is to ask what a society may look like in which disputes about these “new risks” are increasingly pushed to the fore?

     

    Beck’s thesis is, however, more than just another sociological or anthropological examination of the breaks and shifts in the meaning attached to risk, within or between cultures (for an account of this type see Douglas and Wildavsky). The full title of Beck’s newly translated book is Risk Society: Towards a New Modernity (originally published in German as Risikogesellshaft: Auf dem Weg in eine andere Moderne, 1986) and the title resonates with the central theme of his work–that we are in a period of transition not towards postmodernity but towards a second modernity in which the logic of industrial production and distribution (i.e. wealth) is becoming increasingly tied to the logic of “the social production of risk.” As he says:

     

    Just as modernisation dissolved the structure of feudal society in the nineteenth century and produced the industrial society, modernisation today is dissolving industrial society and another modernity is coming into being.(10)

     

    In the first modernity, or industrial society, concerns focused on the distribution of wealth but, according to Beck, as material inadequacy was reduced, or at least isolated, we moved to a more complex modernity, or risk society, where consideration has to be given to the distribution of risks–a move from class position to risk position, from underproduction of goods to overproduction of harm. These are qualitatively different conditions. In the former, one is dealing with “desirable items in scarcity” but in the latter, where it is a question of the risks produced by modernisation, one has an undesirable abundance. “The positive logic of acquisition contrasts with a negative logic of disposition, avoidance, denial, and reinterpretation” (26).

     

    Of course it could be argued that industrial society has always been engaged in a contest with risk and danger. Yet these risks were construed as external to the project of modernity. Thus a distinction was drawn between civilisation (safe) and nature (dangerous). Scientific rationality sought to put into discourse those dangerous spaces and therefore make them predictable–in short to “tame” chance (see Hacking). Beck’s point is that the externalisation of risk is no longer possible because it is increasingly apparent that many hazards are a by-product of the same techno-scientific rationality that initially promised progress, development, and safety. Today’s risks are yesterday’s rational settlements (and here we could cite all forms of pollution, including nuclear fallout).

     

    Within the risk society, though, risk is distributed according to a dual process. On the one hand, the traditional inequalities of strata and class in the West are broken up by the “boomerang effect,” whereby “sooner or later the risks also catch up with those who produce or profit from them” (37). And while this may primarily entail a threat to life and limb it can also “affect secondary media, money, property and legitimation” (38). On the other hand, new international inequalities are established by the industrialised states attempting to export their risks to the third world. Here Beck points to the accident at a chemical production plant in the Indian city of Bhopal and the selling abroad, in developing countries, of pesticides. “There is a systematic attraction between extreme poverty and extreme risk” (41). But even here, ultimately, the boomerang effect strikes back at the source of risk (for instance in the importation of cheap foodstuffs contaminated with Western pesticides). The risks of modernisation, therefore, undermine the bounds of the nation state as established in the industrial society. Risk societies “contain within themselves a grass-roots developmental dynamics that destroys boundaries” (47).

     

    For Beck these developments have implications for our conception of identity. In particular, he suggests many of the traditions and ideas of the enlightenment are breaking down–the old “truths” no longer hold. He sums this up simply in the following section:

     

    To put it bluntly, in class positions being determines consciousness, while in risk positions, conversely, consciousness (knowledge) determines being. Crucial for this is the type of knowledge, specifically the lack of personal experience and the depth of dependency on knowledge, which surrounds all dimensions of defining hazards.(53)

     

    For instance, within the industrial or class society, the threatening potential is knowable (i.e. the loss of one’s job) without any special cognitive means, “measuring procedures,” or consideration of tolerance thresholds. “The affliction is clear and in that sense independent of knowledge” (53). Yet within the risk society the situation is reversed. Those who are victimised–by, say, pesticide contamination–cannot determine their status by their own cognitive means and experiences. Within this new situation “the extent . . . of people’s endangerment [is] fundamentally dependent on external knowledge” (53). But, as we saw above, the externalisation of risk knowledge, into the hands of risk experts, is a social process thwarted by public disputes and disagreements between experts and public and among the experts themselves. The relationship between cause and effect, so central to scientific rationality, is suspended.

     

    But this leads to a situation in which the very divide between expert and non-expert becomes turbid and amorphous. Those people living with “invisible” hazards “bang their heads against the walls of scientific denials of the existence of modernisation risks” (61). This leads to what Beck characterises as a learning process in which victims no longer believe risks to be acts of fate. Elsewhere, Beck has illustrated this process by describing the way in which those who are suffering are required to demonstrate “that they are sick and what has made them sick . . . and in an inversion of the normal legal process, are obliged to provide proof of poisoning themselves” (100). These people become “small, private alternative experts in the risks of modernisation” (61).

     

    This, in some ways, is similar to an argument put forward by Patton in relation to those people living with AIDS. In earlier stages of history those people suffering from illness were largely silenced by the knowledge formations which establish an unreachable boundary around scientific medical “wisdom.” But the advent of the AIDS epidemic has led activists, at least in the United States, to themselves gain considerable medical proficiency. The circulation of newsletters and self help books provides information about clinical trials, including criteria of inclusion and exclusion, to those people living with AIDS. In addition, “underground” drug trials, using experimental products ordered through offshore pharmaceutical companies, have become established in some communities. As Patton says “it is the medical knowledge of the person living with HIV/AIDS . . . which has become today’s ticket to experimental treatments” (52).

     

    This period of acute uncertainty and risk, in which the promises of techno-science are seen to have failed, may lead one to suspect that Beck has a pessimistic and bleak view of our future. But Beck is an optimist and this is expressed in what he sees as the possible potential of the learning process. It may now be that risks are no longer accepted passively by those who have to live with them. In his recent extensive commentary on Beck’s work, Lash has summarised this process of reflexive modernisation. Of course, the first modernity, or industrial society, by definition was reflexive. Yet there are, among others, two possible forms of reflexivity: it can be the self-monitoring of a social system or, on the other hand, a self-monitoring by individuals. The industrial society would “consist of a mixture of self-monitored (and modern) and heteronomously monitored (or traditional) spheres of social life. Beck’s second modernity would then be much more consistently reflexive” (Lash 5). This reflexive modernisation, rather than constituting a rejection of rationality is instead an embracing of a radicalised rationality. As Beck sums the process up:

     

    In contrast to all earlier epochs (including industrial society), the risk society is characterised essentially by a lack: the impossibility of an external attribution of hazards. In other words, risks depend on decisions; they are industrially produced and in this sense politically reflexive. While all earlier cultures and phases of social development confronted threats in various ways, society is confronted by itself through its dealings with risks. . . . This means that the sources of danger are no longer ignorance but knowledge; not a deficient but perfect mastery over nature; not what eludes the human grasp but the system of norms and objective constraints established with the industrial epoch.(183)

     

    Now for some criticisms. A good place to begin may be Beck’s style. His book can only be described as a gradual slide from topic to topic in which one is never sure if one is reading a conclusion or an opening announcement. He makes statements on one page, only to then, apparently, contradict them a few pages later (but one is never totally sure.) While some writers, labelled as postmodernist, intentionally use similar devices in order playfully to resist the illusion of perfect textual coherence and univocity, with Beck one is less confident that one is being deliberately exercised.

     

    For example, one of the difficulties in conceptualising the term “risk” is that the it can mean very different things in different contexts. Thus, in Beck’s argument we have, among others, two models of risk. On the one hand, within the industrial society we have those scientific understandings of risk which seek to “objectively measure” and quantify risk while, on the other hand, within the “risk society” such an objective measurement of risk increasingly becomes exposed as socially disputable–a move from risk as “object” to risk as “social process,” from knowable to unknowable risk. Added to this could be a series of less well defined and colloquial uses of the word risk (ranging from lay epidemiology to fatalistic and mystical interpretations of danger.) Hence, within Beck’s account, one word–“risk”–becomes overloaded with a plethora of often opposed meanings, and this gives his text a certain blurriness at just the point where one would hope it to be clear.

     

    To be fair to Beck, this same problem is found in much of the literature on risk, a good deal of which is even less helpful than he is in defining its central term. Also, at a more general level, it does seem that Beck is, at least partially, aware of the amorphous nature of his book, as he claims that this work represents, more than anything, a personal process and admits that “the noise of wrestling sometimes resounds in this book” (9). In this respect he compares himself to a nineteenth-century observer who is on the “lookout for the contours of the as yet unknown industrial age” (9).

     

    Yet the structure of his book does leave certain sections “out on a limb.” In chapter 4, for example, which concerns gender relations, Beck argues that men have practised a rhetoric of equality, without matching their words with deeds. On both sides, he says, the ice of illusions has grown thin; with the equalisation of the prerequisites (in education and law) the positions of men and women become more unequal, more conscious, and less legitimated (104). While it is good to see a male social theorist giving serious attention to questions of gender, it is not fully clear how this chapter is built into, or relates to, the rest of his thesis. Indeed, in his shorter articles on risk society, Beck scarcely mentions gender at all.

     

    One can also criticise certain parts of Beck’s argument. For Beck, we are at the point of transition between two historical epochs–between the industrial and the risk society. Yet he does not adequately deal with how far along this transition we have passed. In this respect his vision of a new modernity appears somewhat illusory. For instance, his claim that the industrial society has brought about a reduction in material inadequacy cannot sit well with the experiences of many living in the deprived areas of any large city or substantial sections of the third world population. And the boomerang effect of risk re-distribution has a long way to go before there is any real equalisation of risk distributions. To give one example, we are all exposed to a certain level of “engineered radioactivity,” and catastrophes such as Chernobyl and Three Mile Island demonstrate that radioactivity, in these cases, does not very faithfully respect the class or wealth of its victims. Nevertheless, in most cases it is easy to identify systematic unevenness in the distribution of risk exposures. Recent studies of cancer “hot spots” linked with the workers at nuclear plants and their children (see Epstein, also Gardner et al.) have shown that risks may still be localised to particular geographic spaces or specific groups.

     

    And Beck’s optimism about the prospects of a radicalised rationality does not even serve to dispel his own empirical evidence of reasons why we should all be gloomy about prospects for the future. On the next to last page of the book Beck outlines some practical steps towards a reflexive modernisation: Only when medicine opposes medicine, nuclear physics opposes nuclear physics, human genetics opposes human genetics or information technology opposes information technology can the future that is brewed up in the test-tube become intelligible and evaluable for the outside world (234). This might be a reasonable starting point, but there is little evidence that anything like this is about to happen. As Bauman has observed, in commenting on Beck’s work:

     

    And yet we are told repeatedly that it is the same science (in company with technology, its executive arm) who brought us here, who will get us out. Science has made all this mess, science will clear it. But why should we trust it now, when we know where the past assurances have led us?(25)

     

    Yet, having said all this, I would stress that Beck’s work is well worth examining–and not just by those interested in the sociology of risk, but by anyone with an interest in social theory and politics. While his claim that we are entering a new risk society may be premature, I think that, at a restricted local level, we may be seeing a reflexive modernisation as specific risks become politicised by certain social actors (in particular by the new social movements or associations).

     

    In terms of a social understanding of risk, Beck’s book represents a novel and innovative contribution to a field of enquiry that has become somewhat stale in recent years. It is a field largely dominated by cognitive psychologists (see, for example, Slovic et al., or Tversky and Kahneman), and I must agree with Beck’s assessment of cognitive psychological work on risk when he ironically describes the way these researchers view the lay public:

     

    They [the public] are ignorant, of course, but well intentioned; hard-working, but without a clue. In this view, the population is composed of nothing but would-be engineers, who do not yet possess sufficient knowledge. They only need be stuffed full of technical details, and then they will share the experts' viewpoint.(58)

     

    There is no such condescension in Beck’s Risk Society, which, whatever its weaknesses, is an engaging and provocative book. At the very least it provides us with some new formulations and some fresh terms to bring to bear on debates about “development,” “progress,” and the risks that attend them.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Bauman, Z. “The Solution as problem.” The Times Higher Education Supplement, 13 November 1992.
    • Beck, U. “On The Way to the Industrial Risk-Society? Outline of an Argument.” Thesis Eleven (1989): 86-103.
    • Douglas, M., & Wildavsky, A. Risk and Culture: an essay on the selection of technical and environmental dangers. Berkeley and London: U of California P, 1983.
    • Epstein, P.R. “Soviet nuclear mishaps pre-Chernobyl.” The Lancet (1993): 341, 346.
    • Gardner, M.J., Hall, J., & Downes, S. “Follow up study of the children born to mother resident in Seascale, West Cumbria.” British Medical Journal 295 (1987): 822-827.
    • Hacking, I. The Taming of Chance. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1990.
    • Lash, S. “Reflexive Modernization: The Aesthetic Dimension.” Theory Culture & Society 10 (1993): 1-23.
    • Patton, C. Inventing AIDS. New York: Routledge. 1990.
    • Slovic, P., Fischhoff, B., & Lichtenstein, S. “Facts and Fears: Understanding Perceived Risk.” Societal Risk Assessment: How Safe is Safe Enough? Ed. R.C. Schwing & W. A. Albers. New York: Plenum Press, 1980.
    • Slovic, P., Fischhoff, B., & Lichtenstein, S. “Perceived risk: psychological factors and social implications.” Proceedings of the Royal Society of London 376 (1981): 17-34.
    • Spivak, L.I. “Psychiatric aspects of the accident at Chernobyl nuclear power station.” European Journal of Psychiatry 6 (1992): 207-212.
    • Tversky, A., & Kahneman, D. “Judgement Under Uncertainty: Heuristics and Biases: Biases in Judgements reveal Some heuristics of Thinking Under Uncertainty.” Science 185 (1974): 1124-1131.

     

  • Playing With Clothes

    Debra Silverman

    Dept. of English
    University of Southern California

    dsilverm@scf.usc.edu

     

    Garber, Marjorie. Vested Interests: Cross-Dressing and Cultural Anxiety. New York: Routledge, 1992.

     

    In March, the women’s NCAA basketball championship was played in Atlanta, Georgia, and for the first time in many years the event was sold out. The sell-out warranted a lot of notice in the printed press and on the television news– the men’s tournament always sold out but women’s basketball had been all but neglected in the past few years. The rise of women’s basketball had already been making headlines in the Los Angeles Times, where a story on the women’s team at Stanford noted that the women’s games were frequently selling out this season while the men’s games were marked by numerous empty seats. According to the Times, fans are appreciating the new athleticism of female players, particularly of stars such as Texas Tech’s Sheryl Swoops, who has been said to run the fast break as well as any male player. But many sports writers and radio call-in jocks have been dismayed by the sudden popularity of the women’s sport and by the media attention it has received, proclaiming that too much TV time has been taken away from the male players. On one call-in program a male viewer complained, “It’s not as if we really want to watch a bunch of girls run around a basketball court.” It seems that men, players and sports aficionados alike, felt for the first time this season that their all-male space was being threatened. It was an anxious moment for men’s basketball.

     

    But it has been an anxious cultural moment for women in the sport, as well. Another L.A. Times article, which appeared at the end of last year’s tournament, is symptomatic. Entitled “Lesbian Issue Stirs Discussion” (April 16, 1992), the article engages the all too familiar conflation of discussions of women athletes with discussions of sexual preference. The “Lesbian Issue” was precipitated by comments from Penn State women’s basketball coach Rene Portland–her team rules include the mandate “no lesbians.” Julie Cart, Times staff writer, sets out to investigate the history of this mandate and the problematic relationship between women athletes and their perceived (homo)sexuality. Cart concludes that, “being perceived as a lesbian in the women’s sports world often carries the same stigma as being a lesbian.” The way in which one’s sexuality is perceived is just as potent as how one represents her own sexuality.

     

    In an effort to confuse (or perhaps illuminate) the boundaries between “being” and “seeming,” women athletes have turned to traditional “feminine” tactics. Cart notes that “to counter the perception of lesbianism, some female athletes adopt compensatory behavior” (emphasis added). By femme-ing up, wearing make-up while competing and dressing in “ultra-feminine” clothing when not on the court, players have marked their (“seeming”) heterosexuality with a vengeance. Pat Griffin, a former basketball coach who currently conducts seminars on homophobia for collegiate sports programs, calls this compensation “hetero-sexy.” Indeed, there has been a longstanding tradition of making female athletes seem more like women and less like men. Cart turns to Mariah Burton Nelson, a former Stanford player, as confirmation of this tradition. When hired by the L.A. Dreams, one of the short-lived women’s pro teams, Nelson and her teammates were told to enter charm school. If we can judge by last year’s film A League of Their Own, these basketball players were not the first female athletes sent for etiquette lessons. In Penny Marshall’s film, set in the 1940’s, female baseball players learned to sip tea, to apply their make-up properly, and to play baseball in skirts. Such calculated displays of “femininity” were meant to combat the spectacle of the masculine woman.

     

    One might wonder why a review of Marjorie Garber’s excellent and comprehensive study Vested Interests begins with a discussion of women’s basketball. On the surface, it seems that what we have is a simple example of machismo–the desire that men’s space be men’s space and that women not confuse the issue by playing sports. Nor should women ever confuse or challenge gender expectations–it is not expected or widely accepted that women should desire a career in basketball. Simultaneously, we have a confirmation of the long standing acceptance of homophobia in our culture– spectators look past the performer, here a basketball player, to what might potentially go on in the locker room. I would like to argue a third possibility which intersects with Garber’s book. The women talked about in the Times article were women playing with drag–dressing up as women to make sure that they would not be (mis)taken for someone or something else. Rather than covering up gender, their drag performances displace sexuality. The femme, female athletes use the markers of femininity as expressions of self-representation; markers that culture can easily read. I also want to suggest that their dressing up, cross- dressing for societal consumption, creates many of the same anxieties that Garber examines and negotiates so well in Vested Interests.

     

    Garber’s book is a combination of literary and cultural criticism. Its episodic and anecdotal moments work beautifully with theoretical interventions into discussions of postmodern gender configurations. Much like Donna Haraway’s ground breaking “A Cyborg Manifesto” which challenged the fixed nature of two terms, male and female, by introducing a third term, the cyborg, Garber’s theory insists on the discussion of three terms: male, female, and transvestite. In her analysis, the transvestite is not a side-effect of culture, an interesting thing to look past while being entertained. Her third term is the defining point of culture. As she writes in the introduction, “The ‘third’ is a mode of articulation, a way of describing a space of possibility. Three puts in question the idea of one: of identity, self-sufficiency, self-knowledge” (11). The third term–transvestite–throws gender categories into a state of “category crisis” which we must see as “not the exception but rather the ground of culture itself” (16). In other words, for Garber, crisis defines culture–and the transvestite figure defines the space of crisis negotiation, and hence of cultural re-definition or transformation.

     

    Maneuvering her critical readings toward an examination of cultural anxiety about transvestites, Garber distinguishes her project from those which have preceded it. “The appeal of cross-dressing,” she observes, “is clearly related to its status as a sign of the constructedness of gender categories.”

     

    But the tendency on the part of many critics has been to look through rather than at the cross-dresser, to turn away from a close encounter with the transvestite, and to want instead to subsume that figure within one of the two traditional genders. To elide and erase--or to appropriate the transvestite for particular political and critical aims.(9)

     

    Garber will insist on the third term as the marker of entry into the Symbolic, training her readers to look at the transvestite and read this figure as the site of cultural confusion and anxiety.

     

    At its heart, Vested Interests is a book about blurred boundaries. Many things happen when we really look at a transvestite figure instead of incorporating its “mode of articulation” into comfortable categories of gender identification. Many boundaries are crossed. It becomes difficult or impossible to explain away the transvestite or fit the cross-dresser into a specific cultural niche. Garber continually reminds us that “transvestism is a space of possibility structuring and confounding culture: the disruptive element that intervenes, not just a category crisis of male, and female, but the crisis of category itself” (17). In this respect, Garber’s position can be placed alongside Judith Butler’s theorization of identity in Gender Trouble (Routledge 1990). Both writers suggest that finding true identity is never fully possible as the truth is always already constructed by gendered expectations. In other words, it is not just about peeling back layers of clothing to find the truth of gender under the clothes. What is always at stake is what Butler calls the “parody” of the original, “[a] parodic proliferation [which] deprives hegemonic culture and its critics of its claim to naturalized or essentialized gender identities” (138).

     

    Garber’s book is divided into two large sections, “Transvestite Logics,” which seeks to show “the way transvestism creates culture,” and “Transvestite Effects,” which explores how “culture creates transvestites” (16). “Transvestite Logics” is the more important half of the book. Here Garber establishes her theoretical parameters and sets her theories into place. But the entire book, which moves on a trajectory from the culturally and legally imposed rules of dress and behavior, to the ways in which these play themselves out in our need for the transvestite, is of considerable interest. Garber finds entertaining examples and compelling evidence for her theories in all corners of western culture–from the Shakespearean stage and medieval sumptuary laws to a cross-dressed Ken doll and Elvis’s clothes, from manuals for women on how to cross-dress as men to Madonna. The book is rich in beautiful photographs, drawings and film stills. Taken together, these many examples and illustrations highlight the problematic status of transvestite figures and confirm Garger’s argument that even in persecuting cross-dressers we express our fundamental dependence on them as the crisis points of cultural negotiation.

     

    A brief tour of some chapters will suggest the main contours of this complex and involved book. “Transvestite Logics” begins with “Dress Codes, or the Theatricality of Difference,” which explores sumptuary laws in medieval and Renaissance England and their function in enforcing social hierarchy. In Elizabethan England gender and status confusion became fashionable, causing an official stigmatization of “excess” in clothing. This excess becomes the space of the transvestite. In the two subsequent sections, Garber investigates modern instances of cross-dressed Shakespeare using the actor Sir Laurence Olivier and actresses such as Sarah Bernhardt to offer the possibility that transvestite theater is the norm, rather than an aberration. Transvestite theater signifies impersonation itself, Garber argues, concluding that “there is no ground of Shakespeare that is not already cross-dressed” (40). All the world really is a stage. This initial staging sets the tone for a lot of what will follow. In part, Garber’s book is about excesses of all sorts–excessive behavior, excessive clothing styles, excessive masquerades and parades of gender confusions. It is about excessive body modifications and about pushing the limits of our everyday performances. Therefore, Garber’s point of entry, by way of a historical narrative/analysis of sumptuary laws, sets the scene(s) for the investigations that will follow. From the very outset, Garber urges us to read cultural staging and plotting in exciting and revealing ways.

     

    “Spare Parts: The Surgical Construction of Gender” is a fascinating study of transsexualism, both female-to-male and male-to-female, using psychoanalytic theories in a discussion of male subjectivity. This chapter is particularly interesting when read with the question of excess in mind. To change one’s gender, to construct or deconstruct the proper parts, is a radical way to stage gender. Here Garber asserts that “the transvestite and the transsexual both define and problematize the entire concept of ‘male subjectivity’” (98). Since this subjectivity can be surgically constructed, Garber’s analysis obviously calls into question the viability of any essentialist orientation towards gender. If one can construct the gender s/he is, then the “natural” demarcations of difference (and desire) cannot in any sense be essential.

     

    Garber’s assertion, in the introduction, that “to ignore the role played by homosexuality would be to risk a radical misunderstanding of the social and cultural implications of cross-dressing” (4) leads her to chapter six, “Breaking the Code: Transvestism and Gay Identity.” This chapter’s organizing caveat is the assertion that no matter how intertwined homosexuality and transvestism are, “neither can simply be transhistorically ‘decoded’ as a sign for the other” (131). The section “Transvestite Panic” uses Eve Sedgwick’s model of homosexual panic to describe the anxiety over the cross-dresser in gay society. Later, Garber examines the colonization of gay styles and sensibilities by straight society, using, as examples, the current vogue of camp and the eternal vogue of gay fashion and fashion designers.

     

    “Transvestite Effects” turns its attention more firmly to popular culture. Chapters nine and eleven stand out in this section. “Religions Habits” (chapter 9) draws a connection between cross-dressing and religion. This is an interesting section on the perceived effeminacy of the Jew in various places and periods, as well as the relationship, often quite complicated, between the construction of the Jew and the construction of the male homosexual. “Black and White TV: Cross-dressing the Color Line” (chapter 11) discusses the question of race and the related subjects of minstrelsy and passing. This is an important and insightful chapter. Garber asserts that “the overdetermined presence of cross-dressing in so many Western configurations of black culture suggests some useful ways to interrogate notions of ‘stereotype’ and “cliche’” (268). With attention to these stereotypes, Garber artfully and intelligently delineates the ways in which “the use of elements of transvestism by black performers and artists as a strategy for economic, political and cultural achievement . . . marks the translation of a mode of oppression and stigmatization into a supple medium for social commentary and aesthetic power” (303).

     

    Despite the many strengths of this book, there were two things about it that I found troublesome. The first is that Garber does not pay enough attention to women in drag. Her only extended discussion of how women fit into the analysis is in the chapter “Fetish Envy,” the briefest chapter of the book. Part of what Garber does here is use Madonna to explore the possibility of simultaneously having and not having a penis. Her conclusion: playing with these positions can be an empowering gesture. And certainly Garber is right to observe that when Madonna squeezes her crotch on stage it is funny and offensive precisely because it plays on the joke of having and not having–it mocks the Freudian desire for what is not there. But since this sort of female fetishism plays only a contributing role in Garber’s book, serving to extend or elaborate her theorizations of male transvestitism, the discussion of Madonna’s cultural role, and of female drag in general, is closed down all too quickly. Garber, it seems to me, is too willing to leave women on the margins of transvestite theory. And the result is that she has missed an opportunity to explore the sort of cultural terrain I began with–the staging of “femininity” by women whose threatening “masculinity” requires that they in effect perform in drag. Of course Garber had to place some kinds of limits on her research. But it is a decided weakness that her book has so little to say about women in drag, and that when it broaches the issue at all it is only to situate women in relation to the fetish, positioning them once again as the troubled objects of fetishism.

     

    The second trouble spot was pointed out to me by a friend and grows out of what we see as a dangerous trajectory initiated by Garber’s sixth chapter. In a recent article, Eve Sedgwick remarks that “gender theory at this moment is talking incessantly about crossdressing in order never to have to talk about homosexuality.” Cross-dressing has been used to allude to gay male culture by an operation similar to the “open secret” of homosexuality: “everyone already knows” that cross-dressing and male homosexuality are intimately connected, so the fact of homosexuality can both be avoided and commented on through a discourse on transvestism. Sedgwick sees cross-dressing as a kind of veil or displacement, and the proliferating academic literature on cross-dressing as a discursive closet. I find Sedgwick’s position very persuasive. I also believe that if we are searching for a theory of cross-dressing as a truly effective transgressive practice, one of the most fruitful sites to examine would be the intersection of cross-dressing and gay political action. Clearly, this in itself would not solve the problem of academic or cultural displacement, but I find it troubling that Garber does not even look to these political spaces.

     

    On March 31, 1993 Anji Xtravaganza died in New York from an AIDS-related liver disease. Anji was one of the queens featured in Jennie Livingston’s documentary Paris is Burning. On April 19, 1993, the New York Times ran an article both on Anji Xtravaganza and the New York drag world. Entitled “Film, Fame, Then Fade-Out: The Drag World in Collapse,” the article reports that numerous deaths have decimated the New York drag community. Simultaneously, the writer notes that drag has arrived in prime time; with the appearance of Dame Edna Everage on TV and Ru Paul on magazine covers, nobody need seek out the New York vogue houses. Middle-class Americans can watch drag performances from the comfort of their own living rooms. This would seem to indicate that Garber’s assertions about transvestite culture are true: there is nothing without the transvestite, the figure who confounds our sense of identity while at the same time constructing who we are. Describing the last days of Anji Xtravaganza, Jesse Green writes that the liver disease was “destroying [Anji’s] hard won femininity.” Green reports that near the end Anji had to stop taking the hormones which were inadvertantly helping the progress of the disease. Green notes, “In later pictures you can see the masculine lines of Angie’s [sic] face re-emerging despite the make-up.” For Green, there must always be something else behind the make-up which disease(s) can devastatingly reveal–there is inevitably a re-emergence of what Green reads as “true” identity. It is the strength of Garber’s book to make us aware of just how spurious this underlying or final truth really is–to show us that there is always something else behind the something else behind the make-up. What is always still underneath, and can never fully be revealed, is Anji’s most complex layer; neither a “true” nor a “made-up” identity, but a third term, that which both defies and defines Anji’s “masculinity” and “feminity.”

     

    In Vested Interests Marjorie Garber has managed to traverse the spaces of this third term–some of the most difficult terrain in contemporary gender studies–with the style and grace of Sheryl Swoops leading a fast break, or Anji Xtravaganza sashaying down a runway. It’s a performance not to be missed.

     

  • Women and Television

    Leslie Regan Shade

    Graduate Program in Communications
    McGill University

    shade@Ice.CC.McGill.CA

     

    Spigel, Lynn. Make Room for TV: Television and the Family Ideal in Postwar America. Chicago: U of Chicago Press, 1992.

     

    Spigel, Lynn, and Denise Mann, eds. Private Screenings: Television and the Female Consumer. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota Press, 1992.

     

    In the past few years there has been a flurry of published work on women and television. Some of the books include: Gender Politics and MTV by Lisa A. Lewis; Women Watching Television by Andrea L. Press; the BFI collection Women Viewing Violence; Ann Gray’s Video Playtime; Enterprising Women by Camille Bacon-Smith; Elayne Rapping’s The Movie of the Week; and No End to Her: Soap Opera and the Female Subject by Martha Nochimson.

     

    What most of these books have in common is a preoccupation with analyzing the multifaceted role of women as audiences in various televisual experiences, with many utilizing an ethnographic approach to contemporary situations. This tendency within cultural studies to concentrate on media audiences, and particularly non-elite audiences, has often led to overarching generalizations as to the shaping of subjectivity, audience interpretations, and subcultural resistance to the hegemonic order. Nonetheless, this purview has captured the attention of historians eager to examine working-class life, including the audiences of diverse cultural fare. As Susan Douglas has noted, though, very often we have too much theory without history, and too much history without theory. How then, can we get past this absence in the historical record and “admit that, short of seances, there are simply some questions about the colonization of consciousness that we can never answer. We are, for the most part, restricted to data generated by the producers, not the consumers, of popular culture” (Douglas 135).

     

    What is a good strategy for conducting historical research on the impact and effect of media on audiences? What types of evidence are needed? Where can such artifactual evidence be mined? Carlo Ginzburg suggests that the historian’s knowledge is akin to that of the doctor’s in its reliance on indirect knowledge, “based on signs and scraps of evidence, conjectural” (24). Such a conjectural paradigm, Ginzburg believes, can be used to reconstruct cultural shifts and transformations. There is also the potential for understanding society, not by invoking claims to total systematic knowledge, but by paying attention to the seemingly insignificant, idiosyncratic and often illogical forms of disclosure. “Reality is opaque; but there are certain points–clues, signs–which allow us to decipher it” (29-30).

     

    Lynn Spigel, for one, has made avowed use of Ginzburg’s tactic for following the seemingly inconsequential trace in order to render a significant pattern of past experiences. In her cultural history of the early integration of the television in the American home, Make Room for TV: Television and the Family Ideal in Postwar America, Spigel finds tell-tale evidence of the history of home spectators in discourses that “spoke of the placement of a chair, or the design of a television set in the room” (187). What she dubs a “patchwork history” consists in amassing evidence from popular media accounts that mostly catered to a white middle-class audience, such as representations in magazines, advertisements, newspapers, radio, film, and television. In particular, her insistence on treating women’s home magazines as valuable historical evidence allowed her to supplement traditional broadcast history (with its reliance on questions of industry, regulation, and technological invention), by highlighting the important role women assumed in the domestic, familial sphere as consumers, producers, and technological negotiators.

     

    Spigel employs a diverse range of historical material to examine how television was represented in the context of the wider social and cultural milieu of the postwar period, such as the entrenchment of women within the domestic arena, the proliferation of the nuclear family sensibility amidst cold-war rhetoric, and the burgeoning spread of single-family homes in the new Levittowns. Some of the material she examines was culled from women’s magazines, industry trade journals, popular magazines, social scientific studies, the corporate records of the National Broadcasting Company, advertisements, and television programs.

     

    In the first chapter, Spigel briefly examines past ideals for family entertainment and leisure, from the Victorian era to Post World War II. She argues that preexisting models of gender and generational hierarchy among family members, such as the distinction between the sexes and that of adults and children, and the separate spheres of public versus private, set the tone for television’s arrival into the home. As well, the introduction of entertainment machines into the household, including gramophones and the radio, also influenced television’s initial reception.

     

    “Television in the Family Circle” is perhaps Spigel’s most successful chapter. Here she describes women’s home magazines of the time, including “Better Homes and Gardens,” “American Home,” “House Beautiful,” and “Ladies’ Home Journal,” which were the primary venue for debates on television and the family. They addressed their female audience, not just as passive consumers of television, but also as producers within the household. On the practical side, these magazines advised women on the proper architectural placement for the television set in the domestic space. The television set came to be seen as a valuable household object, becoming an electronic hearth that replaced the fireplace and the piano as the center of family attention.

     

    Television was either greeted as the penultimate in technological advancement and as a “kind of household cement that promised to reassemble the splintered lives of families who had been separated during the war”(39); or as a kind of monster that threatened to dominate and wreak havoc on family togetherness. These diverse sentiments were echoed in the advertisements and discourses of the popular magazines of the day. A typical ad by RCA featured the family circle around the television console, while “Ladies’ Home Journal” dubbed a new disease, “telebugeye,” which afflicted the young couch potato.

     

    “Women’s Work,” recounts how the television industry addressed women as consumers and workers within the domestic economy through advertisements and specialized programming. These discourses, addressed to “Mrs. Daytime Home Consumer,” included trying to hook the housewife on habitual daytime viewing through genres such as soaps and the segmented variety show featuring cooking and cleaning tips. Women’s magazines tried to mediate the dilemma housewives faced between television viewing as a leisure activity and their requisite domestic chores. One absurd solution to this predicament was epitomized by the Western-Holly Company’s 1952 design for a combined TV-stove, turning cooking into what Spigel calls a “spectator sport” (74).

     

    The last two chapters deal with the emergence of television as the home entertainment center. In the new suburban landscape, television came to be seen as the “window onto the world,” and spectatorship became privatized and domesticated. Interior architecture reflected this relationship between the inside and the outside by promoting design elements such as landscape paintings, decorative wallpaper that featured nature or city-scapes, and the picture window or sliding glass door. Family sit-coms mimicked this fixation by depicting domestic spaces in which public exteriors could be glimpsed. As well, through various self-reflexive strategies, such as depicting television characters as real families “who just happened to live their lives on television” (158), and through farcical observations on the nature of the medium itself, viewers could be reassured about their relationship with this new electronic medium.

     

    Spigel concludes by musing about current discourses on the contemporary home theater and the utopian possibilities raised by smart-TV’s, HDTV, the 500-channel universe of cable television, new video technology, digital sound systems, and virtual reality. She comments that the discursive strategies used to debate these new technologies are surprisingly the same as those used to discuss the introduction of television into the post-war economy.

     

    Make Room for TV is interspersed throughout with reproductions from ads, cartoons, and television stills. Spigel’s work is an inspiration for those seeking to integrate diverse and unconventional source material into a coherent and plausible exploration of past audiences and the effects of new communications technologies.

     

    Private Screenings, edited by Lynn Spigel and Denise Mann, is an expanded version of a special issue of camera obscura that appeared in 1988, and it is also part of a camera obscura series brought out by the University of Minnesota Press. Other books in the series include the 1990 Close Encounters: Film, Feminism and Science Fiction and the recently released Male Trouble.

     

    I, for one, was slightly disappointed to realize that except for the addition of three new essays, Private Screenings was a reprint of the camera obscura issue. Although the ability to easily purchase such revised editions is preferable to hunting down obscure copies of the journal in specialty bookstores and libraries, the question can still be raised as to the politics of publishing mostly reissued material. Lorraine Gamman commented on the prevalence of the feminist scholarly reprint, urging that publishers be pressured to reduce the prices of books that consist of mostly reissued material:

     

    It seems likely that the live feminist scholarly reprint developed as a phenomenon not only because feminist thinkers are at last becoming recognized, but because it constitutes low-investment publishing. Obviously authors have their own reasons for authorizing the reissue of their work, and so it would be inappropriate to say that reprints constitute exploitation or simply another publishing scam. Yet in the rush to reprint the past, both publishers and authors should take care to ensure that feminism doesn't look like it has run out of new ideas or fresh ways to express them.(Gamman 124)

     

    However, publishers also want to capture part of the relatively large photocopy audience. Important journal articles or special issues circulate through academe mainly in photocopied form, outside the publishers’ revenue loop, contravening copyright law.

     

    The nine essays in Private Screenings provide several interesting cases of historical methodology, focusing on the relationship between women, television, and consumer culture, and are intended to be part of a larger feminist project of “close analysis and historical contextualization” (xiii) which Spigel and Mann believe is the panacea to prevalent theoretical generalizations about television. By paying close attention to the analysis of television texts and their historical frameworks, the editors hope that cultural differences in how heterogeneous groups in particular historical situations perceive various mass media will be more practically delineated.

     

    Three recurrent themes are interwoven in the essays. The first is television’s appeal to women as consumers, either through its display of various lifestyles and commodities; or through the viewing of television programs. The second theme is memory: how did audiences understand television programs, and what kind of nostalgic function did television programs serve? The negotiation between Hollywood and the television industry is the third theme, whether in early programming where the recycling of Hollywood glitz was common, or through contemporary soap operas which imitate cinematic ploys.

     

    What is most interesting is the diversity of historical material that the authors have gleaned, including archival footage of television shows and films, popular magazines, fanzines, market and demographic research, and viewer response mail. A variety of approaches for analyzing the material are employed by the authors, including historical and audience interpretations. The first four essays by Spigel, Mann, Lipsitz, and Haralovich, concerned with historical interpretations of television’s social and cultural function in the 1950s, are by far the most successful and convincing in the book.

     

    Lynn Spigel’s essay, “Installing the Television Set” is an earlier and shorter version of Make Room for TV. In this condensation, the introduction of television into the social and domestic sphere is examined through investigation of a variety of popular discourses on television and domestic space, including the theatricalization of the home front.

     

    A fitting follow-up is Denise Mann’s “The Spectacularization of Everyday Life” concerned with variety shows that featured Hollywood guest stars. For Mann, these formats epitomized the nostalgic return to both earlier entertainment forms such as burlesque and vaudeville, and to strategies utilized by the Hollywood publicity machine to engage women as ardent fans. Using “The Martha Raye Show” as an example, Mann argues that this transfer of Hollywood stars to the home through television eased the negotiation of Hollywood’s participation in television and its placement into the everyday mundane life of the housewife. Women were encouraged to enter into the fantasy world of television while being constantly reminded that the images were corporate-produced and commercially-sponsored.

     

    George Lipsitz examines early subgenres of ethnic, working-class sitcoms in “The Meaning of Memory,” contending that this genre served important social and cultural functions beyond the economic imperatives of network television. Shows such as The Honeymooners and The Life of Riley portrayed an idyllic version of urban working-class life which tugged at the chords of nostalgia for the neo-suburbanites, as well as legitimating a change in the socioeconomic and cultural sphere occasioned by the shift from the depression-era to the post-war consumer consciousness of material goods.

     

    In “Sit-coms and Suburbs,” Mary Beth Haralovich provides a fascinating analysis of the emergence of suburban housing, the consumer product industry, and market research, which operated as defining institutions for the new social and economic role of post-war women as homemakers. By considering the work of architectural historians Dolores Hayden and Gwendolyn Wright, she details the many ways that post-war housing development and design, spurred on by the priorities of the Federal Housing Administration, created homogeneous and socially stable communities which effectively excluded any group that wasn’t white and middle-class. Haralovich explores the ways that the consumer product industry tried to define the homemaker through intensive market research, such as employing “depth research” which would probe into the psychic motivations of consumers and allow for “new and improved” product design and packaging. Using the examples of the television shows Father Knows Best and Leave It to Beaver, Haralovich shows how these representations of middle-class nuclear domesticity mediated the burgeoning suburban sensibility by inserting the preeminent homemakers June Cleaver and Margaret Anderson into the domestic architecture itself.

     

    The next three articles in Private Screenings utilize archival material, such as viewer response mail sent to the producers of prime-time television shows, to look at how network television was dealing with the changing social roles fomenting in the 1960s, including feminism and civil rights.

     

    Aniko Bodroghkozy in “Is This What You Mean by Color TV?” analyses public reaction to Julia, the first sitcom since the early 1950s to feature an African-American, Diahann Carroll, in its starring role. By concentrating on its reception, Bodroghkozy argues that “Julia functioned as a symptomatic text–symptomatic of the racial tensions and reconfigurations of its time” (144). Her tactics included analyzing viewer response mail, leading her to conclude that viewers were attempting to come to grips with racial difference; and by reading producer script files, she surmised that the production team constantly struggled to produce relevant images of African-Americans in the context of the civil rights movement.

     

    The “new woman audience” that the networks were courting in the 1980s is the subject of D’Acci and Deming’s articles. D’Acci’s study of the police women genre show Cagney and Lacey led her to examine production files and interview the producers and writers to analyze the elaborate bargaining that ensued between the television producers, the network, the audience, critics, and public interest groups, relating this to the ongoing concerns of the women’s movement. She details how Cagney and Lacey struggled with the terms of femininity as it was played out on prime-time television–for instance, charges of lesbianism against the actors, problems with sexual harassment and the pain of the biological clock. Robert H. Deming is good when he argues that our interpretation of the “new women,” as exemplified by Kate and Allie, is contingent on our memories of sitcom women of the past, from ditzy gals like Lucy to goody- two-shoes like Mary Tyler Moore; but he is irritating when he tries to make a case for the program constructing and defining forms of female subjectivity.

     

    The last two articles are concerned with contemporary television melodrama and the insertion of this “feminine” genre into a broad spectrum of programming. Sandy Flittermann-Lewis adopts a rather obtuse psychoanalytic- semiotic model to analysize how weddings are used in soap operas to contribute to the flow of narrative actions, concluding that they function as a return to the cinematic past. Lynne Joyrich examines the prevalence of the melodrama into diverse forms and textures of contemporary television, such as daytime soap operas, prime-time soaps, made-for-TV movies, crime dramatizations, and the growth of the therapeutic ethos. She maintains that “melodrama is thus an ideal form for postmodern culture and for television” (246), but I am not at all persuaded that such genres can, as she believes, “steel women for resistance” (247). Rather than reading melodramas against the grain and providing my own ironic commentaries, I would instead prefer to turn the set off.

     

    On the practical side, the last chapter in Private Screenings is a “Source Guide to TV Family Comedy, Drama, and Serial Drama, 1946-1970” contained at the UCLA Film and Television Archive, the Wisconsin Center for Film and Theater Research, the Museum of Broadcasting, and the Museum of Broadcast Communications at River City. As well, William Lafferty has compiled a guide to alternative sources of television programming for research, including video dealers and the collectors market.

     

    Works Cited

     

    • Douglas, Susan J. “Notes Toward a History of Media Audiences.” Radical History Review 54 (1992): 127-38.
    • Gamman, Lorraine. “Feminism and Youth Culture: from Jackie to Just Seventeen and Schoolgirl Fiction” [book review]. Feminist Review 41 (Summer 1992): 121.
    • Ginzburg, Carlo. “Morelli, Freud and Sherlock Holmes: Clues and Scientific Method.” History Workshop 9 (1990): 24.

     

  • Theorizing the Culture Wars

    J. Russell Perkin

    Department of English, Saint Mary’s University
    Halifax, N.S., Canada

    rperkin@science.stmarys.ca

     

     

    Gates, Henry Louis, Jr. Loose Canons: Notes on the Culture Wars. New York: Oxford UP, 1992.

     

    Graff, Gerald. Beyond the Culture Wars: How Teaching the Conflicts Can Revitalize American Education. New York: Norton, 1992.

     

    Spanos, William V. The End of Education: Toward Posthumanism. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1993.

     

    As Henry Louis Gates, Jr., suggests at the beginning of Loose Canons, the “political correctness debate” or “culture wars” came as something of a surprise to what Gates calls the cultural left. The right was first off the press with a series of books such as those by Allan Bloom, Roger Kimball, David Lehman, and Dinesh D’Souza. Progressive academics replied as best they could in a variety of media, from television to the popular press to academic articles. Now enough time has passed for responses at greater length, such as the three books I am reviewing here.

     

    Since political terms are slippery at the best of times, but especially so in the context of debates about culture, I should begin by briefly explaining my use of the terms “conservative,” “left,” and “liberal.” This is additionally necessary because as a Canadian I would use these words somewhat differently to describe the political situation in my own country, and some of the subtleties of the American usage remain mysterious to me. I have tried to follow Gates in referring to people like Allan Bloom, William Bennett, and Roger Kimball as “the right,” “conservatives,” or sometimes, more specifically, “neoconservatives”–but I do not follow the usage of some on the cultural left who would also refer to them as “liberals” or “liberal humanists.” By the “cultural left” I mean the coalition of literary theorists, feminists, and scholars in various fields of ethnic studies who have reshaped the study of the humanities during the last fifteen years, and who are sometimes closely connected with movements for social change beyond the walls of the academy. The cultural left thus includes both liberal pluralists like Gerald Graff and those on the radical left like William Spanos. I have used the most elastic of all these terms, “liberal,” in two senses: first, joined with “pluralist” to refer to those intellectuals whose stance is to some degree oppositional, but who combine that stance with an allegiance to certain traditional humanist values, and second, as a political label in the narrow sense, to refer to views characteristic of the part of the Democratic Party generally described as its liberal wing. My main reason for not using the term in such a way that it would overlap with “conservative” is a strategic one: part of my argument is that the most promising way to defeat the conservative cultural initiatives of the last few years is to build a coalition between liberal and radical scholars who can work for change on a variety of fronts without needing to agree on every issue.

     

    It would be easy for a Canadian academic to feel smug while contemplating some aspects of the culture wars that have been fought on campuses, on the air, and in the reviews and popular press in the United States in the last few years. Just as we sometimes feel smug–when looking south– about our national health care programme, we can point to the fact that our country is officially bilingual, and that multiculturalism is the law of the land under the Multiculturalism Act of 1988. We might also feel alternately amused and annoyed that amidst all of their theorizing of postmodern difference and of curricular change, American literary theorists still affirm the goal of shaping the American mind in a manner that strikes us as rather unselfconsciously nationalistic, especially when such theorists, as is often the case, are ignorant of the multicultural nature of Canadian society, writing as though multiculturalism were an American invention. But smugness is often misplaced. Our health care system has problems of its own; similarly, bilingualism and multiculturalism are among the most contentious political issues in Canada. Moreover, American academic politics have a way of spilling across the border, which is why as a Canadian professor of English I have taken a strong interest in the culture wars.

     

    As an example of the way that the terms of the American dispute have been appropriated in Canada, I offer the following instance, which also suggests that controversies over political correctness are still being actively played out at the local level, even if they do not engage the national media quite as much as they did in 1991. At Dalhousie University, in Halifax, Nova Scotia, a Committee on Discriminatory Harassment earlier this year released an interim report on procedures to deal with harassment on campus. This led Jeremy Akerman, a former leader of the provincial (and social democratic) New Democratic Party, to write a diatribe entitled “Campus Crazies Are Too Close for Comfort” in a local weekly newspaper Metro Weekly 12-18 Feb. 1993: 7. Akerman writes a regular column under the heading “Straight Talk”). He based his warning about the possible consequences of the Dalhousie report largely on Dinesh D’Souza’s Illiberal Education, which he describes as a “closely argued, well documented book” and “a work of courage and a beacon of common sense.” He also asserts that “University of Pennsylvania professor Houston Baker publicly argues against ‘reading and writing’ in the colleges because he claims they are a form of ‘control.’ Instead, he says the university should study the work of the racist rap group Niggers With Attitude, whose songs urge the desirability of violence against whites.”

     

    In the context of public discourse at this level of ignorance, it is reassuring to be able to review a selection of intelligent assessments of the culture wars, and to evaluate some considered reflections about the nature of what Stanley Aronowitz and Henry Giroux call “postmodern education.” I will begin with Gerald Graff’s book, since Graff has had a high public profile in debates over the curriculum, and since his book is, of the three I am discussing, the most specifically concerned with the question of what a progressive curriculum might look like. His subtitle, “How Teaching the Conflicts Can Revitalize American Education,” suggests that the book aims at the same popular audience who read Allan Bloom and E.D. Hirsch. However, for the most part Graff avoids the nostalgic myths, the apocalyptic tone, and the patriotic fervour of such books. Instead he has written a modest defence of the strategy he has been tirelessly campaigning for over the last five years or so: the project of “teaching the conflicts,” that is, bringing out into the open, for the benefit of students, the issues that have been debated behind the scenes among the professors.

     

    Graff makes effective use of personal narrative, including a fascinating account of his own resistance to reading at the beginning of his career as a student of literature, and throughout the book he shows great concern for what he calls the “struggling student.” He argues that discussion of pedagogy has stressed the sanctity of the individual classroom too much, without acknowledging that “how well one can teach depends not just on individual virtuosity but on the possibilities and limits imposed by the structure in which one works” (114). Thus he is concerned not so much with what texts students should read–in fact much of one chapter of the book is devoted to showing that Shakespeare still firmly holds pride of place in English studies–as with the way the curriculum is structured, and the concluding chapter looks in detail at several experiments in curricular integration.

     

    By organizing the curriculum around conflicts of interpretation Graff proposes to provide students with “common experience” without at the same time assuming the need for a consensus on values and beliefs (178). Though he alludes throughout the book to his own political and social goals, it seems that for Graff, in the end, the conflicts themselves are what matters. That is, his is a liberal pluralist position, as he implies in the Preface when he thanks the conservatives with whom he takes issue throughout the book (x).

     

    As I implied at the beginning of my discussion, there are some ways in which Graff’s book is not free from the aspirations of a Bloom or a Hirsch. In promising to “Revitalize” higher education he is implicitly buying into the very myth of fall and possible redemption that is typcially found in conservative texts. But Graff’s own critique of nostalgic myths of golden ages of education, here and in his influential Professing Literature (1987) runs counter to the implications of the word “revitalize,” and he also suggests that in fact “standards in higher education have actually risen rather than declined” (88, emphasis in original). In addition, he seems to underestimate the degree to which “the conflicts” are already part of the experience of education. As Gates comments about Graff’s proposal to teach the conflicts, “I think, at the better colleges, we do. We don’t seem to be able not to” (118). In spite of this, Beyond the Culture Wars presupposes that the university is in a state of crisis which Graff’s particular institutional proposals can repair. In fairness, I should note that it is possible that he adopted the strategy of employing some of the rhetoric of crisis simply in order to try to secure an audience for the book, which considering the sales of books from the right would be an understandable strategy.

     

    In his last chapter, where he examines several experiments in curricular integration, Graff says that the proposals he endorses take for granted “the dynamics of modern academic professionalism and American democracy” (195). This is where I have the most serious difficulty with his argument. A more radical critique would surely want to at least question the ideology of academic professionalism, and to consider whether there was any disjunction between the noun “democracy” and the adjective “American.” As a scholar and critic who has been privileged to inhabit elite institutions, Graff seems to me insufficiently sensitive to the differences among institutions, and among the faculty employed by them on contracts of varying degrees of security and benefit. His tone throughout the book is that of someone who is comfortable in the academy, and who wants to make it a more interesting place for the privileged students who study there. The assumption is that there are principled differences among different professional factions, and these can be brought into productive conflict. Thus he does not seriously address the way that a corporate agenda is driving the university, so that the humanities are already situated within a frame of reference that is frequently reified as “economic reality.”

     

    Graff expresses concern for the minority students who appear in his classes, but does not address the more fundamental fact that many young people from minority communities, especially African-Americans, do not have access to university education in the first place. Nor would his proposals make much sense to young and often marginalized faculty struggling to gain tenure, while older colleagues with tenure and seniority disdainfully refuse to engage in the sort of dialogue he assumes everyone seeks. But this is surely the reality for many at institutions less prestigious than Northwestern or Chicago. Finally, for all his concern for the struggling student, Graff seems to me insufficiently attentive to the diverse experience of students. Even though he talks interestingly about his own resistance to learning, he acknowledges that he was a middle-class kid at a good school; for students who are working class, especially in a recession, the “life of the mind stuff” Graff discusses may be even more alien. For such students, resistance is a way of registering that they are not destined for the kind of professional career the “life of the mind stuff” presupposes.

     

    Henry Louis Gates’s book is a collection of essays, not all directly concerned with political correctness and the culture wars, although since their main focus is African-American studies they are very closely connected to those issues. However, as a result of his keen awareness of the way that the Reagan-Bush years affected African-Americans, Gates is less uniformly upbeat than Graff; in fact, his book is genuinely dialogic, incorporating a variety of tones and voices, and including a number of memorable personal narratives and two chapters in the mode of a hardboiled detective story. Due to the occasional nature of the essays, one can also see a development of Gates’s thought as it responds to particular events and contexts.

     

    It is clear that for Henry Louis Gates the question of what books should be read is a much more important one than it is for Graff. Throughout the book he emphasizes the need to “comprehend the diversity of human culture” (xv). There is a celebratory tone to some of the essays, as he considers the achievements and the diversity of African-American studies, but at the same time an awareness of the precarious nature of this achievement, especially in view of the limited number of black doctoral graduates. He suggests that the more radical project remains, namely that of transforming the idea of what it means to be American so that it fully incorporates the African element of American culture.

     

    Loose Canons is full of an infectious enthusiasm for the project of literary and cultural studies, and a profound awareness of Gates’s relation to a particular tradition and culture, even as he insists that education must strive for a culture without a centre, and one that accommodates difference. At the same time he rejects a simplistic identity politics, and he asserts that humanists need to learn to live without cultural nationalism (111). For Gates, “any human being sufficiently curious and motivated can fully possess another culture, no matter how ‘alien’ it may appear to be” (xv). The combination of an awareness of the isolating dangers of cultural nationalism and a desire to celebrate his own cultural tradition are particularly apparent in the discussion of the project of the Norton Anthology of African-American Literature; few can have a keener sense than Gates of the force of the arguments on all sides of the canon debate.

     

    At times Gates, like Graff, seems rather comfortable with his position in the academy, and seems to refrain from questioning some of its more problematic enabling assumptions. However, this is only one element from a variety of voices, and a personal anecdote makes it clear that comfort–for the distinguished black professor–is liable at any moment to turn to discomfort: “Nor can I help but feel some humiliation as I try to put a white person at ease in a dark place on campus at night, coming from nowhere, confronting that certain look of panic in his or her eyes, trying to think grand thoughts like Du Bois but– for the life of me–looking to him or her like Willie Horton” (135-36).

     

    Gates tries to maintain a balance throughout the book between on the one hand asserting the importance of intellectual work, and on the other recognizing that the political and social significance of such work can be overestimated by those who engage in it. He doesn’t deny the importance of critical debate, but insists on the highly mediated relationship of such debate to its supposed referent. As he comments, “it is sometimes necessary to remind ourselves of the distance from the classroom to the streets” (19).

     

    I will postpone discussion of the political position Gates take in his important final chapter until I have considered William Spanos, since I think that Gates provides an important corrective to Spanos’s analysis.

     

    With The End of Education we enter a rather different world. Graff and Gates both write in an elegant straightforward English, largely free of technical theoretical language; much of the material in each book has its origin in material prepared originally for oral delivery or for publication in literary reviews rather than academic journals. It is also clear that the publishers are hoping that the books will appeal to an audience beyond the academy. Spanos, on the other hand, writes in a dense discourse owing much to Heidegger and Foucault, and in a tone of unqualified assertion, without any of the engaging personal voice of Graff or Gates. The words “panoptic” and “hegemony,” together or separately, occur with numbing insistency. To make matters worse, the book is printed with small margins in a small typeface, and with forty-seven pages of long footnotes. One of my colleagues, looking at the review copy lying on my desk, commented that this seems like the kind of book that gives you a headache to read. It is likely to be read only by committed postmodern theorists, which is unfortunate, because The End of Education is an important book, and one which in many ways makes a challenging and necessary critique not only of neoconservative humanism but of the structure and discourses of the university which, Spanos asserts, support and are reinforced by such humanism.

     

    The book originates in a response Spanos wrote to the Harvard Core Curriculum Report of 1978. He developed this response into a manuscript which was rejected for publication by an Ivy League press in spite of favourable readers’ reports, because it seemed to that press politically inappropriate to publish a “destructive” critique of the ideology informing the Harvard Report. Some of the material was published during the 1980s in articles in boundary 2 and Cultural Critique, but the final version has obviously been overdetermined by the intervening culture wars, which in some ways vindicate Spanos’s critique of the Harvard Report, but in other ways, I think, qualify the political conclusions he draws, in ways that he does not want to recognize. I should repeat that I find The End of Education at once a difficult, brilliant, forceful, and maddening book. My view of it changed several times as I read it, and the critique that follows is, more than most reviews, a provisional response.

     

    What is impressive about the book, after the essays of Graff and Gates, is the density of its documentation and the erudition of its theoretical argument. Because of this, and because of his relentlessly oppositional stance (Spanos is no liberal pluralist), the book is a far more radical questioning of the institutional structure of the American university, whose complicity–including that of the humanities–with the more repressive and militaristic aspects of American society he clearly documents. His use of Althusser and Foucault prevents the too easy acceptance of the ideology of academic professionalism that Graff and to some extent Gates can be charged with. Furthermore, the most general project of the book is a Heideggerian critique of Western humanism per se. The result is obviously a much more ambitious book than the other two, though at the present juncture it must be evaluated in the context of the political debate over the future of the humanities, since the culture wars have placed it in a more specific frame of reference than Spanos originally anticipated.

     

    The End of Education operates on several levels. The most basic is the Heideggerian critique of the onto-theological tradition of Western humanism, of which the humanities in the modern university are one particular part, and for which the Harvard Report in turn is a particular, synecdochic example. Secondly, Spanos argues that Foucault’s critique of panopticism as a “Benthamite physics of power” is not restricted to scientific positivism, but can be applied to the humanities as well, and to liberal, pluralist humanists as much as to neoconservatives: Far from countering the interested rapacity of the power structure that would achieve hegemony over the planet and beyond, the Apollonian educational discourse and practice of modern humanism in fact exists to reproduce its means and ends (64). The only hope is a postmodern (or, as Spanos prefers, posthumanist), “destructive”–in the Heideggerian sense– coalition of Heideggerian ontological critique and a social critique deriving from Foucault and Althusser, leading to an oppositional politics in the academy.

     

    The genealogy Spanos constructs is impressive, and later developments have certainly vindicated his view of the Harvard Report, which in the early 1980s might have seemed overly paranoid. Spanos clearly shows a pattern in the recurrence of general education programmes based on restricted canons, beginning with the period during and following the first world war, then during the cold war, and finally in the post-Vietnam period. His insistence on acknowledging the importance of the Vietnam war in discussing the humanities at the present time is an important act of cultural memory. As an uncovering of the motives impelling the right in the culture wars, this book should be required reading for oppositional critics. However, as a political intervention it is flawed in several important ways, and I will conclude this review with an account of these, and a suggestion by way of Henry Louis Gates of a less paranoid and more pragmatic strategy for the cultural left.

     

    On the one hand, Spanos gives his book theoretical depth by beginning at the most basic level of the question of being. On the other hand, in purely rhetorical terms, many readers will probably find the juxtaposition of the heavily Heideggerian first chapter and the details of the Harvard Report to be catachrestical; it is hard for even a sympathetic reader to grant the enormous linkages and assumptions involved in the argument. If Spanos had let his Heideggerian approach inform his genealogy without feeling it necessary to include so many long quotations from Being and Time and other works, the book would have a wider rhetorical appeal and thus a potentially greater political effect.

     

    Another problem is that the book makes huge historical assertions that have the effect of lessening difference, even while it attacks the metaphysical principle “that identity is the condition for the possibility of difference and not the other way around” (4; emphasis in original). This is something Spanos has in common with some followers of Derrida who turn deconstruction into a dogma, rather than realizing that it is a strategy of reading that must take account of the particular logic of the texts being read. Spanos asserts that the classical Greeks were characterized by “originative, differential, and errant thinking” (105), which every subsequent age, beginning with the Alexandrian Greek, through the Romans, the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and the Victorians, and right up to the present, misunderstood in a reifying and imperialistic appropriation. This not only implies a somewhat simplistic reception-history of ancient Greek culture; it also, significantly, perpetuates a myth–the favourite American myth that Spanos in other contexts attacks in the book–of an original period of innocence, a fall, and the possibility of redemption.

     

    There are further problems with the narrative built into The End of Education. Humanism is always and everywhere, for Spanos, panoptic, repressive, characterized by “the metaphysics of the centered circle,” which is repeatedly attacked by reference to the same overcited passage from Derrida’s “Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences”–not coincidentally one of the places where Derrida allows himself to make large claims unqualified by their derivation from reading a particular text. In order to make this assertion, Spanos must show that all apparent difference is in fact contained by the same old metaphysical discourse. Thus, within the space of four pages, in the context of making absolute claims about Western education (or thought, or theory), Spanos uses the following constructions:

     

    1.      “whatever its historically specific permutations,”
    2.      “despite the historically specific permutations,”
    3.      “Apparent historical dissimilarities,”
    4.      "Despite the historically specific ruptures."(12-15)

     

    Western thought, he repeats, has “always reaffirmed a nostalgic and recuperative circuitous educational journey back to the origin” (15). This over-insistence suggests to me that Spanos is a poor reader of Derrida, for he is not attentive to difference at particular moments or within particular texts. He seems to believe that one can leap bodily out of the metaphysical tradition simply by compiling enough citations from Heidegger, whereas his rather anticlimactic final chapter shows, as Derrida recognizes more explicitly, that one cannot escape logocentrism simply by wishing to.

     

    The destructive readings of particular humanist texts certainly show the complicity of Arnold, Babbitt, and Richards in beliefs and practices that are not now highly regarded (although Spanos has to work a lot harder with Richards to do this than with the other two). It is certainly true that Arnold made some unpleasant statements, and they are all on exhibition here. But Arnold was also an ironist, and the simple opposition between bad bourgeois mystified Matthew Arnold and good radical deconstructive Friedrich Nietzsche is too easy, as some recent work in Victorian studies on Arnold has begun to demonstrate. A deconstructive reading of Arnold would be alert to these possibilities, and would be able to argue, against William Bennett and Dinesh D’Souza, that Matthew Arnold amounts to more than the cliche, “the best that has been thought and said in the world.” Such a deconstructive reading would be of more practical use in the academy at the present time than Spanos’s wholly negative destruction.

     

    Spanos’s extensive reliance on Heidegger raises a political question that he doesn’t adequately face. The humanists are lambasted for every ethnocentricity that they committed; Babbitt, perhaps not without justification, is described as having embodied “a totalitarian ideology” (84). But the book is defensive and evasive on the topic of Heidegger’s political commitments. Spanos seems to think he can testily dismiss those who bring up this matter as enemies of posthumanism, and his treatment of the topic consists mainly in referring readers to an article he has published elsewhere. But the problem remains: Heidegger’s ontological critique, when translated into the political sphere, led him to espouse Nazi ideology. If Heidegger is to be praised as the thinker who effected the definitive radical break with humanism, surely the question of his politics should be faced directly in this book.

     

    My final criticism is that Spanos, by his attempt to put all humanists into the same category and to break totally with the tradition of humanism, isolates himself in a posture of ultraleftist purity that cuts him off from many potential political allies, especially when, as I will note in conclusion, his practical recommendations for the practical role of an adversarial intellectual seem similar to those of the liberal pluralists he attacks. He seems ill-informed about what goes on in the everyday work of the academy, for instance, in the field of composition studies. Spanos laments the “unwarranted neglect” (202) of the work of Paulo Freire, yet in reading composition and pedagogy journals over the last few years, I have noticed few thinkers who have been so consistently cited. Spanos refers several times to the fact that the discourse of the documents comprising The Pentagon Papers was linked to the kind of discourse that first-year composition courses produce (this was Richard Ohmann’s argument); here again, however, Spanos is not up to date. For the last decade the field of composition studies has been the most vigorous site of the kind of oppositional practices The End of Education recommends. The academy, in short, is more diverse, more complex, more genuinely full of difference than Spanos allows, and it is precisely that difference that neoconservatives want to erase.

     

    By seeking to separate out only the pure (posthumanist) believers, Spanos seems to me to ensure his self-marginalization. For example, several times he includes pluralists like Wayne Booth and even Gerald Graff in lists of “humanists” that include William Bennett, Roger Kimball and Dinesh D’Souza. Of course, there is a polemical purpose to this, but it is one that is counterproductive. In fact, I would even question the validity of calling shoddy and often inaccurate journalists like Kimball and D’Souza with the title “humanist intellectuals.” Henry Louis Gates’s final chapter contains some cogent criticism of the kind of position which Spanos has taken. Gates argues that the “hard” left’s opposition to liberalism is as mistaken as its opposition to conservatism, and refers to Cornel West’s remarks about the field of critical legal studies, “If you don’t build on liberalism, you build on air” (187). Building on air seems to me precisely what Spanos is recommending. Gates, on the other hand, criticizes “those massively totalizing theories that marginalize practical political action as a jejune indulgence” (192), and endorses a coalition of liberalism and the left.

     

    The irony is that in the last chapter, when he seeks to provide some suggestions for oppositional practice, Spanos can only recommend strategies which are already common in the academy, especially in women’s studies and composition. He praises the pedagogical theory of Paulo Freire, which as I have noted is hardly an original move; he recommends opposition to the structures of the disciplines, and oppositional practices within the curriculum. But again, many liberal as well as left academics are already teaching “against the grain,” enlarging the canon and experimenting with new methods of teaching. I have been teaching full-time for five years now, and the texts my younger colleagues and I teach, and the way we teach them, constitute something radically different from the course of studies during my own undergraduate and even graduate career. Women’s studies, which is not mentioned much in The End of Education, has provided a great deal of exciting interdisciplinary work. Gates’s book shows in detail how African-American studies has constituted not only an oppositional discourse, but one that has started to reconfigure the dominant discourse of American studies.

     

    Thus Spanos seems to me to present, in the end, an unnecessarily bleak picture. It was surely the very success of some of the practices he advocates which precipitated the “anti-PC” backlash. The problem the cultural left faces is that books from the right have been hugely successful in the marketplace, with Camille Paglia as the latest star. But the vitality, scholarly depth, and careful argument that characterizes the books reviewed here show that the intellectual initiative remains with the left. These qualities also refute the wild allegations that have been made against current work in the humanities. Collectively, Graff, Gates, and Spanos suggest a way of moving beyond the culture wars, and I particularly recommend Gates’s final chapter as a careful and pragmatic analysis of the possible course of the humanities for the rest of this decade.

     

  • Comrade Gramsci’s Progeny

    Tim Watson

    Columbia University
    tw22@cunixb.cc.columbia.edu

     

    Gramsci, Antonio. Prison Notebooks. Volume 1. Ed. Joseph Buttigieg. Trans. Buttigieg and Antonio Callari. New York: Columbia University Press, 1992.

     

    Harris, David. From Class Struggle to the Politics of Pleasure: The Effects of Gramscianism on Cultural Studies. New York: Routledge, 1992.

     

    Holub, Renate. Antonio Gramsci: Beyond Marxism and Postmodernism. New York: Routledge, 1992.

     

    No self-respecting piece of work on Antonio Gramsci can fail to mention his famous letter of March 19, 1927 to his sister-in-law Tatiana Schucht, in which he announces his desire to “accomplish something fur ewig [for eternity]” Letters 79). If Gramsci had been able to peer into the future and see the kind of work being carried out in his name in the Anglo-American academy over sixty years later, one wonders whether he wouldn’t have had second thoughts about that phrase.

     

    Although Gramsci thought that cultural change tended to take place gradually rather than through “explosions” Prison Notebooks 129), it is hard to imagine what other word to use when surveying the proliferation of material around the figure of Gramsci in the last few years. From so-called “radical democracy” to subaltern studies to cultural studies, Gramsci’s name is evoked, his writings are endlessly analyzed, his legacy is contested (see, for example, Laclau and Mouffe; Golding; Chatterjee; Hall, Hard Road; Grossberg, Nelson and Treichler). The sheer volume of work, and its engagement across a wide range of fields and disciplines in the humanities and social sciences, are no doubt testimony to the enduring relevance of Gramsci’s insights; they also suggest, however, that there is now a Gramsci industry–that within the academic market Gramsci represents significant currency, and writers (and publishers) are cashing in.

     

    Given the institutional politics and economics governing the contemporary academy, these two observations (Gramsci as theoretical model, Gramsci as cultural capital) are inseparable; in this respect Gramsci is no different from other leading (dirigente, to use Gramsci’s own terminology) theorists: Derrida, Foucault, Habermas, and the rest. Attempts to isolate and distill the essence of the “real” Gramsci (that which transcends the brash commercialism of the academic marketplace) can never be innocent or disinterested. Indeed, to dismiss the institutional economy within which one operates serves only to consolidate its regulatory mechanisms, its hegemony (so to speak). What follows is an attempt to address not the question “Who or what is the real Gramsci?” but rather the question “Why and in what ways have Gramsci’s writings enabled and generated so much intellectual work, insightful and mediocre?” Such a question is itself, of course, partly an effect of the Gramsci industry.

     

    The subtitle to Renate Holub’s book, Antonio Gramsci: Beyond Marxism and Postmodernism (in the Routledge “Critics of the Twentieth Century” series), indicates some of the reasons why Gramsci has so much political and cultural purchase in the contemporary academy. It also reveals some of the ideological choices involved in the business of reading Gramsci: the book would undoubtedly not have made it this far if it had been called “Antonio Gramsci: Dead Sardinian Communist Militant,” for instance. If we unpack some of the assumptions behind Holub’s title we will find that Gramsci can be mobilized to the extent that he seems to offer political solutions to the predicament of postmodernism (figured as decentering, arbitrary, “merely” discursive), while at the same time appearing to surpass vulgar Marxist economism and historicism. To put it crudely, he is sufficiently Marxist to challenge postmodernism, and sufficiently postmodernist to combat Marxism. Shuttling between the two, the Gramscian writer enjoys great flexibility and space for critique, innoculated against the “worst excesses” of both systems of thought; the question remains, however, whether, in this “interregnum,” Gramsci can be used in this way without “a great variety of morbid symptoms appear[ing]” (Gramsci, Selections 276).

     

    Gramsci and “Us”

     

    Holub’s book is another “Introduction to Gramsci,” and as such, in an already crowded field, it has to differentiate itself and be seen to be offering something new and creative. Thus, she proposes to study Gramsci in the “context of literary criticism, and in the context of Marxist aesthetics” (7). “Until recently,” she observes, “the Gramscian critical community showed little interest in his literary critiques and his aesthetics” (4). In this way Holub carves out a space for herself in the contest over “a text [the Prison Notebooks] held zealously captive by the knights of the Gramscian Grail” (38). These knights (who are not identified) have thus far insisted on “emphasiz[ing] his place in the history of Western Marxism, [and] examin[ing] his conceptual apparatus in the context of political and social theory” (20); Holub prefers instead to build on the pioneering work of Giuliano Manacorda, who reads Gramsci as “speaking of the literary conditions of political possibility, correcting the image of a political Gramsci in favour of a Gramsci whose literary, aesthetic and linguistic interests give shape and form to his political interests” (38).

     

    I do not mean to imply that such a reading of Gramsci is necessarily illegitimate; literary and culturalist readings of Gramsci are possible because there is evidence for them in his writings. (To cite a passage which Holub does not mention: “Every new civilization, as such … has always expressed itself in literary form before expressing itself in the life of the state. Indeed its literary expression has been the means with which it has created the intellectual and moral conditions for its expression in the legislature and the state” [Gramsci Cultural Writings, 117].) I am not interested in “correcting” the image of Gramsci which Holub propagates–even if one may question why, if “primarily he was a militant, [and] a critical and pragmatic one, to boot” (39)–she seems so irritated by those who choose to engage with Gramsci on that terrain. My concern here, rather, is how Gramsci works to legitimate a political project in Holub’s text, and the way in which, as the book progresses, the figure of Gramsci comes to be evacuated of almost all substance, so that “Gramsci” becomes a kind of cipher, merely a vehicle for addressing a contemporary crisis.

     

    If Holub had stuck to the analysis of Gramsci in relation to Frankfurt School critical theory, Benjamin, Lukacs, and Bloch which makes up the first half of the book, things might have been fine. Comparing Gramsci’s and these various theorists’ responses to modernity–rationalization, technologization, the culture industry–is an important task, and one which has for the most part not been undertaken up to now. Holub does indeed begin to demonstrate “the ways in which Gramsci’s work displays homologies with many pivotal twentieth-century ways of theorizing” (9).1

     

    But one gets the impression, reading Antonio Gramsci: Beyond Marxism and Postmodernism, that the teleology of the book dictates that these discussions are entered into primarily as a pretext to get us into the present. Gramsci as modernist is interesting precisely to the extent that he can also be characterized as a postmodernist avant la lettre, as it were: “To deal with Gramsci, loosely, in the context of Frankfurt School critical theory, in the context of modernism, is apposite. It helps to examine the contours of Gramsci’s non-modernism as well, the ways in which he goes beyond modernism, and the possible applicability of some of his terms for a postmodern agenda” (14).

     

    Thus there are multiple references to Gramsci’s “anticipatory sensibility to very complex cultural and social transformations” (10), or to the way in which “he begins to problematize, long before Edward Said and contemporary theories of progressive anthropology, the predominant Eurocentricity in disciplines and knowledge” (15). In his emphasis on “the materiality of language” Gramsci “surpasses the modernism of the Frankfurt School and aligns himself with or anticipates theoretical concerns which should become prominent in the second half of the twentieth century” (116); Gramsci’s linguistic theory represents “an advance over Volosinov’s” because it “anticipates a theoretical model” which can deal with “gender, race and geography rather than merely with class” (140).

     

    The problem for Holub, however, is that these claims for Gramsci’s predictive capacity become increasingly removed from Gramsci’s writings themselves–unsurprisingly, perhaps, given their rootedness in 1920s and 30s Italian political culture. Hence the tortuous prose in the following passage, in which the reader is called on precisely to “reconstruct” Gramsci’s work in order to bring him up to date: “There are . . . some elements in his reading of Dante that lend themselves, due to their semiological and structuralist components, to reconstructing a version of Gramsci’s theory of the subject which brings him into the vicinity of other major twentieth century critics [here she mentions Merleau-Ponty, Volosinov, Barthes]” (119). At a certain point, Holub ceases to rely on the substance of Gramsci’s thought almost entirely, turning him into a methodological rather than a political model:

     

    What we, living in a western nation-state at the end of the twentieth century, can adopt from Gramsci, I think, is not so much the results of his analysis, culminating in his particular theory of the intellectual. What we can examine are his ways of viewing and doing analysis, and amend or transform them for the political needs of our time.(171)

     

    “We” Westerners emerge as a collectivity at this moment in the book, in contrast to the people of “Central and South America,” whose “socio-political and economic constellations . . . are at this point to some extent not dissimilar to those of Italy in the first few decades of this century,” and who thus can potentially make use of the substance of Gramsci’s work (171). We do theory, they do politics.2 The “non- western world” remains undifferentiated and apparently unknowable for Holub (even the reference to Latin America has no specificity); its role is to provide the grounds for auto-critique, and thus for identity, for “us” (the first person plural is insistently present in the final pages of Holub’s text): “Our resistance to power, our critical thinking, must take into account our relation, as western intellectuals, to the non-western developing world, our position, that is, as producers and disseminators of knowledge, and meaning” (182).

     

    It is undoubtedly the case that Western intellectuals need to be more attentive to their positionality and privilege vis-a-vis the Third World, and it is perhaps appropriate that a reading of Gramsci should stimulate such reflections, given his emphasis on uneven development, both within the European nation-state and through the operations of imperialism. The suspicion remains, however, that even as the locus of resistance shifts to the periphery, the Western intellectual retains for himself or herself the role of understanding, judging and representing that resistance.

     

    Perhaps it is proper for us, as critical intellectuals and arbiters of hope, and stationed in the intellectual power apparatuses of the west, to seek out these impulses for democratic change, to receive the messages that meet us from these [`developing'] worlds, and translate them, by way of our theoretical tools, for ours.(189-90)

     

    Such a position cannot avoid producing the “developing world” as raw material for the consolidation of “our” Western subjectivity; or, as Holub herself puts it, “the necessity of the `inferior other’ in the structuration of identity” (15). Thus Gramsci, stretched almost to the vanishing point by the end of this book, can be mobilized to legitimate the continuation of intellectual and political work in the Western academy, at a time when it is perceived to be under threat. Holub’s intervention, via the figure of Gramsci, can be read as an attempt to shore up the precarious but nonetheless powerful position of Western intellectuals “as mediators between the needs and desires of developing cultures, and the mandarins of our establishments” (189).

     

    Gramsci and Cultural Studies

     

    If such a reading of Holub’s work seems uncharitable, then I must have been infected by the deep cynicism underlying David Harris’s survey of British cultural studies, From Class Struggle to the Politics of Pleasure: The Effects of Gramscianism on Cultural Studies. These effects, according to Harris, have been mostly deleterious; the energy of the “early rebellion” of British Gramscians has been “institutionalised and acedemicised” since then, so that the impetus for most current work in the field comes from the need to “found a research programme or school or centre, to engage in a little academic politics” (15). Thus, while Stuart Hall (or, rather, “the ubiquitous Stuart Hall” [xv]) argues that the work of the Birmingham Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies (CCCS) demonstrated “heterodoxy and openness,” Harris contends that “beneath this pluralism lies a deeper conformity to a continuing project–the development and defence of gramscianism” (7), and that

     

    this tendency is linked to the academic context of the production of these works: briefly, it is conventional in academic writing to conduct a debate with rivals before allowing the chosen theorist to emerge as the person most likely to synthesise the offerings, make sense of the debates, or offer some suitably pleasurable resolution and closure. This underlying narrative structure . . . might be called `academic realism.'(8)

     

    Harris promises to share with us readers the “tricks of the trade” in this academic game (2), as he demonstrates to us the unity and continuity underlying “the specific twists and turns of the debates” within British cultural studies (8). If this is a survey work, intended primarily as a teaching tool (“I am especially interested in the student audience” [3]), then it is at least up front about its non-neutrality in the face of its subject matter. There is little doubt in Harris’s mind that in the trajectory charted by his title, the British Gramscians have taken part in a “demoralised flight from serious politics” (190) into the coziness of academic tenure and complacency.

     

    Such cynicism is by no means entirely misplaced– although one might wonder at its motivation; given the hegemony currently enjoyed by “British cultural studies,” there is no doubt notoriety to be gained by attacking it. CCCS’s work in the seventies and early eighties did indeed demonstrate “the astonishing tendency for the figure of Gramsci to keep coming to the fore, as a leading theorist and guide, as a source of specific pieces or concepts which guide analysis, or less specifically as a kind of model of good practice, able always to `teach a lesson’, keep the faith, and see off rivals” (7-8). Later on, what Harris calls “gramscianism” certainly did seem to offer, as I suggested above, “a kind of `middle ground’ between fully floating discursive politics and more orthodox class politics” (45). Or, as the ubiquitous Stuart Hall put it, in the discussion period following his paper “The Toad in the Garden”: “Gramsci is where I stopped in the headlong rush into structuralism and theoreticism. At a certain point I stumbled over Gramsci, and I said, `Here and no further!’” (Hall “Discussion,” 69).3

     

    But while academic and institutional pressures are undoubtedly a major factor in the reproduction and dissemination of any theoretical or political movement, such a movement is never reducible to those pressures. At times, Harris’s book ceases to be a sustained critique of a critical tradition, and drifts into academic point-scoring. Harris focuses on the ways in which Gramsci has served as a bulwark against threatening theoretical tendencies; what he fails to acknowledge is that such defensiveness does not preclude (indeed it may have actually facilitated) the production of important intellectual work. As an example, let me focus briefly on Harris’s reading of Policing the Crisis (96-104).

     

    Harris recognizes the complexity and openness of the now classic 1978 study of the ways in which “moral panics” about crime serve to consolidate hegemonic state power: “there seems to be no stage-managed `discovery’ here [in Policing], at least, no premature reduction of the `complex unity’ to some easy slogan about hegemony” (102). However, this very complexity constitutes a problem for Harris: “the piece can look like a conventionally `balanced’ academic piece, riddled with cautious qualifications and reservations” (102).4 Some readers may recognize a trick of the trade in operation here in Harris’s text, viz. “a common academic desire to want it both ways” (102). Harris is suspicious of the authors of Policing when they claim to have “just moved, under the pressure of their own argument, from one level of analysis to the other as their discoveries unfolded,” arguing instead that “the authors had known for some while where they were going” (103); so does this mean that there is a stage-managed discovery after all?

     

    While it is true that Harris could hardly be expected to “do justice” to a densely argued and expansive 400-page book in a short summary, nevertheless I think that Harris is enacting his own kind of closure when he argues that, of the possible audiences for Policing the Crisis, “it seems that `academics’ have received the most attention: all those asides and interventions in debates between different authors (and all those careful qualifications and reservations) are for them” (98). This is too easy a dismissal of a complex text–the mobilization of the idea of “academic realism,” if pushed far enough, can cease to be a revealing insight into the strategies which produce a discursive formation, and can become instead an alibi for failing to engage with the substance of that discourse.

     

    We should be thankful to Harris for sharing his inside knowledge of the constraints and conventions of “academic realism,” not least because it will allow his student audience to decode his own strategies. Although “gramscianism” makes some sense as a concept in the context of British cultural studies through the mid-eighties, as the field has become more dispersed and contested (and as the prominence of Gramsci himself as a theorist has waned–the only field in which that could be said to be happening– “Largely . . . Gramsci now exists as a kind of source for handy and stylish quotes, phrases or metaphors” [191]), it makes less and less sense to talk of “gramscianism.” The question arises, then, to what extent the term functions primarily within the economy of Harris’s own text in order to hold his academic realist narrative together, particularly when it can encompass such writers as “[Robert] Hewison [who] is not a gramscian or a semiotician, in so far as it is possible to tell from his books, but . . . is clearly an informed critic, and, with the aid of a few specific concepts and a parachute for them, . . . could become a full gramscian should he so desire” (158). The wit and acerbity here will doubtless endear Harris to his student audience, but in the end one fears that it will encourage the dismissal of what, after all, is “one of the few critical traditions British academic life possesses” (6).

     

    Gramsci’s Corpus

     

    When it comes to writing about Gramsci, the academic realism which Harris anatomizes is almost always supplemented with a dose of tragic melodrama. Gramsci’s premature death in the Quisisana clinic in Rome in 1937, when he was finally freed from his prison sentence but physically incapable of leaving the prison hospital; his heroic struggle to defy the words of the chief prosecutor at his trial–“we must stop this brain from functioning for twenty years”–by writing his prison notebooks, battling ill health and the inevitable lack of resources while incarcerated: among the ranks of Marxist martyrs only Rosa Luxemburg comes close to Antonio Gramsci.

     

    Gramsci’s biography, however, does not merely add that all-important romantic frisson to an otherwise dry academic discourse. His early death means that the body of his later work–the prison notebooks–remains unfinished, sketchy, provisional, and must therefore be actively reconstructed in the process of reading. The usual give and take of scholarly interpretation becomes, in the context of Gramsci studies, an unusually intense tussle over the Gramsci corpus. Gramsci died intestate, as it were; his legacy–the body of his writings–has been contested, sometimes bitterly, ever since.

     

    The publication, finally, of a definitive English translation of the full text of the prison notebooks will not lay this conflict to rest. In the introduction to the first volume of what will eventually be a five or six volume edition of Gramsci’s prison writings, the editor, Joseph Buttigieg, himself acknowledges this fact:

     

    The Gramscian editor, scholar, or commentator, then, feels compelled . . . to stitch [the pieces of Gramsci's text] together. Sometimes this operation of reconstruction is carried out responsibly, that is, with a critical awareness of its limitations. At other times, however, this operation is carried out with the misguided belief that one can actually reconstruct not just Gramsci's thought but Gramsci himself. . . . It would be futile to think that one can put an end to this game. Even the most conscientiously accurate and complete reproduction of Gramsci's manuscript will not settle the polemics, or still the urge to reconstruct the `true' Gramsci."(62-63)

     

    However, English-speaking readers will now have a much better grasp of the sheer volume of material which must be sifted through in order to produce the nuggets of Gramscian gold with which we are all so familiar: hegemony, state and civil society, war of maneuver and war of position, passive revolution, the organic intellectual.

     

    This new translation is based on the standard Italian edition of the Quaderni del carcere edited by Valentino Gerratana, except that the meticulously detailed textual apparatus appears in the same volume as the relevant text, rather than being reserved for a separate, final volume. A pedant would bemoan a number of typos and other proofreading errors which sit badly with the scholarliness of the enterprise; nevertheless, readers can only be grateful to Buttigieg and Columbia University Press (who are also publishing a complete English edition of Gramsci’s prison letters) for their endeavors.

     

    The Buttigieg edition will not supplant the previous translated selections from Gramsci’s prison writings Selections, Cultural Writings), if only because its price and bulk will preclude its use as a teaching text for the most part. However, Buttigieg is right to say that its appeal will not be limited “only to the most scrupulous readers and assiduous researchers” (xix). Even a cursory reading of the “recondite materials” (xix) of Gramsci’s first two notebooks (translated in this volume) will provide the necessary innoculation against the worst excesses of the Gramsci industry: both the tendency to smooth out Gramsci’s writings in the search for a coherent philosophy, and the tendency to treat Gramsci’s text as so disjunctive as to be open to almost any interpretation.

     

    The publication of this new translation would not have been possible without the support of a large Italian bank (whose generosity makes a pointed contrast with the “modest” assistance Buttigieg received from the NEH [xxi]). But the whole project is also clearly an effect of the Gramsci industry. A positive effect, and one for which we can be grateful–even if it means another decade of dubious “gramscianisms” and another generation of scholars claiming to be Gramsci’s postmodern heirs.

     

    Notes

     

    1. Both Holub and Harris make the point that theorists who write about Gramsci, or use his work, have consistently foreclosed or even dismissed critical theory (see Harris 15-16). Although I do not have the space to do more than gesture at a possible new direction here, I think a fruitful place to start might be a discussion of the issues raised by the striking similarity in imagery of Gramsci’s reference to Italian poet Alfieri having his servants tie him to his chair (so that he would have the self-discipline to work Prison Notebooks 236]), and Adorno and Horkheimer’s reference to Odysseus having himself tied to the mast (so that he might have pleasure from the Sirens’ song) while stopping the ears of his sailors, so that they could continue to labor for him (Adorno and Horkheimer 58-60).

     

    2. Although a discussion of Laclau and Mouffe is beyond the scope of this paper, I would contend that a structurally similar argument fatally disables Hegemony and Socialist Strategy. In the section “Equivalence and Difference,” they locate the logic of equivalence in the Third World, where “imperialist exploitation and the predominance of brutal and centralized forms of domination” produce “the division of the political space into [only] two fields” (131); they call this the realm of the “popular,” which they set against the “democratic,” associated with “advanced industrial societies” characterized by complexity and the logic of difference (130). Thus a surreptitious hierarchical account emerges, in which the Third World is parasitic on the West, the site of “hegemony”: “It is clear that the fundamental concept is that of `democratic struggle,’ and that popular struggles are merely specific conjunctures” (137).

     

    3. On Stuart Hall’s use of Gramsci, in the context of Gramsci’s reception in Britain more generally, see David Forgacs, “Gramsci and Marxism in Britain,” New Left Review 176 (July- August 1989): 83-84.

     

    4. The authors themselves, by contrast, worry in their introduction that “academics will find it Policing] too unbalanced, too committed” Policing ix).

    Works Cited

     

    • Adorno, Theodor W. and Max Horkheimer. Dialectic of Enlightenment. Trans. John Cumming. New York: Continuum, 1991.
    • Chatterjee, Partha. Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse?. London: Zed, 1985.
    • Golding, Sue. Gramsci’s Democratic Theory: Contributions to a Post-Liberal Democracy. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1992.
    • Gramsci, Antonio. Selections from the Prison Notebooks. Ed. & trans. Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. New York: International Publishers, 1971.
    • Gramsci, Antonio. Selections from Cultural Writings. Ed. David Forgacs and Geoffrey Nowell Smith, Trans. William Beolhower. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1985.
    • Gramsci, Antonio. Letters from Prison. Ed. & trans. Lynne Lawner. New York: Noonday, 1989.
    • Grossberg, Lawrence, Cary Nelson, Paula Treichler, eds. Cultural Studies. London and New York: Routledge, 1992.
    • Hall, Stuart. The Hard Road to Renewal: Thatcherism and the Crisis of the Left. London and New York: Verso, 1988.
    • Hall, Stuart. “Discussion: The Toad in the Garden: Thatcherism among the Theorists.” Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture. Ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1988.
    • Hall, Stuart, Chas Critcher, Tony Jefferson, John Clarke, Brian Roberts. Policing the Crisis: Mugging, the State, and Law and Order. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1978
    • Laclau, Ernesto and Chantal Mouffe. Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics. London and New York: Verso, 1985.

     

  • Can You Go Home Again? A Budapest Diary 1993

    Susan Suleiman

    Dept. of Romance Languages and Comparative Literature
    Harvard University

     

    Introductory Note:

     

    The excerpts that follow are from a diary I have been keeping since early February [1993], when I began a six- month residency at the Collegium Budapest, a new Institute for Advanced Study modeled on those in Berlin and Princeton. When I was invited last year to come to Budapest during this inaugural year of the Collegium, I accepted immediately. Besides the usual luxuries of such a Fellowship period, the invitation offered me what I thought of as a near- providential opportunity to continue the autobiographical project I had started some years back, and which was assuming increasing urgency.

     

    I left Hungary with my parents in the summer of 1949, and rarely thought of it again until thirty-five years later, when I decided to return as a tourist with my two sons, then aged 14 and 7. That return triggered a desire to reconnect with my childhood and native city, a desire that took the form of writing. I published two short pieces I occasionally allude to in the diary (“My War in Four Episodes,” Agni, 33, 1991; “Reading in Tongues,” Boston Review, May-August 1992). Then, as a preparation for my current trip, I wrote a longer memoir, still unpublished, about the 1984 return and the memories it brought back. The decision to write the diary did not crystallize until after I arrived here–I simply found myself writing on my computer, sometimes for hours, at other times for a few minutes, from the first day on. After a while, I realized that I was writing “for a public” as well as for myself, and the project of a published diary began to take shape. Since these excerpts have had to be radically excised from a much longer text that is still in process, I decided to limit my selections to a few themes, chief among them the current resurgence of nationalism and anti-Semitism in Hungary (as in Eastern Europe in general), and, not unrelated to the first, my personal history. Out of a desire to protect the privacy of people I mention, I have used only first names or initials, which are not necessarily factual. In the case of public figures, I cite their full real name. I have tried to keep the writing very close to that of the first draft, but have not resisted making occasional stylistic changes. The order and tenor of the entries have not been modified. Some of the major cuts are indicated by suspension points in brackets.

     

    A few Hungarian words: utca means street, ut means avenue, ter means square (like “place” in French), korut is a round avenue, korter or korond a round “square,” villamos means tramway. Hungarian names are cited last name first, given name second. Hungarian vowels have a variety of diacritical marks, but they cannot be reproduced in this electronic publication.

     

    I would be interested in readers’ responses to this work. Please send them to Postmodern Culture, which will forward them to me.

     

    Wednesday, February 3

     

    My apartment is the whole top floor of a three-story building, very big and nice.

     

    […] I didn’t want to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, so after taking a hot bath and changing clothes, I went to the Collegium. I walked part of the way, down toward the Gellert Hotel on Bartok Bela ut, a wide, busy avenue lined with shops. I stopped at one to buy a toothbrush and some paper handkerchiefs. It felt strange to be speaking Hungarian to the young woman in the store. I thought I was speaking badly, like a foreigner. After walking a while longer I took a taxi, which cost 240 Forints–just under three dollars.

     

    The Collegium occupies a historical monument, an 18th- century building, newly renovated, in what is surely one of the most beautiful spots in Budapest–on Castle Hill above the Danube, across the square from the Matyas Church. The Church and square look positively dreamlike when they are lit up in the evening. My first sight of them was that way, for it was dark by the time I got there.

     

    Friday, February 5

     

    Had a chat with the downstairs neighbor this morning, a woman of about 65. She and her husband have been living in this house for over thirty years. It was a state-owned building, but three years ago the tenants were given the option to buy their apartments. The couple who own mine bought two–this one and a smaller one on the ground floor, where they now live. They spent several years abroad, which may account for the fancy electronic equipment in my apartment. Everybody had their place redone inside, but they have no money left to repair the outside, which still bears the marks of World War II. The front was just one street over, she said: Germans on one side, Russians on the other. The pockmarks on our facade are due to flying shrapnel. It looks very bad, but would cost too much to repair. There are six apartments in the building. Theirs was divided, that’s why it’s smaller than mine.

     

    Shall I go back again to Akacfa utca and climb again the three flights of stairs to our old apartment, now divided? Maybe the couple who lived there nine years ago no longer lives there, or maybe they have bought the place and had it redone.

     

    After lunch at the Collegium I took a taxi to the home of B., one of the editors of a recently founded monthly journal, whose name was on my list of people to call. He had told me on the telephone yesterday that he lived in an old-style building with a balcony surrounding the courtyard, and asked whether I was afraid of heights. No I wasn’t, I assured him–and a good thing, too, because really his balcony is very narrow and from the third floor where he lives one has a plunging view. The building reminded me of Akacfa utca, but it was less nice–narrow balcony, no wrought iron, a smallish courtyard full of parked cars.

     

    The man who opened the door was tall, around 50, pleasant face, almost bald and what hair he had, white. The apartment’s clutter matched the exterior mess. He invited me into the tiny kitchen while he made coffee. He has a very charming, informal manner and a boyish air which I suspect he cultivates, as if he didn’t want to flaunt his authority or power–or perhaps as if he didn’t want completely to grow up. After the coffee was made, he invited me into his study, a large pleasant room lined with books which we reached by crossing a small bathroom. His computer was still on, and he showed me the database he has been working on for the past fifteen years, just finished: a complete repertoire, in French, of Hungarian poetry written before 1600. A true work of erudition, which somehow didn’t fit in my mind with his image as an editor of a chic journal. But B. turned out to be a man of many interests and talents (“Je n’ai pas un violon d’Ingres, j’ai un orchestre d’Ingres,” he joked at one point), and we spent a pleasant few hours talking about everything from opera to French structuralism, with which he feels a great affinity. At first we spoke Hungarian, but when things got really interesting we settled into French, which he speaks very well with a heavy Hungarian accent.

     

    I asked him about the journal. “Well, I think you have great areas of empathy in you, but you simply cannot imagine what it was like to be an intellectual here around 1987-88. Suddenly, everything seemed possible. I had purposely chosen to specialize in literature before 1600, just to make sure I would never have to write anything about politics. Under the communist regime, that was the only way I felt I could survive. But then, when things began to change, I felt I could and should take an active role.” So he and some friends founded the journal, in the very room where we were sitting–and he didn’t even have a telephone at the time!

     

    After looking at the “Contents” of Subversive Intent, which I had xeroxed for him (the book is on its way), he asked: “Are you close to feminism?” Yes, I answered. He smiled broadly: “I wrote one of the first feminist articles in Hungary–about a 16th-century poet, the first Hungarian woman poet, who wasn’t mentioned in any of the official literary histories.” But now, he no longer considers himself a feminist because all the ones he knows are too angry. He likes women, but not feminism. Are there any women on the editorial board of the journal? I asked. (I knew full well there aren’t any, I had read the masthead.) No, he answered. There are too many “fistfights” (bagarres) among the editors, and in a woman’s presence they might not turn out the same way. Some men become too wildly competitive if a woman is present, as if to prove themselves to her. What did I think about that? That it’s very hard for men to think of women as equals, I answered.

     

    He gave me his latest book–about three kinds of readers, all of them “played” by himself. As he was telling me about his three readers I couldn’t help thinking of the four sons at the Seder, especially since he had mentioned a short while before that both of his paternal grandparents were Jewish. He said neither he nor his father thought of themselves as Jews, though of course, at the first sign of anti-Semitism, he identifies himself as one. He inscribed his book, in Hungarian, “To Zsuzsa, with much affection–B. the feminist.” I gave him some of my essays. The visit lasted more than four hours.

     

    Saturday, February 6

     

    Spent the afternoon in my office, reading final papers for my “War and Memory” seminar. The first one I read was K.’s interview with her father, about the last year of the war he spent in Budapest. He is three years older than I, so he was eight years old in the harsh winter of 1944-45 when all the fighting was going on. Many parallels between our stories, including the fact that all of his immediate family survived. K. writes that she has always known her father was a Holocaust survivor, and he told her many stories when she was a child. The stories were always doctored, or as she put it “filtered,” in such a way that they were tales of good luck and triumph, not of fear or anxiety. It was only now, in this formal interview, that her father, with her prompting, spoke about his fears.

     

    Reading her essay, I wondered why I never told such stories to my children–why, in all innocence or thoughtlessness, I never considered myself as a survivor all these years. I finally decided it had something to do with the fact that I left Hungary in 1949, not 1956 like K.’s father. He was 20, he has an unmistakable accent when he speaks English–there was no “forgetting” his past. I, on the other hand, looked and spoke like many other smart middle-class American Jewish girls by the time I graduated from high school. So I could easily pass, “forget” where I came from or consider it irrelevant, and want other people to consider it that too.

     

    The funny thing is, these days I am irritated when I discover that someone I know thinks of me as “just another American,” or even an American Jew. The other night, at the dinner for Ruth Wisse in Cambridge, D. expressed surprise when I told her I was born in Budapest. So I immediately sent her my two memoirs, as soon as I left the dinner!

     

    Two days ago I bought Magyar Forum, the weekly newspaper of the ruling Magyar Demokrata Forum–or more exactly, of the party’s far-right wing, led by Csurka Istvan. I finally read it this morning. Csurka’s column is on page 2–a piece extolling the Hungarian people (Magyar nep), the “silent majority” against the political “elite.” Since the column starts out by talking about a former head of the National Bank who seems to have been mixed up in some scandal and who “has an Israeli passport,” I think “elite” may be a code word for Jews, or groups that include a lot of Jews.

     

    A pretty piece of populist rhetoric, on the whole. I imagine it’s the kind of thing that the grocery store lady of this morning whom I overheard complaining about the price of life might find comforting. But maybe I am jumping to conclusions about the poor lady. At any rate, Csurka is not a nice man. His name should be Csunya, for he stirs up ugly feelings (csunya means ugly).

     

    Monday, February 8

     

    Last night all the Fellows were invited by the Rector to a concert at the Kongresszus hall, a kind of Convention hall that also serves as a concert hall. Our host, V., was most affable, and also invited us to dinner at a small restaurant not far from the Collegium. We had a wonderful time, talking about frivolities, but also after a while about Csurka and the reasons for the resurgence of nationalism in Central Europe. V. enumerated the usual political reaons: a reaction to the internationalism of the Communist regimes, economic and social inequalities that cause resentment (but B. had told me that it was under Communism one saw the greatest and most unfair inequalities), and generally the recession. But that still doesn’t explain the deep psychological attraction of nationalism and xenophobia in these parts. We agreed that this was an important subject of discussion for the Collegium.

     

    Things noticed: People can be awfully touchy in stores around here. Last Wednesday, on my first day here, I stopped to buy some shampoo in a small store on Bartok Bela ut, which was quite crowded with customers. A young woman near the cash register was surveying the clients, and at one point she said to a woman: “Don’t handle the merchandise too much.” The woman got terribly upset, and stalked out of the store without buying anything: “You’re too disrespectful (pimasz), so I won’t buy from you,” she said in a huff. Similar scene the next day, at the flower vendor stall on the corner of Bartok Bela and Bocskai. The old lady told a young woman not to handle the flowers, and the young woman went away saying, “Then I won’t buy any.” Finally, a similar scene at the concert at the French Institute on Saturday night. During intermission, many people were swarming around the bar ordering coffee, tea, or other drinks. A young man calls out to the waitress: “One coffee, please.” His friend, another young guy, adds: “Some cream,” and then “A milk.” The waitress thought he was ordering a glass of milk, which was a little bit strange for that time of night for a young adult. She was about to give it to him when he said, very rudely, “Didn’t you understand I was asking for milk in my coffee?” She said: “But you didn’t say that, you didn’t say ‘a coffee with milk.’” He then replied: “Well, you heard me ask for cream, didn’t you? What did you think I wanted to do with it, pour it behind my ear?” At that point she got very angry and threw his change at him on the counter. He grumbled, “You don’t have to throw things at me, madam.”

     

    The whole scene was imbued with a degree of aggression I found quite astonishing, directed largely by the young man at the young woman. In the other scenes, it was two women who were involved each time, so it’s not a gender issue (though in this instance I think there was some gender tension as well). One thing all this shows, I guess, is that Hungarians have easily bruisable egos; another, perhaps, is that under the new democratic regime, they won’t “let themselves be pushed around anymore”; or, finally, that they’re feeling generally anxious, especially about things related to money.

     

    Tuesday, February 9

     

    Very interesting TV program, this evening–the first of two films on what appears to be the political history of Hungary from the 1930s to 1956 (I came in late, so I didn’t see the beginning). Tonight’s installment stopped in 1949. It’s based entirely on interviews with men who were involved in politics, non-Communists of course. The three this evening were Nyeste Zoltan, who was a leader of the Kisgazdasag (Smallholders) Party after the war–for a while, part of a democratic coalition with the Communists; Fabry Pal, a journalist and diplomat who stayed out of Hungary after 1949; and someone whose name I’m not sure of, who was a chemist and then an opera singer. They all talked about the war–by 1944, when the Germans occupied Hungary, it was time to resist. Nyeste, a big bearded fellow, had a good story: he and some other students composed a text protesting the German occupation (March 1944), and their plan was to have it made up in posters and post it all over the city. The plan was never realized because the young man carrying the text to the printer was arrested by the Hungarian secret police. But nobody got hurt or even thrown in prison, because the police chief found out that not a single Communist or a single Jew had been among the plotters. “You understand, the myth was that only Communists and Jews were resisting Hitler–no authentic Hungarian would dream of such a thing. So, they preferred to hush up the whole affair rather than have to admit the truth.” And he gave a big laugh.

     

    After the war, all these men were involved in a democratic alliance, and their story is essentially the story of how Rakosi and the Communists succeeded in taking over the country. There was some very interesting footage of mass demonstrations of the time, huge crowds gathered on Hosok Tere, addressed by Rakosi and other orators. In one, around 1946, just before the elections that brought the Communists into a position of power (though not into a majority yet, if I understood right), people chanted “Long live Stalin!” and carried huge photos of him as banners floating above the crowd. I must have seen some crowds like that. The film (or this first part) ended with a bunch of children, boys and girls, dressed in their Uttoro (Young Pioneer) uniforms, white shirt, navy blue pants or skirt, string tie, singing a song about the smiling future. Reminded me of the time I recited Petofi’s poem about hanging all the kings, on Prize Day in 1949 at the end of fourth grade, my last year here. I really believed in that stuff–and so, judging by their uplifted faces, did the children who were singing that song.

     

    Wednesday, February 10

     

    Took my first villamos ride this morning–I rode from Kosztolanyi Dezso ter all the way to Deak Ferenc ter, traversing a good part of the inner city, or rather its rim formed by Muzeum korut, Karoly korut, etc.. From Deak Ferenc I went to the bank, in a small street off Jozsef Attila utca; opening an account didn’t take long, so I strolled over to Vorosmarty ter, which is truly a wonderful space–no cars allowed, and in the middle is a large statue of the poet, now wrapped in burlap to protect it from the cold. From Vorosmarty ter I walked toward the river with the intention of finding a taxi, but as none came I ended up near the Chain Bridge, on a beautiful big square with elaborate buildings facing it, and yet another statue in the middle. The square is so big and full of traffic that I didn’t cross over to see who the statue was of. Instead, I crossed the bridge. It’s quite magnificent, heavy granite and elaborate ironwork, with a superb view on both sides even today, when it was a bit hazy. Walking on the narrow passageway for pedestrians, I thought I felt some memories stirring of having crossed there as a child. But when, and with whom? Mother used to take me for walks, and so did Madame, after the war. Would we have walked this far from home? Maybe to go up to the Castle, on a Sunday afternoon.

     

    Right in front of the bridge is the Budavar siklo, the cable car to the castle. It goes up at almost a 90 degree angle, quite impressive–drops you off very close to the National Gallery and the theater, about a five minute walk from the Collegium, where I arrived tired but happy at 3:30 p.m.. I felt elated by the beauty of the city. “It really is a great capital, it really can be compared to Paris,” I told myself at various moments during the day. That thought somehow makes me feel very proud, and also in a strange way “integrated”–since Budapest turns out to be a city I can put up there with the city I find most beautiful and seductive of all, and that has been part of my mental and emotional life during all the years when Budapest was totally outside it. Finding the link of beauty is a way to connect Budapest to my whole life, the life I spent not here, which has nothing to do with here.

     

    Sunday, February 14

     

    Saw a new Hungarian movie, Roncsfilm (“Junk Movie”), which turned out to be a cross between Monty Python and the French hit of two years ago, the gross Delicatessen, “film bete et mechant.” This one was funny and postmodernly self- conscious (people speaking directly into the camera, “testifying” about the action we are in the process of seeing), but it got a bit tiresome because almost all the episodes involved some kind of violent confrontation– between men, between men and women, between women. In keeping with postmodern humor, though, no matter how badly people were beaten up or stabbed or burned, they always reappeared in the next scene perfectly fine. The idea was, I think, to show the pent-up frustration and rage in people, always there just below the surface. The film starts with the breaking down of a wall, intercut with actual footage from the taking down of the Berlin wall. But the implication is, nothing has really gotten better–the subtitle of the film is “Vagy mi van ha gyoztunk?” “Or how are things now that we’ve won?” They’re not too good, is the answer. The theater, incidentally, was full, mostly very young people. I was one of the few people above 25 there.

     

    Afterwards, I walked down Terez korut to the Oktogon, where the busiest place was the Burger King, again full of very young people. I actually went in, but when I saw that everybody was around 20, I decided to come home and make an omelette. I walked down Andrassy ut to the Opera House, very elaborate but dark (no performance tonight) and took a taxi from there. The taxi driver was extremely talkative, the first one like that I’ve met since coming to Budapest. He asked if I had seen War and Peace on the TV last night. I said no, which one was it? The American one with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. He said Audrey Hepburn was not his type, he finds her ugly. We spoke about her death, and about illness and how doctors can’t necessarily cure you if you’re sick. Then he asked me what I did for a living, I wasn’t a doctor by any chance? No, I said, I’m a tanarno, which can mean either a gymnazium (high-school) teacher or a university professor. He said it’s a nice profession, one that requires heart–only people with real heart can be good teachers. I asked him whether he had gone to university. Yes, he said, he had studied for five years there. Really? And what did he study? Engineering–he’s an engineer. And now? “Now I drive a taxi.” I didn’t want to probe any further, and besides we had arrived home. But if what he said was true, that gives one pause: since when do engineers drive taxis for a living?

     

    Monday, February 15

     

    Long lunch with G. today. She told me it was hard for her and N. to readjust to life in Budapest after their year in the States–as I imagine it will be hard for me to readjust after my six months in Budapest. But in their case it was more than just the “return to routine after a time of freedom elsewhere” syndrome, because life in Budapest is harsher in economic terms. After ten years of teaching and a good scholarly reputation, N. is on the second rung of a four-rung ladder that ends with the title of Professor, and he earns 15,000 Forints a month–less than $200. G. was also offered a regular teaching job at the University this year, at a salary of 13,000 Forints a month, which shows the double absurdity of the whole thing: first, because no one can possibly live on that amount, and second, because the difference between a starting salary and the salary of one who has been teaching for ten years is 2000 forints per month, or $25. In fact, everybody who teaches in the university has at least one more job, often two or three more, to make ends meet. G. turned down her offer and accepted a private administrative job instead, in which she earns three times as much. “At least you can live on that,” she said. But in the meantime, she feels every day that “nothing is happening” to her, because she doesn’t like that kind of work. She’d much rather be in the library, reading, or else translating an American novel into Hungarian. “I feel this job is good for my present, but not for my future,” she said. But for now, she has no choice. She simply cannot afford to take a university job.

     

    Tuesday, February 16

     

    Read Csurka’s column in last week’s Magyar Forum, which I only bought yesterday. His rhetoric is disgusting, but so clever (and at the same time so predictable) that it fascinates me. This time, his theme was: The good Hungarian Christian people are being silenced by “George Konrad-type liberalism” (he actually named him: “Konrad Gyorgyek-fele…liberalizmus”)–that is, the old leftists and Communists who now call themselves liberals, but it’s still the same old clique. Once again, it’s those Jews who are trying to keep us true Magyars, Christian Magyars, down. They control all the media, radio and television, plus all the major papers, and they have all the wealth and power. The current talk about the renewal of anti-Semitism in Hungary is just a smokescreen–what really should be talked about is the “robbing of the country” (“az orszag kirablasarol kellene szot ejteni”). In fact, this clique would like to hound the Christian Magyars not only out of politics and public life, but out of life tout court: “without persecution, there is no liberalism. They need space.”

     

    Note how, first of all, he equates the current liberals and the old Communists–conveniently forgetting that someone “like George Konrad,” or more exactly Konrad himself, was during all his adult life a dissident in relation to the Communist regime. Csurka implies (more than implies, almost states outright) that all the Communists were Jews, hostile to true Magyar thought and spirit. He speaks of “Nagy baloldali liberalis kommunista nyilvanossag,” “great left liberal communist declarations,” as if all the adjectives were interchangeable–and at one point he mentions the name of Revai, who I think was a much feared cultural commissar in the 1950s, the man for whom B.’s father worked. “Revai and his culture band, Aczel and his shameses jumped at the throat of the national culture,” writes Csurka. He never actually uses the word “zsido,” “Jew,” but shames (Yiddish for “sexton”) is about as explicit as you can get. I assume Revai and Aczel were both Jewish, or if not, had lots of Jews working for them. Indeed, a few paragraphs later, Csurka makes a nasty dig at some of today’s liberals who “sing the song of Let’s forget the past, it’s no use looking backwards, we have to look forward.” That’s because, he says, some of them “had a Daddy who tore people’s nails off.”

     

    I wonder who Csurka’s Daddy was. On the same page as his column there is an ad for the Magyar Forum publishing house, which has just reissued a 1938 novel about provincial life at the turn of the century, by one Csurka Peter. Any relation to Csurka Istvan?

     

    Saw the second half of the documentary about the three men which started last week. It turns out that what they all had in common was that they left Hungary in 1956 and went to the United States–so the film was a documentary portrait of these men rather than a film about the political history of Hungary, but of course the two subjects are closely linked, since the reason they left Hungary in the first place was because of politics. Fabry Pal was the most successful, becoming a big businessman in New Orleans– founder of the first World Trade Center in 1962. The chemist/singer, Kovesdy Pal, did all kinds of physical work and eventually ended up as an art dealer in New York, where he now owns an important collection of works by the Hungarian avant-garde of the 1920s, which he is trying to sell to a museum. As for Nyeste Zoltan, it’s not clear what he does–he seems to have been in some kind of publishing venture. He is the least assimilated into American life, the most “true Hungarian” of the lot. But curiously, neither he nor the others have hurried back to Hungary, now that communism is gone. Fabry comes often, but with an American wife and American children, he can’t possibly come back to live here, he says. Kovesdy is thinking about it, waiting to see how things turn out; and Nyeste says he never stopped being Hungarian for a single day or a single minute since he left–perhaps implying that he doesn’t need to come back, for he carries Hungary with him wherever he is.

     

    In tonight’s program, like last week, there was very interesting newsreel footage from the 1950s and later: at Stalin’s death, for example, newsreels showed mournful workers assembled, then marching in silent funeral parades; there were several other mass marches and demonstrations, with enormous portraits of Stalin and Rakosi floating above the crowd. As late as 1985, one party speaker (was it Kadar? I didn’t recognize him), discussing Hungarian politics at what looked like a dinner meeting, stated that experience in Hungary has shown a one-party system is best. There is nothing wrong in principle with a multi-party system, he said, but Hungarian history shows that in this country it hasn’t worked. Doesn’t leave much hope for Hungarian democracy, it would seem.

     

    Wednesday, February 17

     

    It snowed today. I had another very long Hungarian visit, this time with A., who teaches literature at the University and has two other jobs as well, like most Hungarian academics. […] A., a woman about my age, received me in her office on the ground floor, which she shares with another person who was not there. She is a very pleasant and warm person, who immediately asked if we could “tegez” each other (say “te,” like the French tu)–it makes life so much simpler, she said. I was delighted, of course. We chatted for quite a while, then she took me up to look at the library, which has a good collection of French literature–plus, of course, an excellent collection of Hungarian literature. A. introduced me to the librarian and obtained permission for me to borrow books. Great! I immediately borrowed The Oxford History of Hungarian Literature by Lorant Czigany, which she recommended. I’ve been reading it all evening.

     

    After the library we went back to her office and chatted for another hour. […] Earlier, we had spoken about feminist criticism, and she confirmed my sense that people here know very little about it. But she also said that right now, with so many bigger problems that also affect men, she doesn’t particularly want to dwell on women’s problems or pit women against men. This sounded like the Marxist-feminist thesis in France during the 1970s (“First the revolution, then women’s problems”), and I didn’t want to engage in an argument about it at this point. I did, however, remark that not all feminist criticism is directed against men. She still wasn’t fully convinced, however.

     

    We spoke at some length about Csurka. Csurka Peter, as I suspected, was his father and was also a right-winger. It seems that Csurka himself wrote (“Alas!” A. said) some very good plays during the ancien regime (that too was her expression), and no one could tell from them that he was an anti-Semite. In fact, he and Konrad considered themselves on the same side! “You have to understand, that was in the good old days when we were all together in opposing the regime. Our opposition was so strong that none of us realized our differences–it was only afterward that we found ourselves split into two hostile camps.” “But didn’t anyone notice his anti-Semitism?” “No! Oh, there were stories occasionally, about how he got drunk at the writers’ club and started to ‘Jew’ (zsidozni, you see we even have a verb for it in Hungarian–to badmouth the Jews), but otherwise, he kept it all under wraps. Maybe if we went back and reread his plays now, we would find indications ….” He also wrote some good stories, she said. He is around 60, the same age as Konrad. I should read some of his stories and plays–it pays to know your enemies well.

     

    The Czigany literary history is very interesting–I could hardly put it down. It makes many things come to life, including the place names of Budapest, of which an extraordinary large number are those of writers: Vorosmarty ter, so central, is named after Mihaly V., a 19th-century poet, the first of the great poets after the language reform of the early years of the century. Kazinczy utca, which I had always associated with Jewishness–no doubt because of the synagogue there–is named after one of the architects of the language reform, which involved, mainly, standardizing orthography and expanding the vocabulary so that abstract concepts and technical terms would no longer have to be borrowed from Latin or German. The Eotvos of the Eotvos Collegium and the University was both a writer and a political figure. To an American, it’s astonishing how many streets and squares and institutions are named after writers and intellectuals: Jozsef Attila, Moricz Zsigmond, Kosztolanyi Dezs, Arany Janos, Madach Imre, Karinthy Frigyes, Jokai Mor and many many others, including of course the hero Petofi.

     

    […] I kept thinking about Mother this evening, especially when I spread out the map of Hungary to look for Nyiregyhaza, after reading the History. What a pity that she’s not alive now, for her and for me! I would so much have loved to ask her about her childhood, and some of the small towns she knew besides Nyiregyhaza. A few names in the same region sound very familiar, for example Hajduboszormeny and Hajduszoboszlo. I want to find Mother’s birth certificate, though I couldn’t say exactly why.

     

    Thursday, February 18

     

    Exhausted. I must have walked miles today, all around my old neighborhood. Villamos to Deak Ferenc ter, then up Kiraly utca to the yellow church, then right on Akacfa utca. Kiraly utca has some beautiful turn of the century buildings on it, or even older–from the last third of the 19th century, I was told later by T.. Very interesting and varied decorations on all of them. Some look in bad shape, others look redone, and it’s the same in that whole neighborhood. Kiraly utca itself is a grab-bag: some decrepit shops and some newfangled ones selling computers, electronics, etc.. Akacfa utca is mostly decrepit, at least the part I walked on, from Kiraly to number 59, in the middle of a long block. The first two houses on the odd- numbered side are black with soot and practically crumbling, though once they must have been quite noble, with columns and other elaborate decorations. Then comes a long low building which I didn’t remember at all, and after that no. 59, which could be quite beautiful. I don’t think I noticed, last time–at least, I didn’t remember–that there are three statues decorating the curved top of the facade. The three balconies, including our old one on the top left, look as if they’re ready to fall down–I don’t remember that from 1984.

     

    I went into the courtyard, which is very rectangular indeed, and then into the stairwell. The wrought iron railings are still there, still very fine. An elderly woman dressed in red was crossing the courtyard when I walked in, and looked at me curiously. I felt odd, a bit like an intruder. No question of going up to the third floor and knocking on the old apartment door again, though I may do it one of these days–maybe if someone else is with me. In the meantime, standing at the bottom of the stairwell, I remembered the time after Daddy’s heart attack when he had to be carried up the stairs every day, since there was no elevator and he was forbidden to climb. He had hired two men who would come and join hands to form a seat, on which he sat with his arms around each man’s neck. I think this must have gone on until we left the country–or rather, until we moved out to the summer house in Romai furdo, where he didn’t have to worry about stairs. That was around June 1949.

     

    He had the operation for his ulcer in March or thereabouts, then the heart attack a few days later, followed by the long recovery, first in the hospital and then at home. It must have been around May or early June that he gave the “thanksgiving” dinner for all the Talmudic scholars, of which I have a photograph at home: a large table full of men dressed in black caftans and black hats, with Daddy the only one wearing a regular suit. He wrote a learned speech for the occasion, a textual commentary he practiced for weeks beforehand while I listened. It was in Yiddish, so I didn’t understand a word, but every time he said the word “Rambam” I would go into gales of laughter– for some mysterious reason, I found that inner rhyme hilarious. After a while it became a whole production, I would laugh even though I no longer really thought it was funny, because I thought he expected me to. What did it matter that Rambam was Maimonides, a great scholar of antiquity? All I cared for was that Daddy should find me rapt and charming.

     

    Coming out into the street again, I noticed that the building directly across, no. 60, had been knocked down– they seem to be getting ready to build a new house there. I crossed the street and stared intently at the facade again. A little girl, walking home from school, went by and turned around to look at me. I felt too self-conscious to take out my camera again (I had photographed the statues on the facade before going into the courtyard), as if people would notice and not like it. I noticed, or maybe only imagined, that a man standing in front of the building was staring at me suspiciously–what was I doing there, inspecting the place so closely? I suddenly felt tired and hungry, and besides I had had enough nostalgia for one day. […]

     

    The “Evening with Vajda Miklos,” sponsored by the journal 2000, was very interesting, but I’m too tired to report on it in detail. Suffice it to say that VM was born in 1931 of a Greek Orthodox mother and converted Jewish father, and is the editor of New Hungarian Quarterly, whose mission it is to publish Hungarian authors in English translation. He said he thought of the war, including the “ostrom,” the last terrible year, as an adventure; Torok Andras, who was doing the questioning, remarked that just last month George Soros, who had been the invited guest, had used the same word (“kaland”), and I thought of what I say in “My War” about adventure. It must have something to do, I think, with having been so choye before the event, so loved and surrounded by adoring relatives, that we thought we were invincible. That, at least, is how Vajda explained it (his parents had very powerful friends, including the great actress Bajor Gizi, who had been his father’s girlfriend and was his own godmother), and I tend to agree with him. In my more modest way, I too was a totally spoiled and adored child who took all the adulation as her due.

     

    The other thing worth noting is that the evening lasted almost three hours! Unheard of, back home. Scheduled to start at 7 p.m., it actually started at 7:20, with about 100 people in the audience. The two men sat on the stage with microphones and talked–or rather, Vajda talked about his life with just a few well-placed interventions and questions from Torok. At 8:40, Torok announced we would take a break, just as I thought the thing was going to end! Break lasted around twenty minutes, and then we were back for another hour. The audience sat patiently on the uncomfortable chairs, listening intently. Vajda said, at one point: “To be here in the darkest period of the Rakosi era [ca. 1953], one could only survive by laughing a lot”–which is what he and his friends did. Around five minutes before ten, Torok asked the audience if they had questions. I had been reflecting for close to an hour that this kind of dialogue could never happen in the U.S., where questions from the audience would have taken up at least half the time. Here, sure enough, there were only two questions. As if one could get a discussion going with an audience that had sat through almost three hours of its own silence!

     

    Saturday, February 20

     

    Party at T.’s apartment, a huge place across from the American Embassy. There must have been hundreds of people there–writers, academics, politicians, plus a large contingent of foreign visitors. I saw Michael B., and G., who was coiffed and made up quite provocatively, very rouged cheeks, spikey hair–she was wearing tiny black lace gloves plus a fox collar over her loose-fitting culotte dress. Michael introduced me to an interesting woman, Judy S., a journalist from Toronto whose life story resembles mine, except that she’s a few years younger–she left in 1956, after three years of elementary school. Her Hungarian is pretty good, somewhat like mine in that she doesn’t know many abstract words.

     

    She told me about one of the men there that he had published a moving essay in a Canadian journal last year, about how he had discovered that he was Jewish. Another Hungarian “of Jewish origin”! Zsido szarmazasu: I’ve heard or read that expression half a dozen times since I got here. Few are ready to affirm, simply, “I am a Jew.” But to be “zsido szarmazasu,” of Jewish origin, is quite admissible.

     

    Sunday, February 21

     

    Hovirag, snowdrops. Small white bouquets wrapped in green leaves, beckoning at the flowerstands. Evening on the boulevard, the shops are still open when darkness falls. I stop with Madame and we buy a bunch of hovirag, snowflowers for the end of winter. A few weeks later it will be ibolya, violets nestled against velvety leaves–I bury my face in them, inhale the sweet smell. How I love the coming of spring!

     

    I bought some carnations at a stand on the way to the tram stop this afternoon, to put in the vase on my desk. As the young man was wrapping them, I noticed the bunches of snowdrops, dozens of them with their stalks in a shallow pan. These flowers are smaller than the ones we have in America, so you need quite a few to make a tiny bouquet. It must be a huge amount of work to make dozens of bunches, each one wrapped in a green leaf and tied with string. I wasn’t sure of the flower’s name, so I asked the vendor. Until then, I think he took me for a Hungarian, but my question obviously told him I wasn’t. “Hovirag,” he said, looking at me curiously. Snowflower. I took a bunch out of the pan and gave it to him to wrap up. “Are you from England?” he asked. “No, from America.” After that, he spoke to me only in English.

     

    Neither a foreigner nor a Hungarian, but something in between. Just a little off-center, not quite the real thing, but sometimes close to passing for it. One could make this into a sign of unhappiness, or on the contrary a sign of uniqueness, special status. Except that there are whole armies of people like me–not unique, unless it’s a collective uniqueness. Is that what we call history?

     

    Most of the current issue of Magyar Forum is devoted to the founding meeting of the Magyar Ut movement, the Hungarian Way. So Csurka got to be on page 1 in a large photo showing him on the platform at the meeting, on page 2 with his weekly column, and pages 3-4 which printed the complete text of his speech. There is a close-up of him at the podium, a thick, blunt-faced man with receding hairline and double chin. (“His name really should be Csunya,” I said to myself with some satisfaction while studying the photo). He wears tinted glasses. Looks a bit like Le Pen– why do all these right-wing demagogues look like beefy parodies of “real men,” the kind that would never in a million years eat quiche?

     

    Well, anyway. The page 2 column is about the ministerial shakeup of last week. Mr. Csurka is not happy that the MDF may be contemplating a move toward the Young Democrats (Fidesz), which would definitely require them to squeeze out the “national radicals” whose leader he is. National radicals, the phrase comes up at least four times in his article–sounds ominously like National Socialists to me. The usual theme: the People, the Nep, is being kept down by the “nomenklatura,” who used to be the Communists but who are now the liberals. They will certainly do all in their considerable power to keep the Hungarian Way from developing. But it will win out in the end, because you can’t keep the People down, etc. etc..

     

    The speech? More of the same. True Hungarians have “Hungarianness” (Magyarsag), a matter of blood. They’re descendants of King Arpad. Christians. What all true Hungarians detest is “Naphta-liberalism”–and here Csurka the one-time playwright and short-story writer opens a parenthesis to explain about Naphta. Thomas Mann, he tells us, modeled this character in The Magic Mountain on the philosopher George Lukacs, who “as everyone knows liked to vacation in Swiss resorts” during the years before “he threw his lot in with the terror and with the Hungarian Red soldiers”–that’s an allusion to the short-lived Bela Kun government of 1919. And of course everyone also knows that Lukacs was Jewish, or rather, “of Jewish origin,” as were all the other members of the Kun government. So basically, liberals=Communists=Jews, the tried and true formula. But he says that the Magyar Ut is neither right nor left, just Hungarian.
     

    Wednesday, March 24, 1993

     

    Second visit with B. this morning, almost as long as the first! And very interesting. We spoke in Hungarian this time, and a lot about the current situation here. My head was spinning by the time I left, he mentioned so many names and factual details I wanted to retain.

     

    He looked somewhat younger today, and in fact he mentioned later that he was younger than I, born after the war. His manner was still charming and somewhat scatterbrained, but not quite so “bumbling” as last time– and certainly not after we went into his study, where the really intense conversation began. “So, what do you think about what’s happening–the extreme right and all that? Are you worried?” I asked him. “No, I’m not. I’m optimistic,” he answered. That’s because, in his opinion, things are very different from what they were in the 1930s: most importantly, there is now a counter-offensive to nationalism and anti-Semitism. “We are here too,” he said. Well, of course, there were anti-nazis in the 1930s too, I pointed out. But I don’t recall his responding to that.

     

    About anti-Semitism: “I think it’s time to become aggressive. Paradoxically, I have become much more aware of being a Jew because of it–you know that Hungarian Jews have generally been very much assimilated, and my family certainly was. But this changes things.” His idea is to write an article in which he will defend not the idea of tolerance (“Let’s be good Magyars and tolerate difference, those who are not like us”), but rather the idea of a “loose” [laza] Hungarian-ness: “I am not Magyar the way Petofi was–and if Csurka is a Magyar, then I’m not one at all. We should love difference, not tolerate it,” he said. I liked that.

     

  • The Microstructure of Logocentrism: Sign Models in Derrida and Smolensky

    Kip Canfield

    Dept. of Information Systems
    University of Maryland

    canfield@icarus.ifsm.umbc.edu

    I. On (Pure) Rhetoric

     

    Peirce (Buchler 99) says that the task of pure rhetoric is “to ascertain the laws by which, in every scientific intelligence, one sign gives birth to another, and especially one thought brings forth another.” Sign models are metaphors that evolve to support any constellation of ideas, and as de Man points out, “metaphors are much more tenacious than facts” (“Semiology and Rhetoric” 123). Any critique of current ideas dealing with human cognition and symbolic behavior must therefore address the metaphoricity of sign models.

     

    In what follows, we will explore a remarkable parallelism in stories about the sign, between the discourse of the humanities and of cognitive sciences. This exploration will be conducted in the form of close readings of two works, “Linguistics and Grammatology,” Chapter 2 of Of Grammatology by Jacques Derrida, and “On the proper treatment of connectionism” by Paul Smolensky. The purpose of these readings is not to apply results from one field to another or to hypothesize direct influence, but rather to investigate two rhetorical strategies that develop in the face of the same metaphoric impasse. Both of the works in question come out of a rejection of structuralism–in philosophy and cognitive science, respectively–and although their arguments are basically the same, they take different paths away from structuralism.

     

    Derrida stakes out a skeptic’s position, one that shows the aporias and contradictions inherent in the dyadic sign model used by structuralists. He explicitly denies that there is any way around these contradictions. Smolensky, by contrast, has the scientist’s typical aversion to skepticism, and he tries to reconceive the sign model that underlies his theory of connectionism in order to resolve those same contradictions. The parallels between these two works, I will argue, may be attributed to a similarity in the historical moment of each author, even though the works themselves are twenty years apart and their authors are of different nationalities.

     

    Derrida stakes out his territory in opposition to Structuralism, with its linguistic model of rules and grammars for atomic units of meaning. Oversimplification of Structuralism can be dangerous (see Culler 28), but in essence, Structuralism was an empiricist reaction to the interpretive projects of the New Criticism, and it explained referent meaning as the center of a symbolic system or structure. In “Linguistics and Grammatology,” Derrida demonstrates the problems that such an autistic view of human signification entails, and suggests that the dyadic sign model of Saussure is in fact responsible for generating the aporias of Structuralism.

     

    Smolensky’s work is an oppositional response to traditional Cognitive Science, that uneasy mixture of Cognitive Psychology and Artificial Intelligence. Cognitive Psychology, in turn, began as a reaction to the empiricism of Behaviorism and its inability to refer to Mind as a theoretical construct. The relatively humanistic models employed by Cognitive Psychology came under attack after the field became heavily influenced by computer-based Artificial Intelligence in the 1970s, and it became fashionable to value cognitive models only if they had a computational implementation. The state of this modeling led to very simple and brittle models of human cognition and, in effect, dragged Cognitive Psychology back towards Empiricism. For example, a recent work by Alan Newell Unified Theories of Cognition) proposes a theory of cognition that is based primarily on production rules (rules of the if/then type). The complex problem of how the antecedents and consequents of these rules arise cannot be addressed in such a limited architecture: in fact, Smolensky sees this sort of dyadic sign model–the kind of model that is easily implemented on a serial computer–as the basic problem for objectivist Cognitive Science.

     

    Both Smolensky and Derrida, then, object to a tradition that presents a simplistic, deterministic view of human signification, and both elaborate a new vision of semantics and dynamics for their sign models. Each author offers a vision of human cognition that is more complex, more mysterious, and less deterministic than the traditions they oppose.

     

    II. Sign Models

     

    Though the discourse of any given historical moment is governed by certain metaphors, it is often the case that changes to those metaphors are generated by the very discourse they govern. Structuralism and Cognitive Science use a static, dyadic model of the sign, but the syntactic orientation of dyadic sign models makes such explanations of meaning unsatisfying, both logically and contextually. Authors such as Sheriff have tried to rescue meaning by applying the triadic model of Peirce, with its interpretant, but this solution is largely unsuccessful because it simply inscribes pragmatics in the interpretant, leaving the connection between pragmatics and meaning obscure. The critiques of Structuralism and Cognitive Science described below rely on more flexible, dynamic sign models: Smolensky tries to change the architecture of the dyadic sign model fundamentally, while Derrida explores that model’s inability to account for the gap between the signifier and the signified. Both authors employ an organic, dynamic, systems model which unifies the oppositions that arise in static accounts of the sign.

     

    Smolensky’s Model

     

    Cognitive Science was carved out in academia during the mid-1970s to create an interdisciplinary home for various scholars who took an information-processing approach to cognitive modeling. Two major critical responses to this objectivist cognitive science are cognitive semantics (Lakoff, “Cognitive Semantics”) and connectionism (McClelland Parallel Distributed Processing vol. 1). George Lakoff is one of the more polemical writers of this critique. He has identified two definitional aspects of what he calls objectivist (mainstream) cognitive science. They are:

     

    (1) The algorithmic theory of mental processes: All mental processes are algorithmic in the mathematical sense, that is, they are formal manipulations of arbitrary symbols without regard to the internal structure of symbols and their meaning.
     
    (2) The symbolic theory of meaning: Arbitrary symbols can be made meaningful in one and only one way: by being associated with things in the world (where "the world" is taken as having a structure independent of the mental processes of any beings).("Cognitive Semantics" 119)

     

    Lakoff goes on to propose a “cognitive semantics” (he also calls it experientialist cognition). In so doing, he challenges two major characteristics of the objectivist account. First, he counters the arbitrariness of the sign with a new theory of categorization related to the prototype theory of Rosch; second, he lambastes the syntactic orientation of algorithms in the information processing model:

     

    The most essential feature of objectivist cognition is the separation of symbols from what they mean. It is this separation that permits one to view thought as the algorithmic manipulation of arbitrary symbols. The problem for such a view is how the symbols used in thought are to be made meaningful.("Cognitive Semantics" 125)

     

    Lakoff’s language here revolts against the arbitrary nature of the sign and the syntactic character of algorithms. Its criticisms strike at the dualistic definition of the sign and therefore at the foundations of structuralism.

     

    The connectionist approach to cognitive modeling accepts Lakoff’s critique, but connectionism is primarily concerned with model architecture:

     

    Connectionist models are large networks of simple parallel computing elements, each of which carries a numerical activation value which it computes from the values of neighboring elements in the network, using some simple numerical formula. The network elements, or units, influence each other's values through connections that carry a numerical strength, or weight.(Smolensky 1)

     

    The connectionist architecture supports distributed processing, in which each parallel processor is doing only part of a larger process that perhaps cannot be modeled as a series of steps in an algorithm (as with a Turing machine). In the connectionist models, representation is achieved by looking at an entire network of individual unit values. These models are often called parallel distributed processing (PDP) models (Rumelhart and McClelland).

     

    The connectionist model is largely incompatible with the traditional cognitive science framework, which is symbolic and based on language. This rejection of the traditional structure of the sign (signifier/signified) makes allies of Lakoff and Smolensky. Smolensky’s article offers what he calls “the proper treatment of connectionism” (1). The article sets out to define the goals of connectionism, and it explicitly advocates a specific set of foundational principles. Smolensky’s first task is to establish the purview of his analysis, which he calls the level of the subsymbolic paradigm. This level lies somewhere between the symbolic level of traditional structuralism or cognitive science and the neural level of basic biological processes:

     

    In calling the traditional approach to cognitive modeling the "symbolic paradigm," I intend to emphasize that in this approach, cognitive descriptions are built of entities that are symbols both in the semantic sense of referring to external objects and in the syntactic sense of being operated upon by symbol manipulation. . . . The mind has been taken to be a machine for formal symbol manipulation, and the symbols manipulated have assumed essentially the same semantics as words of English. . . . The name "subsymbolic paradigm" is intended to suggest cognitive descriptions built up of entities that correspond to constituents of the symbols used in the symbolic paradigm; these fine-grained constituents could be called subsymbols, and they are the activities of individual processing units in the connectionist networks."(3-4)

     

    Smolensky has dispensed with the signifier/signified dyadic structure of the sign (where symbol=sign). He was forced to do this by the intractable space (gap) between the signifier and the signified. This space caused brittleness in the artificial intelligence systems–inflexibility in the face of a changing environment. By contrast, Smolensky’s architecture for the sign is very malleable. A sign (concept) has no simple internal structure that contains the big problematic gap: instead, a sign is conceived of as a network of very simple elements that allows context to intrude into (be contained in) the sign. Dreyfus and Dreyfus put it thus:

     

    What Smolensky means by a complete, formal, and precise description is not the logical manipulation of context-free primitives--symbols that refer to features of the domain regardless of the context in which those features appear--but rather the mathematical description of an evolving dynamic system.(31-32)

     

    Smolensky says: “the activities of the subconceptual units that comprise the symbol–its subsymbols–change across contexts” (15). He states the principle of context dependence as follows: “In the symbolic paradigm, the context of a symbol is manifest around it and consists of other symbols; in the subsymbolic paradigm, the context of a symbol is manifest inside it and consists of subsymbols” (17). At this point Smolensky has described a network structure that claims to have more powerful explanatory capabilities than the traditional dyadic model of the sign because context can intermingle with content.

     

    Derrida’s Model

     

    Derrida has precisely these same objections to the traditional structure of the sign. Whereas Smolensky responds with the network metaphor, Derrida’s critique is governed by the metaphor of generalized (arche) writing. Writing is the structure and process which makes possible the dynamic character of language, according to Derrida, but it is (commonly) considered to be exterior to language. He discusses this exteriority at length, arguing that

     

    [t]he exteriority of the signifier is the exteriority of writing in general, and I shall try to show later that there is no linguistic sign before writing. Without that exteriority, the very idea falls into decay.(Of Grammatology 14)

     

    The problem is that once you enforce the distinction between the signifier and the signified, reference is confused, and you continually get the “eruption of the outside within the inside” Of Grammatology 34). The nature of the confusion surrounding reference in a static, dyadic account of the sign is clear in the following:

     

    The system of writing in general is not exterior to the system of language in general, unless it is granted that the division between the exterior and the interior passes through the interior of the interior or the exterior of the exterior, to the point where the immanence of language is essentially exposed to the intervention of forces that are apparently alien to its system.(Of Grammatology 43; my emphasis)

     

    This notion of penetration is parallel to Smolensky’s observations about brittleness, since including context inside the sign is an example of the exterior intruding on the interior. Under a dyadic sign-model, such an interpenetration of context and the sign is not allowed, and this prohibition, in turn, is one factor that generates critique.

     

    III. Movement and Meaning

     

    Both Derrida and Smolensky object to dyadic sign models because of their naive simplicity and semantic problems. This naivete is a consequence of Structuralism’s and Cognitive Science’s view of the sign as static. Both Derrida and Smolensky elaborate a dynamics in their critiques. Derrida’s mechanisms for including movement in the sign-model are differance, trace and presence, which are discussed below. Smolensky uses the mathematical theory of dynamic systems to put movement into his network structure. The semantic problems are, at root, the same as the hoary old mind/body problem of philosophy. Smolensky thinks that his sign model, in the framework of connectionism, goes some distance in solving that problem. Derrida despairs of a solution and, in fact, states that a solution is impossible. Let us look first at the semantic aspects of each critique and then at the dynamics. SEMANTICS

     

    Structuralism and most flavors of cognitive science are forms of rationalism or introspectionism (see Chomsky, Knowledge of Language). Both Derrida and Smolensky oppose such rationalism. Smolensky proposes an intuitive processor (which is not accessible to symbolic intuition), and a conscious rule interpreter:

     

    What kinds of programs are responsible for behavior that is not conscious rule application? I will refer to the virtual machine that runs these programs as the intuitive processor. It is presumably responsible for all of animal behavior and a huge proportion of human behavior: Perception, practiced motor behavior, fluent linguistic behavior, intuition in problem solving and game-playing--in short, practically all skilled performance.(5)

     

    The programs running on the intuitive processor, then, are not composed of symbols which have a syntax and semantics similar to language. This idea is not mainstream in cognitive science, which takes an artificial-intelligence or information-processing view of cognition and posits exactly the intuitive/linguistic correspondence Smolensky rejects.

     

    Smolensky translates subconceptual processes into mathematics, which are not accessible to intuition. Derrida describes the traditional rationalism as logocentrism, a fundamental effect of the atomic structure of the signified. In the course of his polemic on speech, Derrida says:

     

    The affirmation of the essential and "natural" bond between the phone and the sense, the privilege accorded to an order of signifier (which then becomes the major signified of all other signifiers) depend expressly, and in contradiction to the other levels of Saussurian discourse, upon a psychology of consciousness and of intuitive consciousness. What Saussure does not question here is the essential possibility of nonintuition. Like Husserl, Saussure determines this nonintuition teleologically as crisis.(Of Grammatology 40)

     

    The appeal to nonintuition by both authors is a necessary break with traditional representation, and it recalls Lacan’s barrier between the signifier and the signified (Noth 303), where there is no “access from one to the other.” One can no longer retain traditional models built with now-discarded tools: the new models require a new metaphysics.

     

    It is intriguing that both authors appeal to levels to justify the apparent difference between usual interpretations of the sign and the novel view taken in these texts. Smolensky’s appeal is to physics:

     

    The relationship between subsymbolic and symbolic models is more like that between quantum and classical mechanics. Subsymbolic models accurately describe the microstructure of cognition, whereas symbolic models provide an approximate description of the macrostructure.(12, my emphasis)

     

    This comparison jumps right out of his three-level architecture. The lowest level, the neural level, is closely modeled with the subsymbolic (=subconceptual) level. The highest level, the traditional symbolic (=conceptual) level, is only an approximation of the lower levels. It is an approximate language that developed to allow us (the subject) a way to talk about cognitive matters. He says:

     

    The relation between the conceptual level and the lower levels is fundamentally different in the subsymbolic and symbolic paradigms. This leads to important differences in the kind of explanations that the paradigms offer of conceptual level behavior, and the kind of reduction used in these explanations. A symbolic model is a system of interacting processes, all with the same conceptual-level semantics as the task behavior being explained. . . . [whereas, u]nlike symbolic explanations, subsymbolic explanations rely crucially on a semantic ("dimensional") shift that accompanies the shift from the conceptual to the subconceptual levels.(11; my emphasis)

     

    Derrida has to resort to a similar tactic in the face of our inability to escape metaphysical talk:

     

    What Saussure saw without seeing, knew without being able to take into account, following in that the entire metaphysical tradition, is that a certain model of writing was necessarily but provisionally imposed . . . as instrument and technique of representation of a system of language. And that this movement, unique in style, was so profound that it permitted the thinking, within language, of concepts like those of the sign, technique, representation, language.(Of Grammatology 43)

     

    The dyadic structure of traditional structuralist sign models has proven unacceptable for both authors. Smolensky responds by conceiving of a new structure (a network) and Derrida by exploring the problems in the old structure (the gap between signifier and signified).

     

    Smolensky’s Intuitive Processor

     

    A recurring theme in these stories about levels is the inaccessibility of the lower levels to symbolic intuition. Traditional theories of the sign assume that intuition can penetrate anything cognitive. By contrast, semantics in Smolensky’s model involves the mysterious “shift” from numeric to symbolic representation, a shift described in his “subsymbolic hypothesis”:

     

    The intuitive processor is a subconceptual connectionist dynamic system that does not admit a complete, formal, and precise conceptual level description. . . . Subsymbols are not operated upon by symbol manipulation: They participate in numerical-- not symbolic--computation.(7, 3; my emphasis)

     

    Furthermore, the unit processors in the model do not correspond to conceptual-level semantics at all. They do not model words, concepts, or even distinctive features as described in linguistics. Smolensky proposes the following subconceptual-unit hypothesis:

     

    The entities in the intuitive processor with semantics of conscious concepts of the task domain are complex patterns of activity over many units. Each unit participates in many such patterns. . . . At present, each individual subsymbolic model adopts particular procedures for relating patterns of activity--activity vectors--to the conceptual-level descriptions of inputs and outputs that define the model's task.(6-7)

     

    A complete description of cognition is numerical and therefore not available in our native symbolic language. Subsymbolic computation in a dynamic system is cognition, and the asymptotic behavior of trajectories in the system is somehow approximately mapped to symbolic language. This explains the nonintuitive character of the intuitive processor and presumably explains why symbolic theories like those in linguistics always seem to almost formalize language, but ultimately fail on the fringes.

     

    Derrida’s Origins

     

    We have noted above that Smolensky links the subsymbolic and symbolic levels with a “semantic shift.” The Derridean concepts of trace and differance parallel these levels. These concepts operate within the metaphor of writing in a way that allows Derrida’s system of signs to move and be dynamic. For our purposes, the problem of the origin and the dynamics of differance are the salient topics in Derrida’s theory.
    Because the signified is “always already in the position of the signifier” Of Grammatology 73), origins become problematic. As Derrida puts it,

     

    Representation mingles with what it represents, to the point where one speaks as one writes, one thinks as if the represented were nothing more than the shadow or reflection of the representer. A dangerous promiscuity and a nefarious complicity between the reflection and reflected which lets itself be seduced narcissistically. In this play of representation, the point of origin becomes ungraspable.(Of Grammatology 36)

     

    This attention to the problem of origin indicates an uneasiness with semantics. Derrida uses the image of track or trace to express this uneasiness. What he says (in Smolensky’s terms) is that there is no origin because we attach a semantic purpose to origins and at the point of origins, there is no semantics. The (pure) trace is not semantic:

     

    The trace is not only the disappearance of origin-- within the discourse that we sustain and according to the path that we follow it means that the origin did not even disappear, that it was never constituted except reciprocally by a nonorigin, the trace, which becomes the origin of the origin. . . . The (pure) trace is differance. It does not depend on any sensible plenitude, audible or visible, phonic or graphic. It is, on the contrary, the condition of such a plenitude. Although it does not exist, although it is never a being-present outside of all plenitude, its possibility is by rights anterior to all that one calls the sign. . . . The trace is in fact the absolute origin of sense in general. Which amounts to saying once again that there is no absolute origin of sense in general.(Of Grammatology 61-62, 65)

     

    This recalls Smolensky’s “semantic shift” problem, in which he sets up a system where all computation is purely numerical and has no symbolic-level semantics. He must then finesse a “shift” to our human realm of signs, something Derrida says is impossible:

     

    This arche-writing, although its concept is invoked by the themes of "the arbitrariness of the sign" and of difference, cannot and can never be recognized as the object of a science. It is that very thing which cannot let itself be reduced to the form of presence. . . . There cannot be a science of differance itself in its operation, as it is impossible to have a science of the origin of presence itself, that is to say of a certain nonorigin.(Of Grammatology 57,63)

     

    Derrida, like Smolensky, emphasizes the nonintuitive or unconscious character of cognitive acts like language. Derrida calls this the “fundamental unconsciousness of language” Of Grammatology 68) and says that “Spacing as writing is the becoming-absent and the becoming-unconscious of the subject” Of Grammatology 69). But while Derrida says of the trace that “no concept of metaphysics can describe it” Of Grammatology 65), Smolensky has presented a mathematical metaphysics. Smolensky’s attempt has yet to tackle the precise point that Derrida has tried to show cannot be described: the point at which the non-semantic origins of signification become semantic.

     

    Dynamics

     

    In the terminology of engineering mechanics, statics is the study of forces on structures, and dynamics is the study of forces on structures in motion. All critiques of structuralism reflect a passing from statics to dynamics; the dynamic view of structuralism has always existed in structuralism but was not mainstream (see Piaget). Post- structural discourse emphasizes movement and temporality. Smolensky uses models taken from dynamic systems theory to achieve this, while Derrida defines a cluster of terms (differance, trace and presence) for the same purpose. Both authors use this dynamism to argue for an organic sign model that integrates form and function.
    Smolensky explicitly uses the models and mathematics of dynamic systems, as studied in physics. He views the architecture of his model in this way:

     

    The numerical activity values of all the processors in the network form a large state vector. The interactions of the processors, the equations governing how the activity vector changes over time as the processors respond to one another's values, is an activation evolution equation. This evolution equation governing the mutual interactions of the processors involves the connection weights: numerical parameters which determine the direction and magnitude of the influence of one activation value on another. The activation equation is a differential equation. . . . In learning systems, the connection weights change during training according to the learning rule, which is another differential equation: the connection evolution equation.(6)

     

    He elaborates a “connectionist dynamical system hypothesis” in which the connection strengths (weights) of the network embody the data, and differential equations describe the dynamic process within which these data become knowledge. The state of this intuitive processor (the network) is defined by a vector which contains the numerical state of each unit processor in the network. For our discussion, the important aspects of this description are the global control over the process of signification given by the systems idea, and the semantic anomalies presented by the numerical character of the model.

     

    Smolensky’s Global Control

     

    The systems idea is very important in Smolensky’s discourse. It becomes possible to describe the connectionist version of cognition by using a mathematical dynamic system as a model (my discussion is informed by Rosen). A dynamic system in mathematics depends on two kinds of representation: one must represent every possible state of the system (statics), and also the behavior of the system (dynamics). The static description uses the concept of a state space, which contains an instantaneous description of every possible state of the system. These states can be described as measurements on a system. For example, in Newtonian mechanics, all particles can be described in a system with six dimensions: three for position in 3-dimensional space and three for a momentum measurement in each of those three dimensions. It is important that the number of dimensions chosen give a complete description of the state of the system. In such a model, all states that have the same values in all dimensions are identical to each other. Each dimension is a state variable and the n-tuple (or vector) of all the state variables is a representation of the (instantaneous) state of the system. The mathematical set of all possible unique vectors is the state space of the system. Therefore, most systems will be multidimensional and cannot be visualized in Euclidean space.

     

    In order to provide a dynamic description of a system, one must know how the state variables change with time. Mathematically, this means that each state variable (dimension) is a function of time. If each of these functions is known, the dynamic behavior of the system is a trajectory in the state space through time. It is usually impossible to know these functions exactly, but since the rate of change of a single state variable depends only on that state in the state space, we can give conditions that these functions must follow. These conditions constrain the trajectory of a behavior but do not uniquely determine it. The constraint is modeled as the derivative of a function which gives the rate of change at a point (state). The derivative of a function (with respect to time) is analogous to the slope of a tangent line to a curve; the slope reflects how fast the points on the curve are changing in the neighborhood of the state. A dynamic system, then, is described by a set of simultaneous differential equations where differential equations are functions of the state variables and their derivatives. Systems described with differential equations represent infinitely many possibilities that are constrained by the (dynamically changing) structure of the system.

     
    Dynamic systems impose a global effect on the state space. For example, in the plane of this paper, all points (positions) can be described with two numbers–the coordinates in the xy plane (a vector with two elements). The intuitive processor’s state space, however, is multidimensional: its state space is the set of all possible vectors that describe all activation values of all unit processors in the system. The global effect occurs (most simply) because a differential equation sets up conditions on every point in the state space. For example, a differential equation with a function in two dimensions involves derivatives which set up a direction field that constrains the trajectory of any curve that goes through a point in it. The direction field is a condition that attaches itself globally to every possible point, and it is what makes possible a global, system-level description of a multitude of separate interacting agents.

     
    The modern scientific concept of fields–such as electric fields, magnetic fields, or even magic force-fields in science fiction–are examples of this kind of global effect. They are something usually unseen but considered to be real (i.e., they effect material reality) and they operate globally, albeit mysteriously, in an area of space. Smolensky sees reference as the asymptotic behavior of a trajectory in a dynamic system, and his scientistic assertion of the possibility of global control contrasts with Derrida’s exasperated skepticism, seen below.

     

    Derrida’s Differance

     

    The early Derrida is conducting a guerrilla war against structuralism from within the metaphysical terrain of structuralism. He only has whatever is at hand there for the fight. While Smolensky is free to use exotic weapons from his experience (he was trained as a physicist), Derrida must work within the tradition of the dyadic sign. He considers the dyadic sign constitutive of human thought, even as he shows its inadequacy for explaining meaning. Notwithstanding these differences in tradition and precept, there are many points of contact between Smolensky’s dynamic systems and Derrida’s trace and differance.

     
    Derrida conceives of the operation of the trace as a field in the sense described above, but has no language to justify such a global and actively structuring concept. In exasperation, he calls it “theological”:

     

    The trace, where the relationship with the other is marked, articulates its possibility in the entire field of the entity [etant], which metaphysics has defined as the being-present starting from the occulted movement of the trace. The trace must be thought before the entity. But the movement of the trace is necessarily occulted, it produces itself as self-occultation. When the other announces itself as such, it presents itself in the dissimulation of itself. This formulation is not theological, as one might believe somewhat hastily. The "theological" is a determined moment in the total movement of the trace. The field of the entity, before being determined as the field of presence, is structured according to the diverse possibilities-- generic and structural--of the trace.(Of Grammatology 47, my emphasis)

     

    The reader should compare this description with the global structuring impact of dynamic systems on state- space, described above. At all times, Derrida presents the trace as dynamic. It is the “movement of temporalization” Of Grammatology 47), and “[t]he immotivation of the trace ought to be understood as an operation and not as a state, an active movement, a demotivation, and not as a given structure” Of Grammatology 51). The shift from statics to dynamics is, of course, a key feature of contemporary discourse on the sign.

     
    Derrida responds to accusations that differance is negative theology with an essay in “How to Avoid Speaking: Denials.” Frank Kermode summarizes the argument well:

     

    The purpose of Derrida's pronouncement is to claim that differance is not negative in the same measure as the God of negative theology; for it is so in much greater measure--indeed it cannot properly be thought of as negative at all; it is outside negativity as it is outside everything. Only by an intellectual error-- induced by a sort of metaphysical paranoia, a fear for the security of that "realm"--could anybody suppose that differance has a design on us, or a desire to make itself into some sort of presence.(Kermode 75; my emphasis)

     

    Informed by a reading of Smolensky, one might conclude that differance is desire, and that “metaphysical paranoia” is completely justified. Where structuralists and objectivist cognitive scientists assume “meaning” as a concept around which structure is built, Derrida and Smolensky use ideas of process and structure to produce “meaning.” The main rhetorical strategy both authors use to do this is to deny a hard distinction between form and function. This conflation gives reality to a field of signification. This is explicit in Smolensky’s mathematical metaphysics; in Derrida, it is implicit in the movement of the trace.

     

    Derrida’s treatment of presence is interesting in relation to these metaphysical ideas. Culler, in On Deconstruction, invokes Zeno’s paradox to explain Derrida’s insistence on the impossibility of presence. The present moment is never really present, but always marked with the past and the future. The present is then not real, as difference is not real. Trace “does not exist” and differance is “nothing.” Time and absence conspire to destroy any phenomenology.

     

    Arche-writing as spacing cannot occur as such within the phenomenological experience of a presence. It marks the dead time within the presence of the living present, within the general form of all presence. The dead time is at work. That is why, once again, in spite of all the discursive resources that the former may borrow from the latter, the concept of the trace will never be merged with a phenomenology of writing. As the phenomenology of the sign in general, a phenomenology of writing is impossible. No intuition can be realized in the place where "the whites indeed take on an importance."(Of Grammatology 68)

     

    One might be tempted to regain presence by an appeal to the idea of a field of signification, proposed above, but presence fails for both authors at the point where its phenomenology must be intuitively accessible to the subject. Both authors set up a metaphysics which describes a mechanism for presence, but both place that mechanism in the inhuman realm of numbers or (pure) traces.

     

    Derrida’s insistence, then, on presence and difference as “nothing” might be understood as referring only to the realm of human consciousness, the only realm describable in structuralist terms. Derrida’s nullification of presence and differance recall a funny story, an old chestnut, that I have most recently seen reincarnated in a book by Arbib In Search of the Person): it seems that there was this mathematician who wished to prove something for Riemann geometry. He disappeared into a room and filled a blackboard with Dirichlet integrals and other mathematical arcana. After a time, a cry was heard from the room, “Wait! Wait! I’ve proved too much! I’ve proved there are no prime numbers!” The nullification of differance is a funny idea when one considers such that this nullification might be the global control that produces cognition. Smolensky might accuse Derrida of having been inattentive in his calculus classes. On the other hand, Derrida would probably apply a quotation from Barthes (Noth 313) to Smolensky: “I passed through a (euphoric) dream of scientificity.”

     

    IV. Conclusion

     

    I would like to reiterate that this has been an exploration of rhetorical strategies that arose in two similar historical moments. My discussion ignores any justification or evaluation (scientific or otherwise) with regard to the works by Smolensky and Derrida, and it proposes no direct influence of one on the other. Most importantly, this is not a “methodological” paper that proposes something ridiculous like a “dynamic systems approach to everything.”

     
    Both Derrida and Smolensky want to give a fuller, more complex vision of the signifying human. Structuralism and objectivist Cognitive Science present a syntactic picture of human meaning that is unsatisfying. Each author tries to breath life into the dyadic sign model by regaining presence. Smolensky explicitly appeals to presence as a field in dynamic systems theory. Derrida precisely defines such a field with the terms trace and differance while denying their reality because he rejects the concept of global control. The genesis of these critiques is the static character of structuralist or objectivist accounts of signification, theories which relegate all process to the gap between a signified and a signifier, a gap which is “nothing”: Derrida and Smolensky rush in to fill this void. Both authors note a semantic problem for sign models that requires a mysterious “semantic shift” from the unconscious to the conscious. This semantic anomaly does not allow intuitive access to the basis of the sign model. Derrida sees this as an insurmountable mystery, while Smolensky thinks it can be accounted for.

     
    Spivak uses Levi-Strauss’ term bricolage to contrast modern discourse with engineering: “All Knowledge, whether one knows it or not, is a species of bricolage, with its eye on the myth of engineeringOf Grammatology xx). Smolensky and Derrida are doing similar odd jobs, but with different tool boxes. Smolensky, with his “eye on the myth of engineering,” is a bricoleur with a full quiver of metaphor: he can play Ahab (“That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate”). Derrida doesn’t have much faith in his weapons: he can love the whale.

     

    References

     

    • Arbib, M. In Search of the Person: Philosophical Explorations in Cognitive Science. Amherst, MA: U of Massachusetts P, 1985.
    • Buchler, J. Philosophical Writings of Peirce. New York: Dover, 1955.
    • Chomsky, N. Knowledge of Language: Its Nature, Origin, and Use. New York, NY: Praeger, 1986.
    • Culler, J. On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism after Structuralism. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1982.
    • de Man, P. “Semiology and Rhetoric.” Textual Strategies: Perspectives in Post-Structuralist Criticism. Ed. J. Harari. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1979.
    • Derrida, J. Of Grammatology. Trans. and introd. G. Spivak. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins UP, 1976.
    • —. “How to Avoid Speaking: Denials.” Languages of the Unsayable: Literature and Literary Theory. Ed. S. Budick, & W. Iser. New York, NY: Columbia UP, 1989.
    • Dreyfus, H. and Dreyfus, S. “On the proper treatment of Smolensky.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 11 (1988): 31-32.
    • Kermode, F. “Endings, Continued.” Languages of the Unsayable: The Play of Negativity in Literature and Literary Theory. Ed. S. Budick & W. Iser. New York, NY: Columbia UP, 1989.
    • Lakoff, G. Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind. Chicago, IL: U of Chicago P, 1987.
    • —. “Smolensky, semantics, and sensorimotor system.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 11 (1988): 39-40.
    • —. “Cognitive Semantics.” Meaning and mental representations. Ed. U. Eco, M. Santambrogio, & P. Violi. Indiana, IL: Indiana UP, 1988.
    • McClelland, J., Rumelhart, D., & Group, P. R. Parallel Distributed Processing: Explorations in the Microstructure of Cognition. Vol. 1. Cambridge, MA: MIT-Bradford, 1986.
    • Newell, A. Unified Theories of Cognition. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1990.
    • Noth, W. Handbook of Semiotics. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1990.
    • Piaget, J. Structuralism. London: Routledge & Kegan, 1971.
    • Rosch, E. H. “Natural Categories.” Cognitive Psychology 4 (1973): 328-350.
    • Rosen, R. Dynamical Systems Theory in Biology Volume I: Stability Theory and Its Applications. New York, NY: Wiley-Interscience, 1970.
    • Rumelhart, D., McClelland, J., & Group, P. R. Parallel Distributed Processing: Explorations in the Microstructure of Cognition. Vol. 2. Cambridge, MA: MIT-Bradford, 1986.
    • Sheriff, J.K. The Fate of Meaning: Charles Peirce, Structuralism, and Literature. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1989.
    • Smolensky, P. “On the proper treatment of connectionism.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 11 (1988): 1-74.

     

  • Reading Beyond Meaning

    George Aichele

    Dept. of Philosophy and Religion, Adrian College
    470-5237@mcimail.com

    The Theology of the Text

     

    [T]here will never be . . . any theology of the Text.

     

    (Derrida, Dissemination 258)

     

    If the text is an instance of what Jacques Derrida calls “differance,” the ineffable writing, then there can be no theology of the text. There can be no theology of the text because the text is the trace which escapes onto- theological closure (closure of the “volume,” of the “work”) even as it inscribes it. As the non-identity or non- presence which lies at the heart of any scriptural identity, the text is no more than the entirely material “stuff” (hyle) which the idealism inherent in the traditional understanding of the text does not comprehend and therefore excludes.

     

    This understanding of what a text is differs greatly from the traditional one. The traditional understanding of the text allows us to speak of two readers reading “the same text” (book, story, poem, etc.) even though not only the physical objects of the reading but the editions and even the translations involved are different. It allows us to agree or disagree about the legitimacy of an interpretation, the authority of an edition, or the accuracy of a translation. The invisible, underlying stratum which allows us to posit the identity of texts is their meaning, the spiritual essence which binds many varying physical copies into unity.

     

    The traditional understanding of the text is therefore profoundly theological; it is that very theology of the text which differance refuses. It is also profoundly logocentric. For this understanding, the text is not the concrete, unique ink-and-paper thing which you might hold in your hand, scan with your eyes, file on a shelf, give away, or even throw in the trash.1 Instead, the text is an ideal, spiritual substance, a Platonic form of which the material thing is merely a “copy.” The physical object is simply the medium, the channel in and through which the spiritual reality has become incarnate. This way of thinking seems quite natural to us; this indicates how deeply ingrained the theology involved here actually is.

     

    Corresponding closely to the theology of the text is a complex economy of the text, which allows texts to be owned in three distinct but interrelated ways. The conspiracy between these three types of ownership forms the traditional understanding of the text. Meaning is at the center of this system of values; what defines each of the three types of ownership, and their relations to one another, is the desire for meaning. These three types of ownership together establish a law of the text, a system which authenticates “my property” and delimits my rights and obligations in relation to the text. The law of the text establishes the legitimacy of meaning, the possibility of a proper reading. It is the law of what Roland Barthes calls the readerly.

     

    The first owner, the reader, normally owns one copy of the text, a physical object, the book. The reader desires but has no guarantee of owning the book’s meaning. The second owner, the author, is the book’s origin and therefore owns its meaning–the true meaning reflected in every copy. The author secures the book’s meaning. There is also a third “owner,” the copyright holder, who may also be the author (or the reader). This owner possesses the legal right to disseminate copies, to control the event of incarnation. Each of these owners may say, “This is my book,” but the term “my book” cannot mean the same thing in each of these three cases.

     

    This economy of triple ownership turns the text into a “work.”2 For Barthes, the work is defined by society’s recognition of an author and thus of an authority: “One must realize that today it is the work’s ‘quality’ … and not the actual process of reading that can establish differences between books” (“From Work to Text” 79). The work is meaningful and complete; it is an object of consumption. All three owners require the work to be a union of spirit and matter–a union which can (and must) be undone. For the theology of the text, meaning is “in” the text; it is a property of the text.

     

    The theology of the text requires that a distinction be made between exegesis and eisegesis. Exegesis draws (or leads) the truth out of the text; eisegesis imposes the reader’s beliefs upon or reads them into the text. No confusion is permitted between these two. It is an ethical distinction: exegesis respects the integrity of the text, and eisegesis does not. Metaphysics is also involved: the text contains a truth within it, which the skillful reader can extract more or less undamaged, and without imposing too many of her own preconceptions upon it. The text is in some way connected to reality–a reality which is outside of the text (extratextual)–and it is this reality which grounds the proper meaning of the text, inside of the text.

     

    Of course, the theology of the text recognizes that no reading is entirely free of preconceptions, no matter how objective or unbiased the reader may be. Your readings are inevitably shaped by who you are, your previous experiences, feelings and beliefs, and your current contexts, desires, and expectations. Crossing the gap between receiver and sender of any message requires a tricky and sometimes dangerous journey. The traditional understanding of the text assures us that there are guarantees which lessen the difficulties and overcome the dangers in transmission of meaning. These guarantees are provided by rigorous critical techniques, often historical, but also psychological, sociological, or literary. Within the text itself there hides an accessible meaning, which one technique or another can uncover. These techniques provide ways to bridge the gap between text and reality, to capture meaning and thereby close the circle of understanding. Completely objective analysis is impossible, but with proper use of the techniques something approaching a scientific consensus can be reached.

     

    However, the theologically indispensable distinction between exegesis and eisegesis has been eroded in recent years. First the New Criticism, then structuralism, and most recently the various forms of poststructuralism (including the views of Derrida, Barthes, and Michel Foucault) have with increasing vigor exposed and challenged theological presuppositions on which the traditional understanding of the text rests. The notion that each text contains within it a single true meaning–or any meaning– has been abandoned by many, and the question of reference– the connection between text and reality–is up for grabs. The Eurocentric and phallocentric tendencies of the supposedly scientific criticism are increasingly difficult to deny, although defenders of the Western cultural tradition (the “great books”) remain plentiful, and the debate is probably far from over.

     

    There will never be any theology of the text, says Derrida. However, if we must do without a theology of the text, then perhaps a theology of reading can in some respects take its place. The question of the object of our reading becomes uncertain and even mysterious, but the question of what reading is can be at least partly answered. In our belief that there is a connection between the text and reality, we have overlooked or minimized theologically important dimensions of reading, including the role of the reader in the production of meaning, the influence of ideology upon reading, and the resistance to meaning inherent within texts.3 As the concept of “text” becomes problematic and elusive for postmodern thought, an understanding of reading becomes more desirable. We can no longer rely upon a theology of the text, but we can explore a theology of reading.

     

    The Non-Reader

     

    Reading is an endless and violent playing with the text, and the reader is in a perpetual struggle with the law of the text. She draws her life from this law even as she disturbs it; she is a vector directing the movement of the law and giving it meaning. The law establishes the book as a meaning-filled work, as the product of a worker (an author) within a system of exchange which makes it available as a piece of property. Nevertheless the reader determines the value of the book, as a work, for all of its various owners.

     

    In Italo Calvino’s postmodern novel, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, there is a character named Irnerio. Irnerio is a “non-reader”–a person who has taught himself how not to read. He is not illiterate, not even “functionally illiterate.” Irnerio refuses to read. Yet Irnerio does not refuse to look at written words. Rather, he has learned how to see strange and meaningless ink marks on pages where others see words. Irnerio is beyond reading; for him the books, pages, and words are no longer the transparent vehicles for immaterial ideas, but they are solid, opaque objects.

     

    I've become so accustomed to not reading that I don't even read what appears before my eyes. It's not easy: they teach us to read as children, and for the rest of our lives we remain the slaves of all the written stuff they fling in front of us. . . . The secret is not refusing to look at the written words. On the contrary, you must look at them, intensely, until they disappear.(49)

     

    For the non-reader, the written words eventually “disappear”–they disintegrate into not-quite-letters, shapes, blobs of darkness on the white page. This is because the non-reader looks at them, at the physical marks themselves, and not at what they mean. The words disappear into sheer materiality; they become meaningless deposits of ink on paper. They are not altered physically, but they lose their signifying potential. They cease to be filled with what the philosopher Gottlob Frege called “sense”; they become nonsensical. The printed words return to what Julia Kristeva calls the semiotic chora. To speak of such texts as more-or-less accurate copies of an ideal, transcendent original is impossible.

     

    The words also disappear for readers, but for the opposite reason, and in the opposite direction. As you learned to read, the meaning of the words gradually came to dominate the physical text. You learned to conceptualize past or through the concrete marks that make up words and sentences, to “see” meanings or ideas that are represented, to hear the language with your mind’s ear. As reading became easier for you, the materiality of writing (as an obstruction to sense) became an almost invisible, transparent vehicle; what you really read is what the written words “say,” their meaning. You only read words insofar as writing itself has become invisible. What you read is the idea within the word, and you don’t like it if the materiality of the word obscures the idea.

     

    Thus the written word may disappear in either of two directions, which correspond to the two components that make up language–the physical medium (the signifier) and the intelligible content (the signified). For the reader, the word is caught in a tension between these two components–a tension which cannot be maintained, but only imagined as a midpoint between two extremes. When either of the differences which make signification possible–differences between signifiers, or differences between signifieds–are foregrounded (when they become visible), the word disappears. For those who know how to read–and this includes non-readers such as Irnerio–one component or the other must be foregrounded. Unlike Irnerio, readers choose to foreground the signified: the concepts, feelings, and other representations derived from reading. To foreground the material signifier of writing rather than its signified meaning, as Irnerio does, seems ludicrous and irresponsible to us–it goes against the grain; it is unnatural.

     

    Non-reading stays close to the physical letter, the written word. This would correspond to Barthes’s “text of bliss,” the writerly text. A reader can become a non-reader only through a deliberate choice; such a choice reflects upon, and rejects, the ethics (and economics, and theology) of the text. Irnerio refuses the categories of ownership, at least when it comes to books. If he were not such an agreeable fellow, and actually quite moral in his own strange way, you would have to think of Irnerio as evil. Yet readers are also non-readers, although in a limited way. When you attempt to decipher an unusual script, or study a language with a different alphabet, the foregrounding of the signifier is unavoidable, and often unpleasant. You then become an inadvertent non-reader, although unlike Irnerio you are still trying to read.

     

    However, no one can actually learn not to read. Irnerio represents an unreachable goal; that is why his subversions of literariness do not upset us. Instead, they amuse us. Not to read is an impossible ideal, for the unconscious habits of reading cannot be entirely unlearned. The non-reader rejects the signified, and chooses only the signifier. However, a signifier without a signified is impossible; hence the non-reader is impossible. Probably only the truly illiterate person–the one who can make nothing out of writing–can actually see the written word as a bunch of squiggles, senseless marks which cannot be significantly distinguished from other similar squiggles. Such squiggles are not signifiers, and they have no signifieds.

     

    For Irnerio all that counts is the life lived instant by instant; art for him counts as expenditure of vital energy, not as a work that remains, not as that accumulation of life that [the reader] seeks in books. But he also recognizes, without need of reading, that energy somehow accumulated, and he feels obliged to bring it back into circulation, using [the reader's] books as the material base for works in which he can invest his own energy, at least for an instant.(150)

     

    Irnerio views books merely as things. He is an artist, and literature is his medium, but not as we might expect. Books are worthy in and of themselves, but only as the meaningless stuff (hyle) which he glues together into larger hunks and then carves into abstract sculptures. However, non-reading is not easy, even for a master such as Irnerio. How does he decide which book is the right one for a sculpture? Is his decision based solely on the physical matter of the book (color or shape of cover, size or thickness of pages, binding, typeface, etc.), or is Irnerio also somehow aware of its contents?

     

    I fix the books with mastic, and they stay as they were. Shut, or open, or else I give them forms, I carve them, I make holes in them.. . . . The critics say what I do is important. Now they’re putting all my works in a book. . . . A book with photographs of all my works. When this book is printed, I’ll use it for another work, lots of works.

    . . . . There are some books that immediately give me the idea of what I can make from them, but others don't. Sometimes I have an idea, but I can't make it until I find the right book.(149)

     

    Non-reading points to the limit-condition which defines reading: its material situation. It highlights the theology implicit in the traditional understanding of the text. Yet the non-reader is clearly a sort of parasite on the literate world, or indeed, on literature itself. Irnerio cannot exist unless readers exist, unless an entire immense structure of civilization exists–including authors and publishing houses and scholars and bookstores and translators, as well as economic and educational and political systems–a structure which allows and requires readers to be readers. The ramifications of that larger structure provide the world and much of the plot of Calvino’s novel.

     

    Literal Translation

     

    The reader is made possible by the misplacing of the word which is writing. Every reading is a translation, a transfer (or “metaphor”) of something which allegedly lies on or in the page–Frege’s “sense”–to some other place inside the reader’s mind. Yet as Irnerio makes clear, when he refuses to read, that “something” is not the physical stuff of the books themselves, but something else entirely. Readers are trans-lators, those who take things from their proper places and move them somewhere else, and reading is intertextual, an endless juxtaposition and interchange of texts which is a kind of translation. The theology of reading entails also a theory of translation, and vice versa.

     

    For the theology of the text, the goal of the translator is to retrieve the authentic message of the original text and then re-embody that message in a new text. It is only the ideal text, the “work,” which can be translated, not the material text. Translation is exegesis. Compared to its meaning, the physical aspects of the translated text are unimportant, and they can be modified and rearranged and ultimately sloughed off, like a mortal human body temporarily inhabited by an eternal soul. As noted above, the theology of the text has its own doctrine of the incarnation, for which the spiritual “word” enters into the written “flesh.”

     

    The translation theory of Walter Benjamin presents an alternative view of the theological dimension of texts and the operations of language–a view that is close to Irnerio’s. According to Benjamin, the goal of translation is not to transfer a meaning (which can somehow be detached from its linguistic embodiment) from one textual body to another, but rather to form a kind of reciprocity between the translation and the original text, so that the reader sees through both to “pure language.” This pure or “true” language is not an historical, empirical language, but rather it is language itself, language without purpose, meaning, or function–language speaking only itself, endlessly. Benjamin called this goal “literal translation.”

     

    A real translation is transparent; it does not cover the original, does not block its light, but allows the pure language, as though reinforced by its own medium, to shine upon the original all the more fully.(79)

     

    Literal translation seeks “a language completely devoid of any kind of meaning function . . . pure signifier . . . paradoxical in the extreme” (de Man 96-97). The goal of literal translation is the interlinear text, “in which literalness and freedom are united” (Benjamin 82). In the space between the parallel lines of the two texts, the translation and its original are united in a true language “without the mediation of meaning.” The translation reflects back upon and reveals the original as a fragment of pure language, in a way that it is unable to reveal itself. In translation the original is brought back to life, and the pure language imprisoned within the original text is “liberated” (Benjamin 71-72, 80). It is translation, according to Benjamin, that “saves” the text.

     

    For Benjamin, the principal question in translation theory is: how does the translated text illuminate the original text? The value of a translation lies in its confrontation with the original text, not in its infallible transmission of the meaning of that text. The preferred translation will not necessarily be the most accurate one, the clearest transmission of meaning, but rather the one which stands in tension with the original text. Literal translation measures the uniqueness of the material text by the other texts with which it is juxtaposed, and with the possibilities for intertextual meaning which then emerge. Like a tangent to a circle, the translation harmoniously supplements and complements the original. There is no question of the two texts somehow being two copies of the same thing.

     

    The interlinear space of translation is utopian and uninhabitable; it is sacred and untouchable space (Derrida, The Ear of the Other 115). The letters of the alphabet, from which the text is assembled, are meaningless in themselves. The text itself as a physical object, the material space of the semiotic, is deficient in meaning. The physical text is a literal text, and therefore it resists interpretation. It is unreadable, non-readable, non-readerly. According to this view, the purpose of language is not to reveal but to conceal, and translation tests the power of language to hide meaning:

     

    [T]ranslation must in large measure refrain from wanting to communicate something, from rendering the sense, and in this the original is important to it only insofar as it has already relieved the translator and his translation of the effort of assembling and expressing what is to be conveyed.(Benjamin 78)

     

    Literal translation seeks to uncover the language spoken by God in creating the universe–that is, a language of naming. For literal translation, the proper name is a matter of crucial importance. Names cannot be translated, strictly speaking–they stand at the very edge of language, at the boundary of signification. Names have meaning (they refer to objects), and yet they do not mean (they cannot be defined). The name is language beyond meaning, without meaning–a language “lost” by humanity (because “confused” by God) at the Tower of Babel.

     

    Benjamin’s views on translation come explicitly into the realm of theology, and they are close to a kind of Kabbalist mysticism. Like non-reading, literal translation draws language back to a point of ineffability, to the edge of the human world. It empties language of significance, reducing it to a material residuum alone. Literal translation refuses to allow the separation of meaning from its physical embodiment, and thereby it de-values the question of meaning. The ideal of exegetical translation is rejected. However, the absence of an extratextual realm of meaning does not liberate translation but rather constrains it, and perhaps even renders it impossible.

     

    Materialist Reading

     

    The reader invents the work as an authority, something worth owning. This law of ownership is equivalent to the desire for translation, and for exegesis. Barthes identified this kind of reading with the readerly, the “text of pleasure.” In its explorations of narrative codes, strategies of authority, and the production of meaning, Barthes’s writings, and especially S/Z, present an important contribution to the theology of reading. Fernando Belo’s book, A Materialist Reading of the Gospel of Mark, is one of the few sustained attempts apart from S/Z itself to apply this method to any writing, although one might argue that Calvino’s novel playfully hoists Barthes on his own petard.

     

    S/Z is an immensely complex and close reading of Honore de Balzac’s novella, Sarrasine. Barthes divided Balzac’s story into 561 “lexias,” which he then analyzed in terms of five “codes” which he found operating throughout that narrative. A lexia is a phrase (in the sense that Jean-Francois Lyotard has given to that term), an individual semantic unit which may range in length from part of a sentence to several sentences. The codes are the cultural and intellectual filters through which the great abstract repository of langue becomes the limited specificity of parole, and through which the field of potential signification (what Kristeva calls the semiotic) is formed into a narrative world (what Kristeva calls the symbolic). The codes permit and also channel the conjunction of signifier and signified.

     

    The codes form the structures through which Sarrasine creates the readerly illusion of a transparent window (a story within a story) opening on to a coherent and realistic world. In the larger, “framing” story, an unnamed man attempts, and fails, to seduce a beautiful young woman by agreeing to reveal to her the identity of a mysterious old man. This revelation takes the form of a story (the inner, “framed” story) of a foolish and impetuous artist (Sarrasine) who mistakes a beautiful castrato (La Zambinella) for a woman and falls in love with “her,” with fatal consequences. Barthes’s detailed analysis of these codes, one or more of which functions in each of the lexias, reveals that they conceal a deep narrative incoherence (the writerly), an absence or deficiency (a castration) which the narrative both represents and is.

     

    This catastrophic collapse always takes the same form: that of an unrestrained metonymy. By abolishing the paradigmatic barriers, this metonymy abolishes the power of legal substitution on which meaning is based: it is then no longer possible regularly to contrast opposites, sexes, possessions; it is no longer possible to safeguard an order of just equivalence; in a word, it is no longer possible to represent, to make things representative, individuated, separate, assigned. (215-216) At its discreet urging, we want to ask the classic text: What are you thinking about? but the text, wilier than all those who try to escape by answering: about nothing, does not reply, giving meaning its last closure: suspension.(217)

     

    The writerly is the resistance which the text offers to coherent meaning–not an active resistance, as of a living presence (such as the intention of an author), but a passive, inertial resistance, a kind of friction. It is lodged in the materiality of the text as writing (hence Barthes’s term). This materiality disrupts the narrative codes, interrupting their operation or setting them against one another, and therefore the writerly may be identified through the frustration of the reader’s desire for a readerly, followable narrative. The writerly consists in those elements of the text which remain opaque to reading, refusing to be reduced to a consistent and comprehensive understanding–and which are present in even the most readerly and realistic narratives, such as Sarrasine.

     

    Every instance of language is at least somewhat writerly, and there are some texts which resist any coherent reading. The conflict over meaning is somehow essential to the attempt to read these writings, which are in effect all surface, a surface which reflects parabolically upon itself and which never opens up to reveal unambiguously an extratextual truth. The materiality of the text appears whenever reference is suspended or otherwise incomplete. Barthes argued that the readerly work must disappear whenever the writerly text appears, that the text de-authorizes or de-constitutes the work (“From Work to Text” 78-79).

     

    Through his reading of Balzac, Barthes (like Benjamin) recovered in a secular way a strand of the Kabbalah, the mystical rabbinic reading of Torah which attended even to the physical shapes of the Hebrew letters, and which has been long overlooked by the logocentric idealist tradition which has dominated Western philosophical and theological thinking–the theology of the text. Barthes’s reading praxis is a Benjaminian translation; the “pure language” of the Balzacian text is uncovered, and it speaks. Through his reading of Barthes (and of the gospel of Mark), Belo has re-imported this sort of reading into biblical studies. Belo’s “materialist reading” of Mark is not merely so in the sense that as a Marxist analysis, it is materialistic. Rather, it is materialist also (and perhaps more so) in that it attends to the written/printed text as a material body.

     

    Belo follows the same method that Barthes used, adopting some of Barthes’s codes and identifying others appropriate to Mark’s text. He claims that he intends to read Mark in terms of its narrative qualities alone, and with no regard to its referential truth-value (95). In order to do so, he divides the gospel of Mark into 73 “sequences,” each made up of one or more “scenes.” Here he compromises Barthes’s text-analytical method by combining it with traditional historical-critical views; Belo’s “sequences” are established from critical pericopes, irreducible atoms of the tradition behind the synoptic gospels as uncovered by biblical scholarship of the last two centuries. The bulk of Belo’s book consists of detailed and often provocative reading of these sequences in terms of the relevant codes.

     

    However, despite his ingenious adaptation of codes which Barthes developed for study of a nineteenth-century French Romantic novella, so that they are also relevant to a first-century Hellenistic Jewish gospel, Belo rarely uncovers in Mark the sort of remarkable narrative structures that Barthes does in Sarrasine. This is not a consequence of the differences between these texts. The gospel of Mark is more writerly than Balzac’s story, although its long entombment within the security of the Christian canon has protected it from this sort of critical reading. Nonetheless, studies of the gospels in recent years have gone far toward penetrating that security. Belo is apparently unaware of these studies.4

     

    In addition, Belo frequently accepts the judgments of traditional bourgeois biblical scholarship–the very judgments which he claims to be rejecting!–not only in relation to matters of dating and provenance of the gospel (96-97), but also and apparently unconsciously in relation to many points of exegesis. Belo admits that his reading is “naive” (1). This naivete contributes to the charm and originality of his book. However, what is most disturbing about Belo’s reading of Mark at these points is its quality of naturalness.

     

    Belo’s reading “de-materializes” the Markan text in an effort to bring to it a kind of closure. This closed text refers to participation in an apostolic succession which continues in contemporary movements of liberation, and it turns the oppressed peoples of the world into a new Israel. To this corresponds Belo’s reading of the Markan Jesus as a Pauline Jesus (206, 297), or a Jesus who abandons Judaism in order to turn to the gentiles, and who is stopped by Jewish authorities before his revolutionary plans can be fully realized.5 Liberation of the oppressed is a worthy goal, but if that alone is what Mark is “really” about, then the text may once again have been closed in the name of logocentric univocity.

     

    I share Belo’s political sympathies, and I share his disgust with the theological tepidity of contemporary bourgeois churches, but I suspect (as I think Barthes would) those points in Belo’s reading where the reader’s need for a committed writing overwhelms the materiality of the text. I then become a non-reader. This tests both my reading and Belo’s. The strengths of his reading are in those places (and they are many) where it is itself radically shaken or disrupted by the writerly qualities of the gospel of Mark, where Mark’s refusal of the bourgeois reading emerges through its refusal of any single dominant reading–even Belo’s.

     

    The gospel of Mark is not a politically neutral text. Few texts do the job of confronting and rejecting the reader’s need for power and for control as well as Mark does. My objections to Belo’s book do not center upon his political reading, but upon his apparent desire to have his reading be the only reading. This creates a conflict which may be inherent in any reading, but which is suppressed all too often. Belo’s ability to call Mark’s textual resistance to our attention emphasizes the degree to which many readers have failed to see that resistance. It is this ideological dimension of Mark–its resistance to the reader–which demands a materialist reading. Yet it is precisely this resistance which can never be read, which can only be encountered, by any reader, as the unreadable, the non- readerliness of the text. Belo’s reading reveals the alienness of Mark’s story, and this can only happen through close attention to the materiality of the text.

     

    Belo’s book carries profound implications for those who engage in theological enquiry beyond the confines of traditional religious institutions.6 His book concludes with a long “Essay in Materialist Ecclesiology” in which Belo sketches an “ecclesial” understanding of the “collective son of man” as a material presence in the world–as a body composed of hands, feet, and eyes. This body, which is inherently political, is in Mark’s view (as interpreted by Belo) Jesus’s body. It is not a body to be abandoned in an ascension to some spiritual realm, but rather it is the text itself incarnate in its readers, in this physical world, the only place where the kingdom of God might be.

     

    The continuity thus refers us to the figure of the collective Son of man at the level of the erased text; this figure . . . functions in the register of a continuity that is indicated by the ascensional schema in which the starting point is earth. Let us demythologize this figure. . . . What will be left of the figure of the collective Son of man will be the communist program of his practice, [and] his subversiveness.(287)

     

    For Belo, this means a re-opening of the question of resurrection, for he insists that salvation in the gospel of Mark is always salvation of the body. The “body of Christ” is no easy theological metaphor here. Belo argues that the messianic narrative of Mark lies in fundamental opposition to the theological discourse of the institutional church. It is this discourse which keeps the church from being able to read Mark in liberative fashion.

     

    The Gospel narrative is articulated with the indefinite play of the narratives of its readings, a play that must not be closured, even in the name of reason, even in the name of God. The debate thus opened concerns the evaluation of the power at work in the practice of the bodies which we are.(294)

     

    By playing the culturally-determined pressures toward signification (the codes) over against the writerly resistance offered by the materiality of the text, Belo’s materialist reading treads a fine line. At every step it threatens the obliteration of the very thing which makes it possible. On the one hand, the desire to produce a coherent reading is very powerful, and perhaps irresistible. On the other hand, it is the materiality of the text–its otherness–that refuses the hegemony of bourgeois theology and opens a space for Belo’s alternative reading.

     

    Concrete Theology

     

    Literal translation, the non-reader, and materialist reading offer approaches to a theology of reading which stress the physical, concrete aspects of the text in ways customarily ignored by traditional theories of the text, as well as by much of the Jewish and nearly all of the Christian theological tradition. Calvino, Benjamin, and Belo provide examples of what I have elsewhere called “concrete theology.”7 The theology of the text understands the text as an incarnate yet ultimately spiritual word. In contrast, concrete theology is a theology of reading which seeks to discover the essential carnality of the word in the materiality of the text, language at those points where it bodies itself into concrete reality, apart from any signification, exceeding its own metaphysical limits.

     

    Concrete theology desires the “new word,” the word which is as yet or once again meaningless–not really a word, but only potentially one. It seeks this word in nonsense, incoherence, and gibberish. (This is not glossolalia, for which the “speaking in tongues” is already Spirit-filled.) In this it is both materialistic and mystical. Concrete theology therefore attends closely to those points where language resists rational or empirical analysis, where the rules of meaning are broken–for example, questions of fictionality, connotation, and metaphor.

     

    Concrete theology rejects the theology of the text, and in so doing it makes problematic the very meaning of “theology.” Nevertheless, the word “theology” points to the ongoing, inevitable, and inescapable slide of language and thought toward metaphysical (logocentric, onto-theological) closure–the inevitable return of the traditional understanding of the text. All language and thought, even the most atheistic, the most secular, and the most scientific, is caught in the gravitational field of this great black hole which we call by words such as “presence” and “reference.” Only poetry in its most radical, linguistically self-destructive forms comes close to escaping the vortex–but in such poetry, language is at its most concrete. This is the maximum degree of the writerly.

     

    As a theology of reading, concrete theology is intensely interested in books, writings, scripture.8 However, concrete theology rejects the Bible as authority, just as Belo rejects the appropriation of biblical truth by bourgeois theology, and just as Irnerio rejects the demand of every writing, the demand to be read. Concrete theology reads the Bible against the grain of established theological truth. It also rejects the church’s claim to ownership of the Bible–concrete theology liberates the Bible from the church’s hermeneutic control. It refuses the closed canon as such. The Bible becomes for it just another text, or rather, many texts. For concrete theology, the Bible is many bibles, an expanding and contracting and multiple text, a shimmering of texts which cannot be contained in any one book.

     

    For concrete theology, exegesis is eisegesis. A better term than either of these is one recently proposed by Gary Phillips, “intergesis,” which suggests a reading between the texts, or intertextual reading. The term “exegesis” is an ideological subterfuge used to conceal a preference for one type of eisegesis over others, to make one way of reading into the text appear to be the natural, normal reading- out of what the text had within it. The works of Calvino, Benjamin, and Barthes, among others, have made it clear that there is no such thing as an objective meaning hidden within any text. The notion of a scientific critical exegesis is as dangerous in its own way as the proclamation of the “true meaning of the Bible” (as inspired by God) on the part of fundamentalist religion, to which the theology of the text is functionally equivalent.

     

    There are no limits to eisegesis, or to misreading. As a translation from the materiality of the text, every reading is a misreading, turning the text into what it is not. Still, to say that there are no correct interpretations doesn’t mean that there are no incorrect interpretations. One who reads Sarrasine and understands La Zambinella to be a woman, or a gay man, does not read “the same story” as another who understands the accepted meaning of “castrato.”9 An alternative set of codes which permit the understanding of “castrato” as, e.g., “a type of woman” is not inconceivable, but such a reading would render incoherent the narrative structures of Sarrasine. In such a reading the bounds of intertextuality would be strained to the point of “anything goes,” and the thwarted desire for meaning would destroy the prospect of its own satisfaction.

     

    However, reading is a juggling of codes, trying to get it all to “work out right.” One misreading leads to another. I read Belo’s book within the context of an attempt to understand concrete theology. I sought a materialist reading of his materialist reading. I did not read Belo in the context in which Belo reads the gospel of Mark, and yet his reading is not entirely unlike Irnerio’s non-reading, either. In addition, Belo also permits a reading from within another context, the context of “the other.” Every (re)reading changes the context and opens a way for the other. The material text–physical marks on the page–is liberated from one context, and it is transported (translated) into another. The material text remains “the same” (physically), but the meaning must be altered. It is a misunderstanding–but then, all readings are inevitably misreadings.

     

    What is needed is an understanding of the tensions between resistance inherent in the physical aspects of the text, and ideological pressures brought to bear upon it by readers. Like Irnerio, I reshape Belo’s work to fit my own desire–I read into it. As a middle-class male gentile white heterosexual North American, I am perpetually in serious danger of reclaiming Belo’s radically neo-Marxist reading of Mark for the sort of bourgeois theology over against which he sets his own reading. That is a risk which I must take, or else not read (that is, not translate) and remain silent–unlike Irnerio, whose non-reading culminates in the work of art. Nonetheless, my reading is also not entirely foreign to Belo’s, even as it cannot be identical to his. It stands over against his book, touching it (I hope) as a tangent to a circle.

     

    The text is the specific, material product of a concrete act of production. For the logocentric, idealist tradition, the materiality of language is only the temporary and ultimately transparent medium for the spirituality of meaning. For materialist reading, in contrast, marks on the surface of the page are not merely the vehicle or channel of a fundamentally independent meaning, passing it on from an earlier, extratextual realm (such as the mind of an author) so that it may eventually be translated back to a different, but also extratextual, location (the mind of a reader). Instead, these marks are opaque, inert, and resistant to the desire for meaning. The differences through which they signify are themselves without meaning. The material body of the text conceals even as (and more than) it reveals. Different texts are not copies of some ideal original, and they cannot be collapsed into some universal, spiritual entity.

     

    Concrete theology is the name for awareness of the tensions involved between the desire for, and the resistance to, meaning. Concrete theology therefore also offers a way of non-reading. It presents a different reading, an alternative reading, from the mainstreams of the Jewish and Christian traditions. It is a reading of the otherness of the text which may well appear to traditional readers as a mutilation of the text. It looks so intensely at the text that the words disappear, not into ideas as they do for traditional readings, but into meaningless marks. Concrete theology can never be more than a prolegomenon, a not-quite- theology, a via negativa which can only announce what it is not.

     

    Notes

     

    1. Increasingly, texts are not a matter of ink and paper but of magnetic or laser-optic recordings. What will the relative invisibility of such media, unreadable without special machinery, do to our thinking about texts and reading? How will the change in the physical stuff of the text itself change our theology of the text?

     

    2. Some analytic philosophers reserve the word “text” for the physical object (words on a page); what I call here the ideal or spiritual text, they call the “work.” The work is a self-identical artistic entity (for example, a particular story) which may be found in various texts. Barthes made a similar distinction, identifying the work with the readerly, the “text of pleasure.” Foucault notes some logical difficulties in the concept of “the work” (143-44).

     

    3. Varieties of reader-response criticism remain popular and influential in literary studies, but they will not be discussed here. However, some criticisms of reader- response theory may be inferred from the following.

     

    4. With the exception of Louis Marin’s important book and the work of a few other French structuralists, Belo does not cite any of the literary and narratological studies of the gospels of the last several decades. His references to English-speaking biblical scholars are to an earlier generation.

     

    5. Belo’s reading here is not at all foreign to the history of bourgeois biblical scholarship, despite his claims to the contrary, but it suggests an anti-Semitism which is arguably foreign to the gospel of Mark. One finds echoes of this at several points in Belo’s reading, such as his comments on Jesus’s interactions with the Gerasene demoniac (pagans do not endanger Jesus, 130) and with the Syrophoenician woman (as an alteration of Jesus’s strategy, 145).

     

    6. See my essay, “Post-Ecclesiastical Theology,” Explorations (Spring,1992).

     

    7. “In order to exceed the limits, theology must uncover the not-itself which lies unnamed at its center, its hidden eccentricity and non-identity: it must become concrete” (Aichele 138-139).

     

    8. “[T]o describe systems of meaning by postulating a final signified is to side against the very nature of meaning. . . . Scripture is a privileged domain for this problem, because, on the one hand, theologically, it is certain that a final signified is postulated: the metaphysical definition or the semantic definition of theology is to postulate the Last Signified; and because, on the other hand, the very notion of Scripture, the fact that the Bible is called Scripture, Writing, would orient us toward a more ambiguous comprehension of the problems, as if effectively, and theologically too, the base, the princeps, were still a Writing, and always a Writing” (Barthes, The Semiotic Challenge 242).

     

    9. When I teach S/Z, I have the students read Sarrasine first, on their own. Several usually come up with such readings.

    Works Cited

     

    • Aichele, George. The Limits of Story. Chico, Calif.: Scholars P, 1985.
    • Barthes, Roland. S/Z. Trans. Richard Miller. New York: Hill and Wang, 1974.
    • —. “From Work to Text.” Textual Strategies. Ed. and introd. Josue V. Harari. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1979.
    • —. The Semiotic Challenge. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Hill and Wang, 1988.
    • Belo, Fernando. A Materialist Reading of the Gospel of Mark. Trans. Matthew J. O’Connell. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1981.
    • Benjamin, Walter. Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Schocken Books, 1968.
    • Calvino, Italo. If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler. Trans. William Weaver. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1981.
    • de Man, Paul. The Resistance to Theory. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1986.
    • Derrida, Jacques. Dissemination. Trans. Barbara Johnson. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1981.
    • —. The Ear of the Other. Trans. Peggy Kamuf and Avital Ronell. New York: Schocken Books, 1985.
    • Foucault, Michel. “What Is an Author?” Textual Strategies. Ed. and introd. Josue V. Harari. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1979.
    • Frege, Gottlob. Translations From the Writings of Gottlob Frege. Trans. and ed. P.T. Geach and M. Black. Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1952.
    • Kristeva, Julia. Revolution in Poetic Language. Trans. Margaret Waller. New York: Columbia UP, 1984.
    • Lyotard, Jean-Francois. The Differend. Trans. Georges Van Den Abbeele. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1988.
    • Phillips, Gary A. “‘What is Written? How are You Reading?’ Gospel, Intertextuality and Doing Lukewise: A Writerly Reading of Lk 10:25-37 (and 38-42).” Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers. Atlanta: Scholars P, 1992.

     

  • XL (Letters on Xenakis)

    Nathaniel Bobbitt

        Introduction and References
    
           Xenakis remains a musical figure whose methods
           have literary implications.  To consider the personality of
           Xenakis, a musical and architectural thinker, becomes a
           means to extend literary tasks in favor of physical and
           sensory aspects of experience, behavior, and prerformance.
           Xenakis stands as a reference point on how to work with
           techology and how to wonder about a technological outlook
           within the writing process.  
    
           In XL, Xenakis appears as the means to consider the literary
           task of treating greater quantities of detail and spatial
           reference within writing.  The next step is clearly textual
           instability and a generative prose form.
    
           A.  Breton's political/scientific approach, also in Xenakis
                -Collaboration and collectives
                -Science, Center of Mathematical and Automated
                  Studies, compare Xenakis interest in musical
                  cognition with Weil's thesis on Descartes' Science
                  and Perception
    
           B.  What are the exercises which develop an aleatory sense
                of treating greater quantities of data, all at once,
                via:
                -Symmetry
                -Asymmetry
                -Computational complex patterns
    
           C.  "Objects in action,"  compared with optical illusions
                   complex observations rather than the consideration
                   of fallibility, hallucination:
                -Consider the juxtaposition with regular hitting
                 hangers; scrapping tangle as frictive noise as
                 a rythmic source
                -Waterdrops on a metal plate & microtonality
    
           D.  Irrational quality to be found in "objects in action"
                -Acceleration in glissandi
                -Multiphonic versus microtonal drone
                -Octave glissandi...at a microtonal degree
                 These irrational qualities anticipate a "siren"       
                 activity that tempi studies in Carter on the player
                 piano.
    
                                      ***
    
           I.  B.F. Skinner & Xenakis as models for the commentator's
                (the friends') consideration of behavior as
                quantifiable:
                -Skinner...item...collection
                -Xenaxis...group...manipulation
                -Use of memory as heuristic module within the
                 sensorial practice:  F(x, y)...sensorial
                                      F (x',y')...memorial
                -Skinner...behavior (habitual)
                -Xenakis...performance (task realization)
           Consider Skinner and Xenakis on math testing and the
            mathematics of experiment testing.
    
           M.
                Adieux, when I get a chance to break away from the
           hurry up and wait activity I write you, almost a symbol more
           than anything.  A symbol of what I should be in contact
           with, not that I need reminding but all my mainstays are
           packed away.  The necessity of a new place takes over so.  
           The chance to meet with others is here, as I am a substitute
           teacher.  Each day a new school, another direction, and a
           bus route to learn.  The time schedule is that of the rural
           doctor.  What does the sense of patrimony and
           grandfatherhood evoke for you: Such stodgy sorts perhaps
           are not vivid enough for "your punk German, your computer
           talk, cinema and the blurbs that run together."  Yet you
           were friendlier (than the other Darmstadters) as an ideal
           separates...and allows one to respond.  One day these
           letters, notes, and discussion may serve a sentimental end,
           that of being taken on as a companion in a stoic expression.
    
           For now, necessity takes over from irony.  Both are
           merciless yet irony's heartlessness and pointed humor is
           another story.  Perish the thought, enter hunger, perish the
           thought.  I think of you as someone that asks for only a
           good-humored naturalness, as the bitter and remedial feeling
           after your desires are taken care of elsewhere.  Instead
           there is the commentary the breeze after so many close calls
           and disinterested conversation between two commentators. 
           The word finally appears commentaire.  The ability to work,
           experiment, exchange over short periods, despite wider
           lapses of conversation.  Good commentator, good night.
    
           XENAKIS LETTERS
    
           1.2.0
    
           M.
    
                It hardly seems like it, but after two summers the term
           "volumetric" has taken on a life of its own coincidental,
           arbitrary, and unavoidable.  I am content with this news
           which I must explain to you...as it means undoing a tangle.
    
                By now you know that I am always trying to find ways to
           make more out of my sentimentality.  The act of reading a
           favorite is even more pleasurable if I can extend some
           aspect of an author and respond to that attraction in the
           reading.  Better yet, someone shows me something "how to do"
           and I use it.  The call-backs, the sentimentality I live
           over time through the debris of a better time, the reading
           matter, the source of conversation, the identifiable regard.
    
           You as commentator must have some idea about this as all
           this work grew out of that name..."Xenakis"...with enough
           associations and arbitrary ties, pointing out the same
           name.  The ones today regard measure and the study in
           "pictures which make you think."  Diagram, meditatio,
           Archimedes appears...in particular, the cases of the
           pendium, the bouyancy of things...offer the elements of a
           study of volumetrics in Xenakis.
    
           Author's Note:
    
                These quotes refer back until we consider curvature and
           foci in the forms of volume, but what I am after is the
           place of acceleration and temperature in volumetrics, the
           sonic boom in winter and summer according to crisp heat in
           the skyline.  Archimedes was gained from Weil, as your news
           on Xenakis's use of the etch-a-sketch all pose one question:
           how graphism informs acoustics.
    
                Ever since someone said, "the concert was no good
           because of the acoustics," the relationship of sound and
           space was there, but what little advantage do we take of
           the notion.  Steering clear of metaphor--the pendulum, the
           remote focal point, gravity, centrifugal force align: 
           acoustics, graphics, math, music, and architecture--without
           metaphor.
    
                The first example will be mine...regarding clusters in
           the form of the siren, the warning signal, and radiated
           pitch.
    
           1.3.0
    
           M.
                Tell me something, when you are out at the club, at
           what moments does imagination take over from the body
           slamming.  How weightless do they get or is it controlled
           busting one's head into a wall.  Is it just black and blue
           or does clotting appear.
                Yesterday I read about India, rioters after an act of
           self-immolation.  Degrees of frenzy, hunger, and new friends
           fear the insipid.
    
           XENAKIS LETTERS
    
            The tenets of Logic:
                -To think faster, to learn (heuristic models) within
                 correction and error.
                -To handle greater quantities of data
                -Applications for a math primer for everybody:
                -Selection
                -Mathematical Expectation
                -Weighting test criteria
                -Qualities of experimental testing as fundamental to
                 quantification rather than 1:1 quantification of
                 behavior.
    
           Conclusion:
    
           Seek modes and resolve application tenets:
                -rythmic comparison of irregular (odd numbered)
                 figures at irregular durations.
                -interval in an interval
                -compare two-sided lineal time scheme
    
                Stroking facial movements to stimulate memory in
           dementia patients is comparable to a normal person's
           stroking of face when one is engaged or interested.
                Yet the dementia patients ramble and stroke themselves
           but it is their hair which they stroke.  What role can
           stroking have in neurological functions in intelligence and
           cognition:
                -memory
                -learning
                -concentration
                -recollection
                -attention
    
           1.4.0
    
           M
                One can concentrate by straining the forehead to
           attempt to focus one's attention or shake one's head.  The
           relation between gesture and intelligent functions is a
           means to consider therapy and neurological stimulation
           without drugs.
    
           When dementia patients forget, several steps are missing:
           -image of concentration
           -direction of image (contextual relation)
           -inability to hold onto the image
                *) slipping away of name--object association
                *) slipping away of verbal--phonatory mode
                Dementia is a regression into a childlike
           consciousness: sensorial and pre-speech.  Reinforce
           sensorial rather than verbal lapses.
                We are living very modestly and that stops me.  As
           always rules the motto "go broke in a beautiful place."  The
           lake here, the amplitude of space, the triangle with Toronto
           and Canada are reasons for you to come up.  The absence of
           identity makes it even a better place.  One is free of
           influence, one can just bounce off objects in action.  The
           radio reception is fair.  The  whole thing could improve.
    
           1.5.0
    
           M.
                Aural blocks of sound, the siren, the warning signal,
           or the sound block in desphase are most active when taken in
           their coupling or drone state.  Stasis in these blocks is
           like gridlock in which the immobility of a section of a
           population flow swells until it stops and only can vibrate
           without forward motion for a while but the particles slide
           through, ungluing the gridlock.  The gridlock is never fully
           immobile, neither is the stasis, in an aural block.  The
           sonora block can be considered as a gridlock.  The gridlock
           can be considered a compact space in a maximal growth
           pattern which virbrates within itself and then passes onto
           more discrete space and motion...becoming mobile interactive
           again amazing fluttering reeds, tongues, and ureal sounds.
    
           XENAKIS LETTERS
    
           XL.2.0
    
           M.
                This series you will find in one piece but it has grown
           over a disperse set of circumstances, which in a way
           fragments, this study upon arhictectural design in Xenakis's
           Phillips Pavilion.  I wish this series were more solid, I
           have found few mathematical conclusions, I have been left to
           observe and pick at the bones for procedural observations.
                It was comforting to hear from you after those months
           in which I had no address to send you.  Now you can call. 
           The fact that German has outweighed programming and
           computation...on with change.
                Your mode of ruling out the waste and your admitted
           oversimplification are all parts of the commentary.  What I
           ask is that we should go into collective research, rather
           than work on solos and then join, to give solos.
                "Find yourself a programmable young thing."  If said
           what kind of hell would break out, in the form of a swollen
           lip.
    
           Outline
    
                The success of this series would be the elaboration, of
           automated simulation and manually composed reconstruction
           problems.  First condsider architectural design as it holds
           for acoustic activity.

  • Talking and Thinking: David Antin in Conversation with Hazel Smith and Roger Dean

    Hazel Smith and Roger Dean

    H.Smith@unsw.edu.au

     

    David Antin is a “talk poet” who gives provocative talks which combine the genres of lecture, stand up comedy, story-telling and poetry. They juxtapose anecdote with poetic metaphor, philosophical and political debate with satirical comment. The talks are improvised, that is they are created during the performance and no two performances are the same. In his talk piece Gambling (Tuning 148), performed in the seventies, Antin refers to the recreativeness which dominates many poetry readings and which he is reacting against; simply reading a poem is like “returning to the scene of the crime/you try to reenact it and the more you try to bring it back to life the deader it becomes.” The medium of the talk restores to poetry its lost oral dimension; the opportunity to bridge the gulf between creative process and product and the opportunity to create in a public forum. Although there is no written record of many of Antin’s talks, some of them have been published in two volumes Talking at the Boundaries and Tuning.

     

    David Antin was born in New York City in 1932 and graduated from New York City College and New York University. He is currently Professor of Art at the University of California at San Diego. He is married to the performance and video artist and film-maker Eleanor Antin. He is also a distinguished critic who has written on the visual arts, postmodernism, television and video art, and the role of art in technology.

     

    The context of the conversation was our forthcoming book Discovering the Discourse: improvisation in the arts after 1945 in which we are investigating the importance of improvisatory techniques and approaches in art, film, literature and theatre. In this book we will rebut the naive conception of improvisation as a purely spontaneous and intuitive process and demonstrate how improvisation has been a complex creative procedure used by many artists since 1945. We were particularly interested in David Antin’s work because it is one of the few examples of improvised poetry. We wanted in the interview to ascertain how David went about his improvisations, what his technique for improvising was and how this related to the effect of the improvisations.

     

    The interview took place in San Diego in February 1992 shortly after David Antin’s talk at Carroll’s Bookshop in San Franscisco on the subject of the other. Although David’s work over the years was the main focus of the interview, we also alluded from time to time to that specific talk.

     


     

         HS:  In what sense do you think your talks are
              improvisations?
    
         DA:  Probably in the same sense that most people's
              improvisations are improvisations.  One person I could
              imagine myself in a relationship to, though I've never
              said it before, is Coltrane.  Coltrane was constantly
              working over scales and examining other musical
              manoeuvres, to keep his hands on a lot of things that
              he could do; he was listening to timbres of different
              mouthpieces and playing with different ways of making
              music, so it is not as if he went in as a blank slate.
                   Jazz improvisation is work that in some ways I
              feel very close to, because the language offers you a
              well-formed grammar.  I am not interested in
              transforming English grammar, but I am interested in
              the full range of English and its varieties of speech-
              registers and its ways of movement from here to there.
              It allows you much more freedom than anybody really
              knows.  I mean we know very little about the full range
              of colloquial English.  In fact most grammar that is
              being used in the schools of the high levels of
              linguistics, which I did doctoral work in, I regard as
              highly idealized.  There are so many things that it
              doesn't explain, although it's a very eloquent family
              of explanations for the things it does explain.
                    But it seems to me that language is a reservoir
              of ways of thinking, because what I am really
              interested in, at least as much as language, is
              thinking: not thought but thinking.  And the closest I
              can get to thinking is talking.  When I started doing
              this I wanted to get close to the sound of thought, and
              then I realised the only way you can get the sound of
              thought is to think, to do a lot of thinking.  Not all
              thinking is verbal, and you can get close to some of
              the things that are not generally thought to be
              linguistic by approaching things in a way that seems
              less discursive.  That is, in some ways narrative and
              images seem less discursive so that you can reach
              towards images or towards semantics that are more
              governed by other ways of arranging things in your mind
              than merely what is taught to people as linguistics.
              So the goal is to articulate through thinking, to find
              my way and open up and explore the range of thinking,
              but to think about things in the course of it.  So in
              this sense I have a lot of practice because I do it all
              the time, but Coltrane also played music all the time.
              It seems to me that Monk had a variably finite
              repertory of ways of moving, part of which may have
              been characteristic and part invented from time to time
              and carried from performance to performance.  In that
              sense I am not any more original than Monk or Coltrane
              but very much like them.
    
         HS:  I understand that.  It is very important that
              improvisation shouldn't just be confused with
              spontaneity.  Nevertheless, if you are going to give a
              talk, is there any degree of preparation beyond previous
              experience?
    
         DA:  Sometimes there is but the preparation is not
              formalized.  In other words when Peter Cole asked me to
              think about the idea of the other I started thinking
              about a variety of things.  I started thinking about
              the way the idea is used.  Not systematically, but as I
              was driving to school or doing something else like
              making coffee in the morning.  And I took out books
              from the library to read, but not on the subject of
              the other.  It struck me that I wanted to look at
              Marco Polo's travels.  I did and it turned out to be a
              bad translation and I thought that maybe Mandeville's
              travels would even be more useful because they were
              more fanciful.  So I took out several volumes and was
              browsing Mandeville before falling asleep at night.  I
              also browsed through an older history of ethnology that
              I wanted to look at again and I re-read some of Levi
              Strauss's Tristes Tropiques, none of which I found
              specially important.  It was just that I was preparing
              my mind and it wasn't that I needed, or was necessarily
              going to use any of this material: I thought it might
              have some edge-like relationship to what I was doing.
              I also looked at several old articles where the term
              got recycled but again not very seriously.  I made a
              very light play with the material just to make myself
              cycle the information in my head very loosely.
                   By the time I arrived for the talk I had no fixed
              idea of how I would begin and I had no fixed idea of
              structure.  The structure normally is provided by the
              finite length of the tape, sometimes I will stop long
              before the tape runs out.  So I talk for about an hour
              or 45 minutes: if I'm told that I have to go shorter I
              will run around half an hour.  I can do very short ones
              if necessary, but then it is different, you don't have
              the luxury of manoeuvering in the same way.  There are
              dictates which are purely practical, such as how much
              you can get on a side and there are the dictates of the
              range and type of audience which has a lot to do with
              social interplay and making things intelligible.
              Because it is not only thinking out loud, it's thinking
              out loud where you are sharing the thinking in some way
              with other people.
    
         HS:  But how can you tell what the audience is like if you
              are not very directly interacting with them?  How can
              you tell what the range of intelligence is?  I was
              wondering all the time during the performance what kind
              of audience you were pitching it at.
    
         DA:  You don't know what it is but you feel it out--at the
              beginning of a piece I have a tendency to be fairly
              exploratory, it doesn't start taking shape right away.
              There is a kind of prelude, you run a few scales to see
              how they work for you but also whether people find them
              intelligible, which may not mean that you will abandon
              them.  But you get a sense from body language whether
              people are with you or not with you and there are ways
              of playing it that are so completely intuitive I don't
              even know how I do it.  That is I spend a fair amount
              of time circling the material before plunging in, to
              achieve a readiness of mind and also a kind of tuning
              relationship--it's like tuning an instrument as a
              prologue.  In other words in standard orchestral
              situations they tune because they have got to reach a
              particular pitch, but I have freedom of tuning because
              no one tells me whether I need just tempered or equal
              tuning.
    
         HS:  One possibility improvisation provides is
              collaboration with other people, for example to
              collaborate much more with the audience.  I have read
              about the incident at 80 Langton Place where the
              audience, made up largely of poets, made you interact
              with them.
    
         DA:  I was actually interacting with them rather maliciously
              I thought.
    
         HS:  During your talk I wondered whether it would end with a
              discussion and in some ways I was quite relieved that
              it didn't.
    
         DA:  Most people are.  I don't have a set feeling about it.
              My sense is that people are there of their own free
              will and I offer a kind of human engagement with them.
              In other words I don't deal with material that is
              impossible for them to deal with.  I deal in a space
              that I presume this intelligent audience can arrive at
              in some manner.  The length of the piece has something
              to do with the audience's interest, and sometimes the
              question is how much I can push the material and keep
              the audience still with it.  I think that I can also
              tell whether people are dialoging with the piece.
                   When I am talking what I say is never quite what I
              intend to say.  There is a kind of relationship between
              the sense of one's own intentionality and what one
              does, because if one had a complete match between what
              one intended and what one said, one wouldn't have to go
              any further, one would never have to reformulate.  So
              there is a kind of slippage and sometimes what you say
              is better than your intention and sometimes worse or
              sometimes merely to the left or right of it.  And so I
              am always conducting a kind of dialogue with myself, as
              well as a dialogue with the audience, and the audience
              is always conducting a kind of dialogue with me, but
              also spinning off.  I feel that's good.  One of the
              reasons I use a less tight presentation mode is that I
              want the audience to have room to pursue its own
              interest and loop away and loop back, which I think
              they do.  I think people associate off into things that
              are like my experience but different, and that they
              might have said in a different way.  So they pursue
              their agreements and disagreements with me through
              parallels of support, this allows them a full-scale
              dialogue.  And to the extent to which they are involved
              in it, they are interested in the piece and they have
              this kind of intense but intermittent attention.
    
         HS:  It's still different from a direct dialogue with the
              audience.  Have there been some instances (apart from
              the incident at 80 Langton Place) where people have
              spoken from the audience or you have actively
              encouraged that?
    
         DA:  Sometimes but not a great deal, unless it happens, in
              which case sometimes I will respond to it in a way,
              loop it in and continue, but my performance is not
              aimed at that.  Usually the audience doesn't feel
              inclined to do this, anymore than they would normally
              feel inclined to do it.  Imagine an audience of
              musicians at a jazz performance.  They might feel very
              responsive, someone might say, yeah, but they are not
              likely to start playing.  There is a feeling that the
              audience generally has at an artwork that they interact
              with it by thinking about it, rather than that they
              immediately interact discursively with it.  Although
              once in a while I'll say something that gets close and
              somebody will say something, usually not much, and I
              acknowledge it and bring it in a bit and that is fine.
    
         HS:  As audience we're very conservative, I think: we're not
              used to participating and so I suppose we would have
              to be actively encouraged.
    
         DA:  You have to be not only encouraged but also feel
              sufficiently ready.  It is more than that, you have to
              feel a readiness with respect to a common range of the
              material and I think the lack of feeling ready is
              partly a sense that the material is not quite so common
              to them.  In fact that was one of the complaints that
              the Langton Place people had which I was toying with,
              it was essentially that they knew very little about the
              material.  I was dealing with a relationship between
              the figures of rhetoric and figures of mind and I was
              trying to retrieve the values of certain Greek terms
              because I thought they were useful.  But when I got to
              a story in an area they felt they knew a great deal
              about or thought they knew something about, (they felt
              inclined to have an opinion about anorexia say, or what
              was called anorexia) it was funny because they hadn't
              really thought about that either.  Which was of course
              one of the great difficulties for them, that is, they
              were thinking about it now for the first time in any
              significant way.  And I think even they were tepid in
              their interventions because they really hadn't thought
              about it that much, and they figured I had thought
              about it more which was probably true.
    
         RD:  Have you ever tried to set up a situation where you
              have a discourse between several people who are
              simultaneously thinking?
    
         DA:  I've never tried to set it up because it is hard to do.
              Though I would certainly find it interesting.
    
         RD:  Because that would be the analogy to the jazz
              performance.
    
         DA:  It certainly would, it's just that you have to organise
              it and find people and find a terrain that you all feel
              you are willing to do it in relationship to.  I did a
              thing in France at the Beauborg with several French
              poets a couple of years ago but I think they saw
              themselves as more supportive of what I was doing than
              I would have liked.  It was fun talking with them but I
              found it hard to draw them out.  I tried but it was
              harder for me to draw them out in those circumstances.
    
         HS:  Could you give me any idea of the process by which you
              generate the talks, how you get from one item in them
              to another?
    
         DA:  Well I look for a promising tangle, some kind of snarl
              of threads so to speak.  I may not see all of them at
              once, I may see the end of a thread, the end of a
              couple of threads and I try to pick it apart, and find
              out what it consists of.
    
         HS:  So you are holding all those threads together
              simultaneously in your mind?
    
         DA:  I follow one of them and it either leads to another
              knot or I go back up to find another one and I might
              move into what seems like an end that I can't get out
              of and then instead of backtracking I will leap to one
              that was next to it.  I will make a transition to the
              one that was further away but which I had left over
              there.  So there is a way of dealing with it, as a
              problematic: it is a sort of playfulness, it is as if I
              took the notion of problem solving and thinking away
              from its seriousness into a kind of sheer pleasure, the
              idea of solving knots.  You look for the great knot and
              then you try to solve it like the Gordian knot.  To me
              the world is filled with some things that are knots and
              some things that are snarls and some things that are
              pleasant tangles and I try to find a way to open them
              up and see what they are made out of and this sometimes
              lead to new forms of ravelling.  I knot and unknot and
              I am looking for an ultimately elegant knot structure
              which I will eventually work out of the remaining
              material.
    
         HS:  That is actually what it feels like.
    
         RD:  It feels like several successive modules in some cases
              doesn't it, particularly in the other.  Did you have
              an awareness that it was likely that there would be
              five modules and that "Guattari" and "Saddam" and
              "molecular structure" would be amongst them, or were
              those things that mostly came to mind as it happened?
    
         DA:  I think they come from a kind of experience and a set
              of attitudes and what sometimes happens is that you
              have clear cut modules but the number of them may
              differ and also they turn out not to be situated
              precisely in the same plane.  In other words there are
              discrete concentrations usually, something leads to a
              concentrated module and somewhere another one may
              develop, but it generally turns out not to be module
              module module in total contiguity.  I try to construct
              in a kind of cognitive space in such a way that the
              distances between the modules create openings for the
              mind and also begin to throw light on a space that
              seems like a meaningful quasi container, but a
              container filled with holes.  In other words my
              relationship to a system is--the problem of systems
              is--that they don't have enough holes.  So that they
              become fanciful and unreal: the trap of systematic
              thinking is that it is falsified through closure.  I
              like systems, I find them illuminating, but what I find
              illuminating is the notion of systems that articulate
              and are elegant and in some way incomplete and clearly
              so.  And it is a relationship between the one
              incomplete system and the other one which creates a
              kind of hyperspace, because the spaces between them
              become interesting.  The principle of complementarity
              in physics is an example of concentration, on the non-
              fit between two situations, and it takes head on the
              difficulty of wave and particle and puts it right up
              front in physics.  Well I don't want to necessarily
              argue that what I do puts it right up front like that
              but I have treated it with casual obviousness.  That is
              I allow this complementarity situation to develop where
              one story doesn't fit over the other story in such a
              way that one completely clarifies the other (I don't
              believe in total clarification) but on the other hand
              it throws light onto it.
    
         RD:  But it is a logical necessity that thinking could not
              have a complete closure really isn't it?
    
         DA:  It can't have complete closure.
    
         RD:  So what I was going to ask was,why so much emphasis on
              making that necessary failure overt?  I can see the
              attraction but why is it attractive to you?
    
         DA:  Well it doesn't turn out to be a failure, because what
              I really am doing is partly making a polemical case for
              what I believe is real thought, real thinking, as
              opposed to what has come to stand for rationalism in
              the history of Western thought, which is a straw man:
              the notion of the totally closed logical system which
              has only one little hole in it that is unfortunate
              because there is a paradox lurking in the corner.  This
              particular form, has dominated rational and
              irrationalist thought in Western European discourse to
              the point of annoyance finally, but what you actually
              find is that structures, because they have holes in
              them, don't become useless.  On the other hand rational
              thought is different from what people think it is, and
              rationality is an exaggeration of the kind of clarity
              of mind and the possible mental tactics that can be
              deployed to think usefully, meaningfully and
              creatively, and it seems to me these are very poorly
              understood.  So part of the purpose of my work is to
              illuminate, by example, the nature of real thinking, in
              which art-thinking shares a great deal with scientific-
              thinking, and we have a lot in common although we will
              do things that may be done differently we may not do
              some of the things that scientists may do and we may do
              a great number that they do.  And even if you do what
              they do, what they do doesn't look like what they say
              it is, because when they write the article they always
              do it backwards.  The article is not the thinking.
    
         RD:  We art thinkers would not have such a tendency to
              prioritise as scientists would have would we?
    
         DA:  No, and my work is about the unity of thinking and the
              absolute absence of the dichotomy between what we call
              irrational artistic thought and rational thought.  It
              basically engages with the idea of raiding across the
              two terrains to insist on the unity of the terrain.
              Logic is a function of human character, people are
              basically in some sense logical when they think at all.
              But logic is broader than that.  The truth-table fable
              is a fantasy but if you could lock down the categories
              in such a way and you could position them rigidly
              between here and there, you could quantise between the
              true and the false in a particular curious way.  But
              usually the categories are too slippery for anything
              significant to be put into this position for very long.
              What happens is that the slippage in anything you use
              generally causes you to have to approach it in a number
              of different ways, "as long as this holds to be true"
              and "as long as this is like that then it follows from
              that that this is this."
    
         HS:  Do you feel there is a sense in which you adopt a
              persona in your talks?  Reading through the talks I
              sometimes felt there was a persona of a kind of naive
              person struggling to understand certain things, for
              example in the talk where you speak about the third
              world and what the third world actually is.
    
         DA:  There is in a sense a persona but the persona develops,
              because as soon as you begin representing yourself at
              all, anything you represent has a fictional property.
              As soon as a representation occurs it's partly untrue,
              it's partly fiction, but it develops its own inertial
              moment, its own commitments and a lot of these things
              derive essentially from a kind of philosophical
              positioning.  In other words you can approach it in a
              different way: "what if we didn't start by accepting
              belief in all these things that everybody always knows,
              what if we didn't know this, how could we examine this
              belief."  So the naivety is ultimately based on the
              belief that we know too much and that it is founded on
              too little.  We are standing on a swamp or a cloud and
              we rely on these well known things, that are well known
              to be true, but how true are they?  So in a way you
              take things everybody knows so it sounds naive to say
              them, but if you say "third world" by now everybody
              seems to have forgotten what the first and second
              worlds were.  I mean is there a second world?  What do
              you mean by a world?  Are there more than that?  In
              other words if the third is invented largely as a
              function of a quarrel between one and two and you
              develop a kind of economic theory on the basis of this,
              the third gets to be built up largely on not belonging
              to one or two.  And then you call it unified, but the
              relations that either the one or two might have can be
              extremely bizarre, and furthermore you can imagine a
              unity of victimization but the victims might not like
              each other if they were unified.  For example, it is
              not obvious that the Jehovah's Witnesses, the gypsies,
              the Jews, and the communists in the concentration camps
              of the Nazis really were very friendly with each other,
              or they were only as long as you had the barbed wire
              around the camp, and they were often treated in
              different ways.  So it seems to me, without being
              naive, you can't ask the right questions.
    
         HS:  But can I go back to the issue of the relationship
              between the first person and yourself, because that has
              been worked out in so many different ways in post-
              modern poetry and yours seems to be very interestingly
              situated with regard to that.  Do you feel you have a
              strong sense of talking about your own experience, or
              do you sometimes tell lies about your own experience?
    
         DA:  Very often.  No, it is all mixed!  I basically feel
              that my talks should be no more reliable than
              conversation in general as absolute fact!  You see what
              one depicts as true is a function of one's feeling and
              experience and all of it has its origins in things that
              are factual as far as I remember, but some of them are
              fantasies.  And some of them are fantasies
              involuntarily, sometimes you remember things that are
              not true simply because your desire has already
              produced the representation.  So that I have never gone
              out and notarised my statements, and my self-position
              is that people will take it as credibly as
              conversation.  Now much of the experience is true or at
              least partially true and some of it is very true and
              some of it is fiction, but it is fiction that is true,
              in other words it is serious fiction, it's not fantasy.
              It is serious fiction in that it derives from a kind of
              experiential engagement with it.
    
         HS:  How do you think the talks relate to your normal talk
              or your normal speech?
    
         DA:  They are close but the situation creates a greater
              intensification of the characteristics.  In a
              conversation with other people, in a social situation,
              you tend to encourage other people and allow other
              people to play and you may not have the space to take
              on one of these things.
    
         HS:  The knotting and the unknotting you talk about wouldn't
              be so prevalent in a conversation would it?
    
         DA:  No.  But it has a relationship with some of the
              teaching that I do.
    
         HS:  That was another thing that struck me when I saw the
              talk; it reminded me of the lecture situation in some
              respects.
    
         DA:  Yes, well it draws on the lecture and on stand-up
              comedy.  It is not really stand up comedy in that I
              really don't play gag after gag, I don't theatricalize
              myself like Spalding Gray.  Spalding Gray, of course,
              is characterized as a performer who also does
              improvisation although his improvisations become
              somewhat memorized by the time he does the work.  At
              least I think he said this and on another occasion he
              said he didn't, so I am not sure, he may work more like
              me than he indicated first time around.  He comes from
              acting and so what he generates essentially is very
              markedly a persona of Spalding Gray.  He theatricalises
              himself so he is his main actor and he positions
              Spalding Gray as bewildered and as a major victim of
              his own inadequacies and it is very charming.
                   And what happens is that though he is his main
              actor, things befall him, whereas I tend to be
              sometimes an actor and often merely only an observer or
              sometimes an actor who is in there involuntarily but
              the action is the other people.  I am not my main actor
              so my persona doesn't develop beyond necessity.  It
              seems to me as long as you start saying "I" you have
              got a persona, especially if you say it three times in
              a row because the "I" begins to develop a configuration
              from its continuity.  And you see Gray concentrates so
              much on the behaviour and the bewilderment of his "I"
              because he is his main actor, he produces not exactly a
              Chaplinesque figure but a certain kind of bewildered
              central figure.  It is a more artefactually complete
              version of the naivety you say that you pick up in
              some of my pieces but my pieces are merely an attitude
              that enters into a discussion of something else,
              whereas in his case he then intrudes into and stumbles
              over it and falls into a trap deliberately and picks
              himself up out of the trap.
    
         HS:  Well that is a very important distinction isn't it?
    
         DA:  And so I don't build up the character and occasionally
              I get sucked into a case where I am a considerable
              figure but usually I am interested in something outside
              of the "I."  The subject in my case becomes the vantage
              point from which to look.
    
         HS:  How do the talks relate to the written transcripts of
              them, how do you actually notate them and what makes
              you decide where to notate the gaps?
    
         DA:  It is very impressionistic.  You see the media are
              really quite different so what I am doing with the
              talks is trying to create an experience for the reader
              which is an analogue structure of the performance.  The
              media are really so different, that is performance has
              all these unknown things that are happening between
              you.  The audience is there and they pick up a great
              number of things from the way you look, from what you
              are saying, the inclination of your head movement, they
              have many more contextual clues than is on the tape
              recording.  The tape recording is in some ways totally
              bewildering for most people, because it contains stuff
              that people don't hear and it doesn't contain things
              they do pick up.  Whatever is said they ignore certain
              things and slips at the time which they don't pay
              attention to.  It is perfectly clear when an audience
              listens they hear the right thing.  They hear what you
              intend to a very great degree, and a tape recorder
              records only what is acoustically available to it
              within certain filters, so the tape recording is the
              most bizarre mode of dealing with this material.
                   The transcript then is an attempt to construct.  I
              used to do it myself but now I get somebody just to
              type it up altogether with no pauses, or to pause
              wherever they think a sentence ends or not to worry
              about it.  If I decide to listen to the tape, which I
              sometimes do, I listen all the way through and then I
              take the transcript and put it down over there.  And
              then I look at the beginning and I read through it once
              and then I start typing and then I might look at it
              four pages later, six pages later, 12 pages later, I
              may look at it very closely in spots.  So what happens
              is that I am typing, I am writing something with my own
              habits of verbal composition and in my head the image
              of what I have done, and I am recreating its image, I
              am not transcribing line for line.  Often without doing
              anything of the sort it comes out almost as if it has
              been memorized, which is very startling.  But sometimes
              what will happen is that I will come to a place where I
              didn't have room to do something at the time, the piece
              had a moment where I wanted to go on and for some
              reason I couldn't do it as fully as I would have liked
              and I think it should be made more articulate.  Some
              transcripts are twice as long as the talks originally
              were.  Some pieces are very close to the literal form:
              the phrasing system seems to be very similar in both of
              them and you could hardly tell the difference between
              them.
                   I remember a piece called dialogue in my book
              tuning.  I did this piece in Santa Barbara and they
              sent it back to me and I transcribed it and I added a
              whole story that I cite in the performance but didn't
              have room to tell it.  But a reading audience doesn't
              suffer from the same psycho-dynamic as a listening one,
              you are in a different space, you are holding a book in
              your hand and so I simply told the whole story that I
              couldn't have told there given the difficulties of
              timing.  So the version that I sent back to them was
              one and a half to two times the length of the other
              piece.  I met the editor about a week later and she
              said she really liked it a lot and what she really
              liked was how completely identical my original version
              was with the performance!  And so I have to say that
              there is a phenomonological issue at stake.
                   It does vary from occasion to occasion depending
              on the commitments I have.  I have a commitment to the
              performance, to the psycho-dynamics of improvisation,
              to doing the best I can, which always involves an
              engagement with an audience, and a commitment to
              material.  And sometimes one has to be traded off
              against the other, you can't let the audience down.  I
              have a responsibility to an audience to do it as well
              as I can in a way that allows them to be participants
              to the end, and so my sense of timing is partly related
              to that.  I can stretch it, I can negotiate it but I
              am not a performer who is interested in violating
              audiences.  My interest is essentially in engaging an
              audience, discoursing with an audience perhaps pushing
              it, but in some kind of social relationship that I find
              is humanly responsible.  Now the problem is I don't
              always feel that I was responsible enough to some of
              the articulations I should have undertaken in relation
              to my loyalty to the material and then the question is
              how do I do it in the text in such a way that it
              doesn't violate the spirit of the performance?  And
              there will be times when I will take up in the text a
              greater articulation of some of the material that I was
              handling in a performance, and then I have to construct
              a way of getting back from it into where I was before.
              It is as if a cadenza went wild and I take the cadenza
              way out and then I've got to come back in some way and
              I create an artifice for getting back to where I was
              before.
    
         HS:  I think, actually, the transcripts are very successful
              because one of the things that struck me when I saw you
              talk was...
    
         DA:  They sound like me.
    
         HS:  Yes that it was very much what I had conjured up from
              the text.
    
         DA:  Well that is the intention.
    
         RD:  On the other hand another way of looking at that
              process of transcribing is that you are using the
              process of thinking but then you are also superimposing
              thought.
    
         DA:  Well actually no.  Just superimposing more thinking.
    
         RD:  Except that you are presumably doing that over a much
              longer time-span and you are also thinking
              retrospectively about what you thought in the process
              of thinking when you performed--i.e., by now, thought.
              It is kind of a combination of the two, isn't it?
    
         DA:  Well it is interesting--it is true in a way although I
              don't see it that way.  I see it as thinking and
              rethinking, because it seems to me I don't write slowly
              either.  I write almost as fast as I speak.  I use a
              computer and I used to use a typewriter and I am an
              extraordinarily fast typist and the computer has made
              me even faster.  So I don't use the system that many
              people use to write, which is built on endless
              revision; not because I don't want to do it, I just
              don't feel that way.  I write almost the way I talk so
              I go pusssssh you know and I catapult myself along
              almost at the pace of my speaking.
    
         RD:  That raises the other question which comes from the
              realization of the two stages.  Why do you really need
              to do the performance verbally in public?  Why can't
              you do the thinking at the computer.
    
         DA:  I like the engagement.  Somewhere in Levi Strauss' work
              he talks about the one thing that is so marked in all
              primitive art and that is almost lost completely in
              Western traditional art as we know it.  And he says
              what isn't there is a sense of occasion, whereas
              occasion so dominates the art that he was talking
              about.  For me the sense of occasion, of art being
              rooted in an occasion, is one of the central issues of
              its motivation.
    
         RD:  Yes, well as an improviser I sympathise with that.
              Stemming from what you said at the beginning of the
              conversation and the comparison with Coltrane there is
              one major difference, it seems to me, between what you
              are doing in your talks and what they are doing.  You
              are saying that you don't really want to transform
              grammar but I think that they did eventually transform
              the grammar of music and by the heyday of free jazz it
              became a primary objective almost.  I don't think it
              was ever a prime objective of Coltrane's but it
              probably was of Cecil or Ornette.  Do you not feel any
              temptation in that direction in spite of that?
    
         DA:  Well grammar plays a different role historically in
              music.  And in a certain sense the grammar of music is
              much more constraining and in some sense fairly
              trivial.  As someone reasonably grounded in music my
              sense is that grammar in music is more of a
              straightjacket than grammar in language.  So they
              really had to break with a lot, although they didn't
              really break with grammar if you take grammar to be a
              universal grammar.  Supposing we take the notion of the
              universal grammar of music, a very loosely
              understandable psycho-grammar in a sense of what you
              can distinguish, that is based on the
              distinguishability of timbres, the limit and thresholds
              of what perception can in fact articulate in sound.  It
              seems to me we don't know the universal grammar of
              music.  The grammar of language has just begun to be
              discovered with the appearance of people like Chomsky
              and the Russian formalists, and we hardly know what the
              real grammar of language is.
    
         RD:  Nevertheless quite a few of our literary peers have
              felt inclined to attack it haven't they?
    
         DA:  Yes though they usually do so on the basis of very
              insufficient understanding.
    
         RD:  But as you have said in various ways already that
              doesn't necessarily undermine the validity of the
              enterprise does it, quite the opposite.
    
         DA:  No, not at all, I'm perfectly happy with them doing it.
              If they start out from false premises and do terrific
              things.  I've got nothing against it!  It is the theory
              that I sometimes find foolish but the outcome of the
              work is often terrific.  So in a sense if Coltrane or
              Ornette do things that are breaking up a grammar it is
              only when you take grammar in the narrow sense of the
              grammar of music, because if, for example, you suppose
              that the deep grammar of music is different from the
              grammar that was imposed on it, in my sense they look
              for the deep grammar.  I would say they are looking for
              the deep grammar in music and that was the greatness of
              free jazz, the fact that it was so coherent.  I taught
              one entire 3 hour course with a group of people where
              we tried simply to take one whole performance of the
              Coltrane group in 65 and we were listening to it and we
              tried to find a way to talk about it that made
              intelligent sense about the articulations and the moods
              that were made.  And we needed a kind of theatrical
              vocabulary to discuss it and we were trying to re-
              formulate, and it seemed to us that the work was
              extraordinarily coherent and in some sense humanly
              grammatical because it was intelligible.
    
         RD:  Do you recognise a group of improvising talk-givers in
              whatever country that are your peers, and if so have
              you considered trying to set up a condition in which
              you could collaborate with any of them specifically?
    
         DA:  Well I don't know of any peers in the sense of having
              close relations although I know other people who work
              in the domain.
    
         RD:  Yes I mean in the latter sense, a peer, somebody with
              an equivalent level of interest.
    
         DA:  Yes they do but they are in a semi-commercial zone
              overlapping mine and have different aims.  For example
              Garrison Keillor is an improvisor in certain ways.  I
              am not sure whether he memorizes his stuff and maybe it
              is in story-telling that we overlap more than in
              improvisation, although I have a feeling he may
              improvise his stories.  And there is a kind of
              connection, although not a connection of sensibility
              with Spalding Gray, though he is theatrical.  And
              whereas my talks have a kind of philosophical
              linguistic commitment, in his there is a kind of
              theatrical but also psychological set of concerns.  I
              don't know anyone who basically works that way that it
              would be easy to imagine working in relationship to.
    
         RD:  So the idea of a collaboration with say a person who
              might use phonemic improvising, let's say a Bob Cobbing
              wouldn't really appeal because there isn't that
              cohesion between the two approaches?
    
         DA:  No, although I am very inclined to the possibility of
              working with a musician because I could imagine working
              with some really contemporary musician, doing a piece
              for example with George Lewis.  I could imagine doing
              things with him because the space that he operates in
              seems to me not unreasonably playful.  It is both
              different enough and at the same time capable of being
              rhetorically innovative and I could see myself playing
              with it.
    
         RD:  We have used musical and verbal improvising.  It can be
              very interesting, you can make the relationship in lots
              of ways.
    
         DA:  Yes, as long as you can figure out how to work together
              in a physical sense and a team-like sense.  It seems to
              me that we could do it in ways that are not the most
              obvious ways.
    
         HS:  And have you thought of doing anything, setting
              yourself up technologically in any way?  Having for
              example a tape of yourself talking and then talking
              with that or something like that.
    
         DA:  Well I did use the intervention of taped conversations
              for the Archeology at Home and I was not enormously
              thrilled by that.  And I did another piece, Scenario for Beginning Meditation, that was published in one of
              my books of poems.  It has a set of questions with wide
              spaces between them and some responses to them.  There
              were questions such as "is this the right time to
              begin" and I left spaces between them on the tape
              recording long enough so that I could answer the tape
              recording.  And I went back the next day and I ran down
              the batteries of the tape recording so that I knew that
              it would be fairly weak and that it would get weaker
              and weaker.  The sentences were philosophical
              reflections on the problem of beginning.  The tape
              recording would talk and then I would try to answer the
              recording in a dialogue.  I tried to respond because it
              was asking questions and I tried to answer it.  The
              students were in the middle and as the tape recorder
              got lower and lower because I had deliberately run down
              the battery very low, I had to push through the
              students to hear the tape recording and be able to
              respond to it.  So the piece was a sculptural piece
              because basically it forced the re-articulation of the
              space.  The piece took a while to do and at the end I
              frantically leant against the tape-recording trying to
              hear what it said in order to answer it.  So the piece
              was sort of funny but it was designed as a piece of
              sculpture but later I just published the questions.
    
         HS:  Reading through Talking at the Boundaries and
              Tuning there didn't seem to be a major change in the
              way that you actually approached giving talks.  When
              did you start the talks?
    
          D:  Early 70's, about 71.
    
         HS:  Do you feel that the talks you give now are very
              different in certain ways?
    
         DA:  I think they vary enormously.  Obviously there were
              changes because I am much more experienced at doing
              them.  But on the other hand if you look at the two
              books, there are 16 talk pieces published in the two
              books and yet in the 21 years that I have done this I
              may have done 160 talks.
                   And this is a very small subset of what I have
              done and in it is hard to have an idea of the range of
              the talks from the 16.  I could publish more but in a
              way I am an oral poet who has book capability, and to
              be an oral poet you have to do 7 or 8 performances a
              year or you are not performing.  It's important to be
              an ongoing performer.  I will do about 5 or 6 this
              year; if you don't do it you can't keep your hand in
              it.  There have been changes and I've got a book coming
              out with New Directions which will be out in Spring of
              93.  It is called What It Means to be Avant Garde.
    
         HS:  Do you think there are certain topics that you are
              really obsessed with, which keep coming up time and
              time again in your talks?  I am sure if I went through
              I could find certain recurring themes.
    
         DA:  Probably some that come up more than others and new
              things show up once in a while.  I like to think that I
              am not so completely closed that I always talk about
              the same things.  On the other hand we have our habits
              and concerns and things that are not resolved.  What is
              resolved I don't bother dealing with.  For example in
              the other certain things familiarly fit into it.  On
              the other hand it was not a subject I had thought about
              in any significant way before and if you take it at the
              micro-level, some of the concerns are the same, but you
              are looking at them from different points of view.  So
              my sense is that there is a mixture.  I am sure if I
              went through the talks I would find things that were
              familiar, but then one isn't infinite in one's
              capabilities.
    
    

     


     

    The Interviewers:

     

    Hazel Smith, who lived in England until 1989, was an undergraduate at Cambridge University, has a PhD from the Department of American Studies at the University of Nottingham in contemporary American poetry and is currently a lecturer in the School of English at the University of New South Wales, Australia. She has a particular interest in the contemporary avant-garde and in the creative process, and her current research interests include performance- orientated and technologically manipulated poetry, and improvisatory techniques and real time manipulation in the contemporary arts. She has published articles in many journals and is currently writing a book collaboratively with Roger Dean on improvisation in the arts after 1945 for the publishers Gordon and Breach.

     

    Hazel Smith is also a poet and sound artist working in the area of experimental poetry and performance and has published in numerous international poetry magazines. She has also published three volumes Threely (Spectacular Diseases Imprint 1986), Abstractly Represented: Poems and Performance Texts 1982-90 (Butterfly Books 1991) and TranceFIGUREd Spirit (Soma 1990). Some of her work was included in the 1991 Anthology Floating Capital: new poets from London, Potes and Poets Press, U.S.A..

     

    Hazel Smith has given poetry and text performances in many different countries including Australia, Great Britain, USA, Belgium and New Zealand, and also on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), BBC and US radio. She has collaborated several times with artist Sieglinde Karl and musician Roger Dean and her performance work has been featured on several ABC programmes, and internationally, for example on France Culture. She is currently making a CD of her poetry and performance pieces and one is being released on CD by the US journal in sound, Aerial.

     

    Hazel is also a violinist. She is leader of the contemporary music group austraLYSIS and has performed solo and chamber music in many parts of the world including Australia, Belgium, Denmark, Great Britain, Hong Kong, India, Indonesia, New Zealand, Norway and the Philippines. She has featured as soloist on several gramophone records.

     

    Roger Dean is an improviser, instrumentalist (playing double bass, piano and electronics), composer and musicologist. He has worked widely in Europe, Asia, Australasia, and the U.S.. He formed the European group Lysis in 1975, and its Australian counterpart, austraLYSIS, in 1989. He has made more than twenty five lp and cd recordings. Amongst his recent recordings are The Wings of the Whale (with Lysis; Soma 783), Something British (with Graham Collier Music; Mosaic GCM 871), Moving the Landscapes (austraLYSIS, Tall Poppies 007) and Xenakis Epei on the Wergo label.

     

    He has written more than 60 works, both completely notated pieces and also works for improvisers. He has used a range of compositional techniques, from serial, and freely atonal, to neotonal and other post-modern approaches; and composed for digital electronics also. Several scores have been widely distributed in his books (mentioned below); and in publications of Sounds Australian, The Australian Music Centre, Sydney, and Red House Press, Melbourne. Many are on commercial record releases on Soma, Mosaic, and recently Tall Poppies.

     

    Amongst his recent works are TimeDancesPeace, in which dancers and musicians work interpretively and improvisatorily with shared materials and methods of development. He has also collaborated with Hazel Smith in two large text-sound works, Poet Without Language, and Silent Waves, both written for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC).

     

    He is active in musicology, with many articles and reviews published. His practical book Creative Improvisation was published by Open University Press (UK/US) in 1989. It was followed by New Structures in Jazz and Improvised Music since 1960 (Open University Press; 1991). He has received bursaries and commissions from the Arts Council of Great Britain, the Australia Council, ABC, and Rikskonserter (Sweden).

     

    He also has a career in scientific research, and is the Director of The Heart Research Institute, Sydney, Australia.
     

  • “It Meant I Loved”: Louise Gluck’s Ararat

    Eric Selinger

    Dept. of English
    University of California at Los Angeles

    eselinger@aol.com

     

    Thanatos undercuts, overrides Eros, his sweet, belated sibling–so says Freud.1 And in Revolution in Poetic Language, her closely argued brief against paranoid Unity and culture as theology, Julia Kristeva more than agrees. Like the Accusing Angel that she calls “the text,” Kristeva puts the writing subject, in her now famous phrase, en proces–in process and on trial–charged with denying the very spark that drives him: the “jouissance of destruction (or, if you will, of the ‘death drive’)” (150). This drive lies below language, she argues; it underwrites or even is desire (49, 131). Even oral pleasure, that link between infantile suckling and the poet’s honeyed words which at one moment in her account “restrains the aggressivity of rejection,” thus holding the death drive in check, amounts in the end to “a devouring fusion,” “borne” and “determined” by the very rejection one hoped it would restrain (153, 154). Avant-garde social and textual “practice,” along with the critic’s own, must on account of this be strict, undeceived, and unsentimental. There’s no entry for “love” in the index to Revolution. No Eros peeks out from Psyche’s cupola, offering readers shelter from the storm.

     

    At moments Louise Gluck’s Ararat calls to mind such passionate strictness. “The soul’s like all matter,” the poet observes. “Why would it stay intact, stay faithful to its one form,” when it could fly apart into “particles” and “atoms,” disintegrate, “be free?” (“Lullaby” 28-29). The Kristeva I’ve cited so far would take this as a rhetorical question; and indeed, on first reading, so it seems. But these lines, like the rest of the volume, are spoken by a self-professed “Untrustworthy Speaker” (34). Suppose we read deeper, then, and hazard an answer? Recall another myth of rejection, the sentence passed on another subject on trial: Job, who refused to curse God and die (the biblical version of Kristevan “practice”). He survives to see an erotic restitution, his second crop of daughters, Dove, Cinnamon, and Eye-shadow, married with children and grandchildren of their own (Mitchell xxx, 91). A taste of fairy-tale closure, this end equally hints at that love “fierce as death” we read of in the Song of Songs (8:6), the book which follows Job in the Hebrew Bible as its countersong, a promise and a kiss.

     

    The effort to unlock a love like that, a fierce erotic drive to hold life together, propels Gluck’s sequence from scene to stark, lyric scene. And the etiology of the affections we find in Kristeva’s more recent volumes can illuminate both the particulars and quiet formal imperative of the poet’s mourning work and self-analysis. “Beyond the often fierce but artificial and incredible tyranny of the Law and the Superego,” she writes in Tales of Love, postmodern love has been undermined by an “erosion of the loving father”: the one that Freud called the imaginary Father in Individual Prehistory, whose love for us ushers us out of melancholy longing for a lost maternal presence and into speaking subjectivity (378). Two musings from this book might serve as epigraphs to Ararat, highlighting the questions the poet sets herself as she attempts to reconstitute a vision of such paternity. “Love as unacknowledged lament?” Kristeva asks. “Lament as unsuspected love?” Tales 88).

     

    It’s easy to read Ararat as a book about death, a fatalistic “family tragedy” (Cramer 102). The passing of the speaker’s father precipitates portraits of earlier losses, of a distance and coolness in the family’s past, and of the uneasy relations that remain. “Long ago, I was wounded,” the first poem begins (15); the last poem echoes the phrase, suggesting that no cure has been effected in between. “I thought / that pain meant / I was not loved,” the volume all-but ends, and no sunburst of metaphor, rhythm, or rhetoric amplifies the retraction of the line that follows to close out the book: “It meant I loved” (68). And yet, for all Gluck’s restraint–she’s no Mahler, massing brass fanfares to signal the shift–this quick modulation from minor to major ripples back to revise our sense of everything we’ve read before. Thus while “Ararat” is the name of a Jewish cemetery in the text, as a title for the book it also suggests something rather more hopeful, a place to settle, a mountain that peeks into view as the high waters ebb. Somewhere to speak from, perhaps, for in Kristeva’s tale “our gift of speech, of situating ourselves in time for another, could exist nowhere except beyond an abyss” Black Sun 42). We might paraphrase that as “after a flood,” with Matthew Arnold’s “salt, estranging sea” filling the developmental gulf between child and mother that the theorist has in mind. And if we took this as a book about Thanatos, did we brush past its actual epigraph on the way? “Human nature was originally one and we were a whole,” Gluck quotes from Plato’s Symposium, “and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love” (11).

     

    The androgynes split up by Zeus have long since lost their cartwheeling brio, their mocking, comic tone as a myth for the origin of sexual lack and desire. Gluck herself sets them aside, turning instead to the two visions of union that our modern myths allow: that between mother and infant, and the “coagulation of the mother and her desire” that intervenes in the mother/infant dyad as a third term, and that reveals to the child that “mother is not complete… she wants…who? what? … ‘At any rate, not I’” Tales 41). Through a “primary identification” with this third, whom Kristeva, following Freud, names the “father in individual prehistory,” we may be reconciled to the loss of primal symbiotic bliss (see Tales 21-56; Black Sun 6, 13). He, or he-and-she (since the Third “possesses the sexual attributes of both parents” [“Joyce” 172]) is the seed of the Ego Ideal, our original constitutive metaphor: “I’m like that.” Split off from mother, taking ourselves for, or becoming like, this other object of her affection, we thus inaugurate, all at once, subjectivity, metaphor, identification, idealization, symbolicity, and love. “The speaking being is a wounded being,” Kristeva explains; “his speech wells up out of an aching for love” Tales 372). Primary identification cannot heal the wound, but it sutures, salves, and compensates the pain. When it fails or is too fragile I lapse melancholic, have only the sense “of having been deprived of an unnameable, supreme good” as I run my thoughts over, in numbed, dumb repetition, the “unnameable” loss Black Sun 13, 12).

     

    In Ararat this “father of imaginary prehistory” appears in several incarnations: the father as object of the mother’s love; other children, sisters, in the same position; the “family unit,” as we blithely say, in its full domestic happiness. Or, I should say, he fails to appear. For all these unities lie shattered, unrecognized, unimagined, or forgotten as the volume begins. “Long ago, I was wounded,” the first poem opens:

     

    I learned
    to exist, in reaction,
    out of touch with the world: I'll tell you
    what I meant to be--
    a device that listened.
    Not inert: still.
    A piece of wood. A stone.(15)

     

    The near-toneless abstraction, the muted affect here, is that of a poet cut off from the pleasures of language as tactile, material, rhythmic, “the world.” The register Kristeva calls “the semiotic,” words surging with instinctual energy, seems repressed or abandoned. “Why should I tire myself, debating, arguing?” the speaker demands, as though such efforts of control were the only language games she knew, or thought to play–at least with those near her, “those people [sisters? the rest of her family?] breathing in the other beds.” If she “meant” in the past to be silent, mechanical or symbolic (a “device”), she hardly escapes that condition in the present tense of the lines.

     

    A slumber does her spirit seal, we might say, for surely the last line of this stanza distantly echoes Wordsworth’s “rocks, and stones, and trees.” Her words, arhythmic, breaking off in dashes, suggest the melancholy speech Kristeva describes as “elaborated with the help of much knowledge and will to mastery, but . . . secondary, frozen, somewhat removed from the head and body of the person who is speaking” Black Sun 43). But hers is a sleepless slumber, a restless depression, stirred by a turbulence instantly put down. “Those people” are “uncontrollable / like any dream–” the poet observes, then at the word “dream” breaks off to watch “the moon in the night sky, shrinking and swelling.” Perhaps phallic in its alternate tumescence, or like a mother’s heartbeat, throbbing in the dark, this moon supplies an image for that archaic force the poet calls “the dark nature,” to which birth and death itself “are proofs, not / mysteries.” Ominous, the moon still seems attractive, a source of the dynamism the poet lacks. As we move through the stasis of the next few poems, its changes will be missed.

     

    The opening poem I’ve been discussing stands in a double relation to the rest of the book. Its title, “Parados,” names the choral ode sung at the start of a Greek tragedy, a dramatic form that Nietzsche reads as teaching that “the state of individuation” is “the origin and primal cause of all suffering . . . objectionable in itself” (73).2 If we take the poem as a distinct dramatic invocation, thirty-one verses remain–and exactly halfway through the book, in “Brown Circle,” we find the pivot of confrontation and forgiveness on which its progress hinges. Gluck doubles up on organization, however, supplying a second structural logic I will follow from now on. After “Parados” we find five poems that move the sequence along, introduce characters, fill out the plot. Then we have “Confession,” which comments both on the speaker and, obliquely, on what we’ve seen so far. Five more poems, then another address from and about “The Untrustworthy Speaker.” Five poems later, after the halfway pivot, we find “Animals,” which treats the speaker and her sister together, and for the first time hints at the true bonds between them. Five poems, and we find a deus ex machina of sorts, a vertical turn to hear “Celestial Music,” followed by the coda, “First Memory,” which echoes and revises the opening ode: “Long ago, I was wounded. I lived / to revenge myself / against my father” (68). I don’t mean by spelling out these structures to suggest that the book is primarily organized by differences and distinctions, other than of course its division into separate poems. The sections I propose are nowhere marked. But by reading this way, against the grain, we can get below the speaker’s evident emotional stasis, and tune in to deeper, subtler, curative shifts.

     

    “A Fantasy” To “Confession”

     

    At the end of “Parados” we learn that birth and death “are proofs,” not the mysteries the poet must bear witness to. Proofs of the power of Thanatos, or so it seems as this section opens in “A Fantasy.” Here, though no familial relationship has yet been described between her and her subjects, the speaker watches birth and death lamentably converge as “every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born, / new orphans” (16). In the “new life” of each widow and orphan time flashes in jarring, paratactic fragments: “Then they’re in the cemetery”; “And after that, everyone goes back to the house / which is suddenly full of visitors.” The only force that counteracts this fragmentation and dispersal is the mourner’s memory: the imagination of “the widow” our attention has lighted on and entered into as the poem progresses:

     

    In her heart, she wants them to go away.
    She wants to be back in the cemetery,
    back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
    it isn't possible. But it's her only hope,
    the wish to move backward. And just a little,
    not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.(16-17)

     

    The poet, we note, presses back a bit farther in the continuity than the widow allows herself. She lingers as the last line ends on the vision of a woman–the mother, we will learn–achieving her desire. And yet, as the focus widens again in the next poem to include the whole of “this family,” still unnamed as the speaker’s own, nostalgia withers and a harsher tone sets in. “No one could write a novel about this family,” this voice announces: “too many similar characters. Besides, they’re all women; / there was only one hero. / / Now the hero’s dead” (18).

     

    Why this sudden shift in tone? It takes no particular psychological insight to see something defensive at work, signalling the importance of “the hero” when alive. The women may be “determined to suppress / criticism” of him, but in the speaker’s case, at least, they don’t succeed. His death “wasn’t moving,” the speaker insists; he was a “figurehead” alive, evidently narcissistic (the women are “like echoes”); “he’s weak,” she notes, “his scenes specify / his function but not his nature.” That function has something to do with narrative, with the making of sense and sentences through time. If at the gravesite a nameless someone instructed the mourners on “what to do next,” even that desiccated remnant of paternal function has now evaporated. “From this point on, nothing changes,” we are told. Not only is there “no plot without a hero,” but his absence rules out change as erotic development, new first kisses, escape. “In this house,” the speaker explains, “when you say plot what you mean is love story.” For Kristeva, love rests on a foundation of primary identification with the “imaginary father”: “a warm but dazzling, domesticated paternity” Tales 46). The recovery of such an imaginary father–the reconstruction of “the hero”–will be the poet’s task. As imagined here, he can only hurt and divide: in a brief flash of metaphor that perhaps signals his continued power, each woman’s heart is “pierced through with a sword” (19). But since the imaginary father does not simply equal the biological father, but incorporates whatever “not I” the child discovers its mother to desire, the poet must equally reconstruct the rest of her family. Her sympathetic imagination cannot jump past or exclude “these women, the wife and two daughters” and their children. These paired efforts will shape the first three sections of the book, starting with an admission that, indeed, this family is the speaker’s own.

     

    With the next poem, “Labor Day,” her mourning work begins. “It’s a year exactly since my father died,” she begins; everything snaps into focus with the first- person pronoun: the heat last year, a coldness now; a niece riding her bicycle out front. “There’s just us now,” the poet remarks, “the immediate family.” Immediate, since no longer mediated by a paternal third term, the family also seems trapped in an unhappy immediacy, a static present. Between the father as “a blond boy” and his appearance as “an old man gasping for air” we see nothing, no development, no life but “a breath, a caesura” (20); likewise, in the poem that follows, “Lover of Flowers,” we find references to “every spring” and “every autumn” as though years of seasons were compressed in the year that’s passed. Certainly immediacy does not equal closeness, for the speaker seems determined to mark off borders, to differentiate, particularly between her sister and herself. “In our family, everyone loves flowers,” she begins (21). But “with my sister, it’s different, / it’s an obsession.” When a set of poppies that the sister plants is beaten down by rain, we can glimpse the poet’s unacknowledged self-portrait in her mother’s words:

     

    My mother's tense, upset about my sister:
    now she'll never know how beautiful they were,
    pure pink, with no dark spots. That means
    she's going to feel deprived again.
    But for my sister, that's the condition of love.
    She was my father's daughter:
    the face of love, to her,
    is the face turning away.(21-22)

     

    The sister, too, was “wounded” it seems, perhaps by the father’s distancing love. Such separation marks “the face of love, to her,” the poet insists, as though this deprivation were not her own case, her condition as well. That acknowledgement would require more identification with the sister, and a stronger ability to idealize, to see the father or the parents’ love without dark spots, than she can summon up so early in the text.

     

    If we’ve had a first sketch of the poet’s response to her sister, the next poem fills out the background, shifts our perspective back two generations. What we find bears little resemblance to the ease of partial differentiation, the reassuring presence of reproduced motherhood that critics of the Freudian scheme discover between women and their daughters.3 Gluck’s sibling mysteries play themselves out in a difficult key. Mother and aunt play cards, “Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game / my grandmother taught all her daughters” (23). The immediate, all-female world we see at the start and close of this poem, where the mother and aunt “have cards; they have each other” and therefore “don’t need any more companionship”–this world and its games may be “better than solitaire,” but they ring a little hollow nonetheless. “In the end,” in their game, “the one who has nothing wins”; and the next poem, the first address-lyric or echo of “Parados,” picks up and deepens that conclusion. Not Carol Gilligan’s “ethic of care” but bracing competition motivates the women of this world, or at least their representative speaker. “You show respect by fighting,” she observes; that’s how her mother and aunt were raised. And something of that sororial strife has worked its way into the myths of the next generation. “Fulfillment” and “happiness,” the poet confesses, serve only to draw down the anger of the Fates: “sisters, savages–” who “in the end . . . have / no emotion but envy” (“Confession” 25).

     

    Why does the speaker thus overstate the case against these women, evidently downplaying the affections of the scene? Why has she “learned to hide” her dreams, in other words, and what would those dreams contain? In her uncertainty we find a trace of resistance to that “sine-qua- non condition of our individuation” that Kristeva melodramatically calls “matricide” Black Sun 27-8). “Matricide is our vital necessity,” the theorist proclaims, for we must all extricate ourselves from undifferentiated infant bliss.4 But for women the violence of this process is harder to focus entirely outward. “Locked up within myself” it turns to “an implosive mood that walls itself in and kills me secretly, very slowly, through permanent bitterness, bouts of sadness” (29). The poet is trapped in this sort of bitterness, unable to blur her own borders, to metaphorize, to reach out in amorous idealizing identification to mother or sister, let alone to the dead hero or imaginary “loving father” she needs Tales 378). This family is indeed hers, but she stands outside it, at once unsympathetic and unable to acknowledge the roots of her pain.

     

    “A Precedent” To “The Untrustworthy Speaker”

     

    The five poems that come before “The Untrustworthy Speaker” hazard, if indirectly, one such identification. We learn of a death before the father’s loss–a sister to the speaker, one who died in infancy–and, more important, we find a new imaginative sympathy with the mother. As the poet details preparations for “the child that died,” a new delicacy of tone and loving accuracy of description breathes life into her voice. “Bureaus of soft clothes. / Little jackets neatly folded. / Each one almost fit in the palm of a hand” (“A Precedent” 26). We saw the mother’s capacity for care unfold in “Widows,” where she slept on the floor to be near her dying husband. But while the focus there was on her inability to get used to his absence after death, here we see her affections in full flower, as yet unthreatened, unhurt. When the hurt does come, when her daughter is lost, we see transformations in both the mother and the poet left behind:

     

        . . . when my sister died,
    my mother's heart became
    very cold, very rigid,
    like a tiny pendant of iron.
    Then it seemed to me my sister's body
    was a magnet. I could feel it draw
    my mother's heart into the earth,
    so it would grow.("Lost Love" 29)

     

    This poem and “A Precedent” are more tender, more compassionate, more fluent in their sympathetic identification than anything we’ve seen so far. But if the poet can sense her way into her mother’s skin, she equally seems inclined to be the dead sister, to cure the mother’s wound, to offer herself in a risky but attractive sacrifice.

     

    Perhaps we do not press too far to see a crucial early identification with the dead sister as, in effect, a dead “imaginary father”–recalling that the father was defined as such, in part, simply for being what Mama valued other than me. Stillness thus seems a virtue to the poet-child, one learned from the sister who died. As she wanted in “Parados” to be “Not inert: still” (15), in the final poem of this section, “Appearances,” we see her hazard an analysis of that longing, recall her childhood pride in its accomplishment: “It was something I was good at: sitting still, not moving. / I did it to be good, to please my mother, to distract her from the child that died. / I wanted to be child enough” (32). But this is too close for comfort to the stillness of the stillborn, of “the dying” who “spin so rapidly they seem to be still” (“Lullaby” 28) and to the inertia of the women who “can’t get moving” after the father-hero’s death, which itself “wasn’t moving” (18). If those who fall asleep “grow slowly calm,” soothed by a mother’s heartbeat–one thinks of the moon of “Parados,” and of the curative regressions in Whitman’s “The Sleepers”– those who fall apart in death refuse, or fail, to be comforted. The speaker, we sense, would gladly identify with the infant her mother holds, feeds, attempts to keep alive, in order to prove that she’d accept. On her the effort would be efficacious; loved, she’d stay alive.

     

    There is of course more to say about the middle poems in this bundle of five, and I will return to examine the father’s role in them shortly. But I want to focus on “Appearances,” the last of them, especially on its description of the living sisters’ relations to one another and their mother, and its invocation of a new character from outside the family, an artist. For if “forgiveness emerges first as the setting up of a form . . . [and] has the effect of an acting out, a doing, a poiesis,” Black Sun 206), the progress of the book requires this new intercessory term: a figure at once for the poet and for the loving father she lacks.5

     

    What, first off, needs to be forgiven? In poems of this section we’ve seen the mother’s love in action: folding baby clothes, holding a child that doesn’t want to be fed, lulling husband and infant to sleep, and into death. (“I can’t say / what she did for my father,” the poet reassures us, and herself; still, “whatever it was, I’m sure it was right” [28].) And yet, when the speaker considers the portraits her parents commissioned, looking with the eyes of an adult, one who’s “been analyzed,” who can “understand our [her and her sister’s] expressions” (31), she sees something more painful and troubling:

     

    My mother tried to love us equally,
    dressed us in the same dresses; she wanted us
    perceived as sisters.
    That's what she wanted from the portraits:
    you need to see them hanging together, facing one another--
    separated, they don't make the same statement.
    ...........................................
    She likes to sit there, on the blue couch, looking up at her daughters,
    at the two that lived. She can't remember how it really was,
    how anytime she ministered to one child, loved that child,
    she damaged the other. You could say
    she's like an artist with a dream, a vision.
    Without that, she'd have been torn apart.(31-32)

     

    The mother’s ministration to the living, unlike her care for the dying, calls pain to the poet’s mind in a new, post- analytic specificity. As usual, though, we see more than the words acknowledge. The mother’s desire to have her daughters “hanging together,” eyes fixed on one another, counters the potential dispersal by death of two generations. It works at once between the sisters (they won’t be torn away from each other) and in the mother’s heart (I won’t be torn apart by another loss), calling to mind and helping justify the grandmother’s attempt to make mother and aunt a sufficient pair: the attempt we read about in “Widows.”

     

    And yet the poet withdraws from the potential identification I am, like my mother, an artist. She doesn’t reject it, I hasten to add, since we find none of the dismissive force she mustered in “A Novel.” She merely steps back to the solid ground of her painful individuation. She still wants, first off, to be set off from her sister: to be either the loved child or the damaged one. “You had to shut out / one child to see the other,” she recalls, clearly hungering for that specific attention (33). She gets it from the most successful imaginary father so far, the portrait painter, “Monsieur Davanzo.” He, like the poet herself, insists on distinctions and accuracies. He notices the difference between flesh tones, for example, against the identical green cotton dresses the two sisters wear: the sister, who’s been linked with reds and pinks, is “ruddy”; the poet’s “faintly bluish,” recalling the daughter who died. We have seen no play so far in the poem, whether in the language or by children or with parents; but here, “to amuse us, Madame Davanzo hung cherries over our ears,” reminding us that the imaginary loving father, the critical third term the poet lacks, is in fact a “father-mother conglomerate” Tales 40), pictured here, if briefly, as an actual couple. But the poem ends with “the painter” himself marking in his portrait what is at least the child’s interpretation of her mother’s wish that her children always be bound up together. Does she want me to stay with her, with women, forever? Never turn to a sexual Other, fall in love with a man? “Every morning, we went to the convent,” we read of her summer schedule. “Every afternoon, we sat still, having the portraits painted”; and the artist Monsieur (“my lord”) Davanzo understands her expression. “A face already so controlled, so withdrawn, / and too obedient, the clear eyes saying / If you want me to be a nun, I’ll be a nun” (33).

     

    Does the mother really want this? Again, as after “Widows,” we sense an unfair accusation, and again we find a confession: the third of the “Parados” poems, “The Untrustworthy Speaker.”

     

    Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
    I don't see anything objectively.
    I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
    When I speak passionately,
    that's when I'm least to be trusted.

    It's very sad, really: all my life, I've been praised
    for my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight.
    In the end, they're wasted--(34)

     

    This poem marks the speaker’s first acknowledgement that she has cut herself off from something, someone; that the analysis she’s brought to bear so far has failed. We note the self-criticism as a flicker of Eros, a latent desire to “see myself, / standing on the front steps, holding my sister’s hand,” even if that means having to call herself to account for love’s sadisms and failures, “the bruises on her arm, where the sleeve ends” (34). This would entail, in part, an observation of her own masochism, of the degree to which the “wound” or loss she mourns is self-inflicted, a condition of her speech. An exculpation of the mother indeed soon follows, set in motion by the “criticism of the hero” (18) suppressed earlier. This combination will bring the book to its pivotal moment of confrontation and crisis.

     

    “A Fable” To “Animals”

     

    This central section of the book begins with its first extended metaphor for the poet’s situation: “A Fable.” “Suppose / you saw your mother / torn between two daughters,” she demands, the daughters identified with those competing self-proclaimed mothers who fought over a single baby before Solomon (36).

     

    What could you do
    to save her but be
    willing to destroy
    yourself--she would know
    who was the rightful child,
    the one who couldn't bear
    to divide the mother.

     

    Setting aside the admission of masochism here–itself a step beyond the mere victimhood of “Appearances”–we find a curious blur of familial roles. The mother plays at once the parts of a “wise king” who judges and a child under threat; the poet too is at once mother (the one who can’t bear to divide) and child. Not her own but the mother’s pain attracts the poet’s attention: an unsettling shift, apparently, as the short lines and shivering enjambments suggest. If indeed “the transfer of meaning” in metaphor “sums up the transference of the subject to the place of the other” Tales91), we can understand the fragility of the poem’s presentation, as it ferries the poet oh-so-nervously across the flood waters, the gulf or “abyss” of individuation.

     

    Who, though, is the other daughter in this scene? The living sister, or the dead? Both sisters have divided their mother’s affections; and if we keep our eyes on the function of each sister, to borrow a term from the sequence itself (see “A Novel” and “The Untrustworthy Speaker”), we note that each acts for the other, in this emotional division, like the “imaginary father” Kristeva describes. As though to reinforce this connection the following poem, “New World,” turns from the sisters’ relations to those of the husband and wife. What role, the poet asks, did that Ur-Other play, and how did I imagine it at the time?

     

    As I saw it,
    all my mother's life, my father
    held her down, like
    lead strapped to her ankles.
    She was
    buoyant by nature;
    she wanted to travel,
    go to theater, go to museums.
    What he wanted
    was to lie on the couch
    with the Times
    over his face,
    so that death, when it came
    wouldn't seem a significant change.

     

    This life study, our first glimpse of the father in life, not death, treats him with imagistic specificity, as though to flesh out his “nature” in the way obscured at the start of the book. If he still seems the “someone remote” he was named in “Mount Ararat,” doing nothing but preparing to die, his association here with time and a certain style of language, the restrained clarity of “the Times,” is now insisted on through a new flair of metaphor. (So that’swhere the poet learned her style, we note in the margin.)

     

    This subtle change of style marks a quiet change of heart. “I thought my father’s death / would free my mother,” the poet observes; and while “in a sense, it has”– she can travel, go to her museums at last–something valuable’s been lost as well. The mother “isn’t held” anymore; “she’s free . . . / Without relation to earth” (39) –a phrase that echoes the speaker’s own original condition: “out of touch / with the world” (15). It’s not that being earth-bound was so good, but the inverse seems equally unfortunate. For the first time the father seems a figure of curative attraction–like the dead sister’s body in “Lost Love,” he draws, or drew, the mother down to earth. But the speaker seems loathe to articulate this attractive quality, her focus on the mother occluding the father as an object of desire, whether her mother’s or her own. Thus in “Birthday,” the next poem, we find a stand-in for him: an “old admirer” who, even after death, continues to send roses on the mother’s birthday, “his way of saying that the legend of my mother’s beauty / had simply gone underground” (40). A figure for the loving, living father–an alternative to that morbid silence below the Times–he’s both Persephone to the mother’s Demeter and, in his “ministering,” a mother too.6 “I thought / the dead could minister to the living,” the poet remembers. “I didn’t realize / this was the anomaly; that for the most part / the dead were like my father.” Hard words, if she means “like my father when alive.” And even if she means like the father after death, a certain harshness comes through the allegation, for if “my mother doesn’t mind, . . . doesn’t need / displays from my father,” surely his daughter suffers as the mother spends her birthday “sitting by a grave,” “showing him she understands, / that she accepts his silence / . . . she doesn’t want him making / signs of affection when he can’t feel” (40-41). “Hates deception”; “can’t feel”–the present indicative tense sweeps together the obvious lack of response from the dead with a vision of the father as there, watching without response or turning his face away. Did he not feel before his death, not live up even then to the “standard of courtesy, of generosity” the old admirer set? One might read the lines that way, written by a daughter who prefers to rest, like her father, undeceived.

     

    We have reached the hinge of the book, “Brown Circle.” Whatever objections we might have had to the speaker’s unforgiving stance toward her mother and sister, to the tone she’s taken toward her father until now, are suddenly voiced as this poem starts with a question from one who’s been silent so far. “My mother wants to know,” it begins, “why, if I hate / family so much, / I went ahead and / had one” (42). Why indeed? Freudian theory no less than the Bible finds the sins of the fathers visited on sons, and daughters here seem no exception. The cutting lineation of her response suggests the speaker’s uneasiness, the way she halts and stammers her way through to an unspoken answer.

     

            I don't
    answer my mother.
    What I hated
    was being a child,
    having no choice about
    what people I loved.
    I don't love my son
    the way I meant to love him.(42)

     

    How close she comes to simply saying “I don’t love my son”! Or, as we might expect from the end of the first stanza, “I don’t love him / because I must, but because I choose to.” In fact, of course, we find something quite different: a recognition that choice and love are uneasy bedfellows; that while we may choose to have our children we can’t choose who they are or even, often enough, what they do. Their ways are beyond us, have their way with us. How culpable, then, can we find each other and ourselves? If the poet loves like a scientist, unwilling to set down her magnifying glass and leave off her scrutiny “though / the sun burns a brown / circle of grass around / the flower”– and we think of her unyielding observation of the older generation so far–was she herself not similarly burned? Such scrutiny is “more or less the way / my mother loved me,” she admits, and the stanza ends on that line, backing up the recognition: my mother loved me, not just, as in “Appearances,” “one child . . . that child” or “the other.” “I must learn / to forgive my mother,” the poet admonishes herself, as the play of mother-daughter identifications we saw in “A Fable” becomes literal. It’s the only way to forgive herself, “now that I’m helpless / to spare my son” (43).

     

    Ararat revolves around “Brown Circle” in two ways. First, and most obviously, the book now focuses on the poet’s sister and her daughter, the poet and her son, and on the father himself, with the mother largely absent. But behind this lies the more crucial shift from a poetry of hazarded, uneasy identifications, verse searching for its sponsoring imaginary Other, to a poetry of calm, practiced distance, observation, and compassion. “It is by making his words suitable to his commiseration and, in that sense, accurate,” Kristeva explains, “that the subject’s adherence to the forgiving ideal is accomplished and effective forgiveness for others as well as for oneself becomes possible” Black Sun 217). None of this is entirely new to the volume: we saw such accuracies at work in “A Precedent” and at moments elsewhere. But by bringing a new generation into focus the poet lets go of certain earlier obsessions, and clears a path for forgiveness in substance as well as in style. No longer, for example, does she insist on distinctions between herself and her sister. Both have children itching for independence: the sister’s daughter in the first panel of the triptych “Children Coming Home From School,” the poet’s son sulking in her driveway in the second, “accus[ing] me / of his unhappiness.” In the third panel the poet and her niece, both of whom can be said to be “growing up with my sister,” equally learn “to wait, to listen,” to grapple for verbal advantage. And in the poem that stands where we’ve come to expect a version of “Parados,” some confession of the speaker’s untrustworthiness, we find the unsentimental sororial accord of “Animals” instead:

     

    My sister and I reached
    the same conclusion:
    the best way
    to love us was to not
    spend time with us.
    ...................

    My sister and I
    never became allies,
    never turned on our parents.
    We had
    other obsessions: for example,
    we both felt there were
    too many of us
    to survive.

    We were like animals
    trying to share a dry pasture.
    Between us, one tree, barely
    strong enough to sustain
    a single life.(47-48)

     

    The poet’s growing ease with metaphor allows her, for the first time in the sequence, to unite the parents in either a phrase (“the” or “our parents”) or a figure (the “one tree”). Where once the sisters tugged at and split up their mother’s love, here they stand off warily from parents who cannot “bring themselves / to inflict pain” on either. (“You should only hurt / something you can give / your whole heart to,” the speaker mordantly observes.) The chosen metaphor of “Animals” would seem to suggest an inevitable competition or natural selection between the two; and we’ve been led to expect something rather like this through the first half of the book. An unspoken pact emerges in its place, however, marking our transition to the fourth group of poems, focused for the first time on connections. Neither girl, each staring the other one down, will move to “touch / one thing that could / feed her sister” (49). What comes between them now, if only it were a little bit stronger, could keep them both alive.

     

    “Saints” to “Snow”

     

    Two paragraphs ago I quoted Kristeva as saying that the forgiver’s commitment to accuracy demonstrates an “adherence to the forgiving ideal.” The nature of that ideal should by now be clear–the Third, the imaginary father–and, in fact, Black Sun names it as such elsewhere. “Whoever is in the realm of forgiveness–who forgives and who accepts forgiveness–is capable of identifying with a loving father, an imaginary father,” Kristeva propounds, “with whom, consequently, he is ready to be reconciled, with a new symbolic law in mind” (207). That new law–a covenant after the flood–will remain unspoken until the penultimate poem of Ararat, but already we can see the reconciliation proceed. At first the imaginary father appears as female, and as a familial ideal. “In our family, there were two saints,” she startles us by writing: “my aunt and my grandmother” (50). Generations flicker, linked by metaphor: of these the grandmother seems to stand in for the speaker’s own mother, “cautious, conservative,” the aunt for the speaker, suffering repeated losses and haunted by jealous Fates familiar from “Confession.” (The mother suffers and loses too, you say? Ah, but these are ideals, desires, imaginings…). The aunt’s marked as a saint by her refusal to “experience / the sea” that steals away her loved ones “as evil. To her, it is what it is: / where it touches land, it must turn to violence” (50). This stoic acceptance, a model for the poet’s own work, prompts her into accepting complementary opposites that must also remain “what they are” in the pair of poems that follow: herself and her sister, her niece and son, as treated in “Yellow Dahlia” and “Cousins.”

     

    In the interest of space I will set these poems aside– suffice it to say that, despite Kristeva’s allegation that art forgives by giving shape “without exegesis, without explanation, without understanding” Black Sun 207), Gluck here demonstrates ample talent at all three. Let me rather turn to the central stanzas of “Paradise” and the final poems of the section, “Child Crying Out” and “Snow,” for here we see the slow introduction of the father as a loving Other in his own right. Once “remote,” a hero in disgrace, he approaches; and the poet admits an identification:

     

    In some ways, my father's
    close too; we call
    a stone by his name.
    .....................
    They always said
    I was like my father, the way he showed
    contempt for emotion.
    They're the emotional ones,
    my sister and my mother.(54-55)

     

    We have, perhaps, suspected this deep congruence all along. The poet’s distance, her sense of deprivation, made her seem her father’s daughter as much as or more than the sister named as such back in “Lover of Flowers.”

     

    But is “contempt” quite the right word here? “Child Crying Out” suggests that something else is at stake, a basic resistance to the claims of emotion to overwhelm the distance between individuals, to offer immediate access to the soul. This poem, an answer to Adrienne Rich’s “Night Pieces: For a Child,” refuses to assume a mother’s fundamental maternal connection with and insight into her child. Rich mourns her son’s slipping away into patriarchical terrors; here, the son has never been close enough to keep:

     

    The night's cold;
    you've pushed the covers away.
    As for your thoughts, your dreams--
    I'll never understand
    the claim of a mother
    on a child's soul.

     

    Does she mean the “claim” on his imagination, the way one’s mother slips into dreams as abject “death’s head, sphinx, medusa” (Rich 67)? Or, conversely, the claim to understand (a mother knows)? Though the former sticks in the back of our minds, the latter seems Gluck’s explicit quarrel:

     

    So many times
    I made that mistake
    in love, taking
    some wild sound to be
    the soul exposing itself--
    But not with you,
    even when I held you constantly.
    You were born, you were far away.

    Whatever those cries meant,
    they came and went
    whether I held you or not,
    whether I was there or not.(56-57)

     

    The son’s sleep, like the father’s face turned away, stands for a certain “condition of love” (22), of accepted alterity, “a basic separation that nonetheless unites” (Kristeva, Tales 90).7 It hints that the absence of “signs of affection” on either side of the grave won’t necessarily mean that the loved one, unlike the old admirer, “can’t feel” (41). Did the father, though we’ve never seen it, therefore love? And how would we, or the poet know?

     

    “If [the soul] speaks at all,” “Child Crying Out” ends, “it speaks in dreams.” Fair enough: and in “Snow,” the last poem of this fourth group, we get our first dream-vision (though it’s phrased as a memory) since the moon in “Parados.” Poet and father are on their way to New York, waiting for a train.8 “My father liked / to stand like this,” the poet recalls, “to hold me / so he couldn’t see me,” but so that she can stare into the world he sees, “learning / to absorb its emptiness” (58). A father, then, of both connection and withdrawal, he stands implicated in the narcissistic emptiness of the subject split off from maternal plentitude, the disjunction from the earth we’ve watched the poet suffer. (The snow’s not falling but whirling, we notice, borne up against gravity.) Their love, for we edge into calling it that, rests on the same disengaged commonality we saw between mother and son, the sort Frank Bidart calls “the love of / two people staring / / not at each other, but in the same direction” (“To the Dead”). A love, it happens, closer to that shared gaze on the Good that Socrates offers than to Aristophanes’s erotic myth–though here the good stays elusive, out of sight, lost in the empty white-out of the flurries.

     

    “Terminal Resemblance” to “Celestial Music”

     

    The final sequence of Ararat, these five poems hover and turn from portrait to portrait without anxiety, with the sense of at last accomplishing that “promise, project, artifice” Kristeva sees as integral to writing as love, mercy, transformation, forgiveness Black Sun 216-17). We get a last clear look at father and mother, father and daughter, daughters and mother, sisters and children, along with two poems that stand out from the rest: a nod to aesthetic religion in “Lament,” and the turn to religious aesthetics of “Celestial Music.” Rather than treat each poem individually, as I’ve done so far, I will first explore the way these as a group echo and revise the themes and images of the book. “Celestial Music” deserves to be looked at alone, since it stands out from the rest as a deus ex machina, a tribute to love, to the Third, as quite literally “a godsend” Tales 40).

     

    Since the start of the book the father has been linked to time, the Times–or, to be more accurate, the father’s absence has marked time’s failure to pass. In “Terminal Resemblance,” a poem about the poet’s last meeting with her father, we learn “he wasn’t . . . pointing to his watch” as he waited for her, signalling not only that “he wanted to talk,” but also certain relief from the earlier deathly, encompassing stasis. Gluck hints at this return to mutability at the close of the poem as well. “For a change, my father didn’t just stand there,” she writes; “this time, he waved” (60, my emphasis). Even the idea of immediacy is transformed in these last poems, appearing now in the mode of aesthetic appreciation, and not of numb, paratactic sequence:

     

    Your friends the living embrace one another,
    gossip a little on the sidewalk
    as the sun sinks, and the evening breeze
    ruffles the women's shawls--
    this, this, is the meaning of
    "a fortunate life": it means
    to exist in the present.("Lament" 61-6)

     

    Words and phrases culled from earlier poems make these last five seem a final tally, a summing up. In the first section we read about gardens and flowers; here we see a “gardener’s truck” (59). The grandmother-saint escaped suffering; so does the dying father (60). “It frightens” the mother, we read, “when a hand isn’t being used” (60); the poet’s sister wouldn’t let her daughter walk with both hands “totally free” in “Children Coming Home From School,” a poem whose title is given to a second poem, the fourth of this group, where the “children” are again the poet and her sister. The poet’s sadness over losing the mother’s complete, swaddling attention has been visible between the lines from the first. At last it is named outright: “I continued, in pathetic ways, / to covet the stroller. Meaning / all my life” (64). “Amazons” plucks the word “end” from the all-woman scenes of “Widows” and “Confession” and runs it through revelatory changes:

     

    End of summer: the spruces put out a few green shoots.
    Everything else is gold--that's how you know the end of the growing season.
    ..................................
    My sister and I, we're the end of something.
    ...................................
    I can see the end: it's the name that's going.
    When we're done with it, it's finished, it's a dead language.
    That's how language dies, because it doesn't need to be spoken.
    My sister and I, we're like amazons,
    a tribe without a future.
    I watch the children draw: my son, her daughter.(65)

     

    The father’s name will be lost; the maternal tradition of sufficient, respectfully fighting pairs of daughters, too, will soon die out, written as it was in “soft chalk, the disappearing medium.”

     

    In such recapitulations Ararat comes to terms with its own ending, with the way that writing finishes, so unlike life. Do we see here that “unease over the final, masterful accomplishment” Kristeva sees as returning the writer to the need for forgiveness once again Black Sun 217)? That would perhaps explain the sudden entry of a “friend who still believes in heaven,” one who “literally talks to god” in “Celestial Music.” This poem, which in its sustained long lines and metaphorical resonance stands dramatically apart from the rest of the volume, snaps us back to the grander dimensions of the book’s long quest to imagine a loving father, a Third. For if the love of “primary identification” founds and figures both “Greek Eros–violent, destructive, but also platonically ascending towards the Ideal,” and “the Christian Agape which, emanating from the Other, descends upon me” (“Joyce” 168), why not identify with a father in heaven, that God who is, or so we’re told, Love?9

     

    Such a turn seems at first promised by the poet’s praise of her friend, and the effects of her faith. “On earth, she’s unusually competent,” we learn. “Brave, too, able to face unpleasantness” (66). She’s like a mother, an “adult”; in the poet’s dreams she’s a lecturer on love. (“When you love the world,” she admonishes, “you hear celestial music.”) But a turn to on-high would belie, not enrich, the poet we’ve come to know; and, indeed, identification is extended only horizontally, on the human axis of friendship. If she starts by asserting her differences from the friend, as with her sister, similarities follow:

     

    It's this moment we're both trying to explain, the fact
    that we're at ease with death, with solitude.
    My friend draws a circle in the dirt....
    She's always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image
    capable of life apart from her.
    We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here, not speaking, the composition
    fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air
    going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering--
    it's this stillness we both love.(67)

     

    The success of the volume, not simply as a group of poems, but as a progress from loss, depression, the narcissistic wound, through “the narrow pass of identification with flawless ideality, loving fatherhood” Black Sun 216), into the formal aesthetic accomplishment of an ending, can be measured in the believability of these lines. Though different from the rest of the volume they must not seem out of place or make us frown in vexation at the poet’s claim to be “at ease” at last. For them to work we must have been prepared to see a metaphor for the poet’s own structures and symmetries in the friend’s dirt circle, that “composition” that surrounds a torn and dying (read: “wounded”) caterpillar. “The composition / fixed,” she writes; and the heavy stress of an enjambment forces us to pause, to read “fixed” as healed, made “whole” and “beautiful.” Fixed means “still” as well, and in “the stillness we both love” the twinborn but separated longings for stillness and new life of earlier poems are rejoined. Where it once implied a stunned fixity in the present, or a desperate identification with the dead in order to restore a mother’s love, stillness here suggests the reassurance of completion, the satisfactions of order and limit, an artist’s “it is finished” (if not Christ’s). A stillness bound up in the accomplishment of love, she suggests, telling over the word three times in the last two lines. “It’s this stillness that we both love. / The love of form is a love of endings” (67).

     

    Though it brings Ararat to conclusion, “Celestial Music” is not the last poem we read. That place belongs to “First Memory”: a reprise of “Parados,” a piece whose title suggests both that this memory delves as far back as the poet can and that she can now truly remember for the first time. On a first read through the book we come upon “First Memory,” not with a shock (as with “Celestial Music”) but with a shiver at its spare, discursive, chilly, familiar style. The poem is short enough to quote in its entirety:

     

    Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
    to revenge myself
    against my father, not
    for what he was--
    for what I was: from the beginning of time,
    in childhood, I thought
    that pain meant
    I was not loved.
    It meant I loved.(68)

     

    We can at last gloss those critical, open-ended phrases on which the poem ends and folds back on itself. “For what he was”: quiet, affectionate only at a distance, too hard to idealize, to imagine as the object of mother’s desire. “For what I was”: quiet, distant, longing to picture myself once again the sole focus of care, more like my father than I could bear to admit. But why does the poem not end with a perfect reversal, with “It meant I was loved,” which is equally true? Why does the pain mean she was a lover, too?

     

    In part, and on the book’s own terms, this ending includes and implies my suggested alternative. If pain meant I loved, then I loved my family; which means I wasn’t incapable of love, as I thought my father was; which means, since I’m like him, that he wasn’t incapable of love either; which means that he loved mother and me, and so was in pain, was wounded too; which means that under all the relations in the book, painful or strained, we might find love, denied or distorted, as well. And, indeed, if we look beyond Ararat, place it in a broader context, we find a further sanction for this reading. In the final chapter of Tales of Love, Kristeva records her sense of the narcissistic crisis in which we find ourselves. We are, as a chapter title claims, “Extraterrestrials Suffering for Want of Love”: as cut off from the earth as the poet of “Parados,” lacking “the secular variant of the loving father” to ensure our identifications, our ability to “elaborate primary narcissism,” to love and be loved in return (374). (“The unsure narcissist,” we might paraphrase Robert Creeley, “is not good for himself.”10) “Because today we lack being particular,” she writes, “covered as we are with so much abjection, because the guideposts that insured our ascent toward the good have been proven questionable, we have crises of love. Let’s admit it: lacks of love” (7).

     

    In answer to this crisis Kristeva offers an aesthetic antidote: “the imagination” (381), which can “turn the crisis into a work in progress” (380), with no pretension to finality or ultimate satisfaction. “Let it [the self] remain floating, empty at times, inauthentic, obviously lying,” she proclaims near the end of Tales of Love. “Let it pretend, let the seeming take itself seriously, let sex be as unessential because as important as a mask or a written sign–dazzling outside, nothing inside” (380). But this is James Merrill’s solution, not that of Gluck, who may stun but rarely dazzles. The love elaborated in Ararat weathers the postmodern condition, with its lack of faith in the old codes of romance, less by insisting on the open- endedness of Kristeva’s “work in progress” than by reaching out to affiliate itself with a stern, more potentially moralistic tradition of love-theory: one in which love is defined (against desire) as that which “embraces the other’s limited and imperfect reality, and invites and accepts the binding and defining embrace offered by the other” (McWhirter 6). Such love, which “accepts, in other words, its own finitude” and resigns the Platonic quest for wholeness and reunion in favor of the bittersweetness of “the attainable” (7, 197), accords with Gluck’s undeceived stance, and it sponsors the collection’s final lines. The speaker, after all, has been “wounded” not only by the loss of the mother in her individuation, but by a series of more quotidian disappointments. She wasn’t “child enough,” and no one else was quite mother or father or sister enough either. That such disappointment is the inevitable “break- up” of any idealizing relationship, Freud and Kristeva and popular culture will all testify, since at heart we are all men and women who love too much.

     

    Gluck’s poetic success lies in the way she turns the plot of a Donahue confession or an Oprah Winfrey show into memorable and particular verse, pressing her language to an antipoetic limit that marks, in some sense, her postmodernism as well. “Compared to the media,” as Kristeva explains,

     

    whose function it is to collectivize all systems of signs, even those which are unconscious, writing-as -experience-of-limits individuates. This individuation extends deep within the constituent mechanisms of human experience as an experience of meaning; it extends as far as the very obscure and primary narcissism wherein the subject constitutes itself in order to oppose itself to another.("Postmodernism?" 137-8)

     

    If we want to write love poems, Gluck’s book suggests, we have to start by pressing back into the depths behind our affections–not just to the power dynamics of a particular relationship, the culture it plays itself out in, or of the family romances that provide its local habitation and its names, but to what is at once our most and least private aspect: the way these construct the writing subject itself. Ararat takes us down to rock-bottom; it is a foundational text more than a therapeutic one. “Long ago I was wounded,” the poet’s choral ode begins, and she dares us as readers not to join in. This is not, I suppose, such a bleak rock song. “There is no imagination,” writes Kristeva, “that is not, overtly or secretly, melancholy” Black Sun 6). Yet “if it lives,” as she adds elsewhere, “your psyche is in love” Tales 15).

     

    Notes

     

    1. See Freud, 139; see also chapter four of The Ego and the Id, passim, and the final passages and footnote to Beyond the Pleasure Principle.

     

    2. My thanks to my UCLA colleague Brenda Kwon for pointing out this connection.

     

    3. I think here less of the work of Nancy Chodorow herself than the use of it made in Homans, for example, 1-39 passim.

     

    4. For a dissenting view, at least so far as daughters are concerned, see Homans 11-15. For a persuasive argument that we are always already differentiated, and that mother-child union is a nostalgic fantasy not borne out by studies of child development since the 1980s, see Benjamin 16-21.

     

    5. “The artist takes himself,” Kristeva writes, “not for the maternal phallus but for that ghostly third party to which the mother aspires, for the loving version of the Third, for the preoedipal father.” (“Joyce” 174).

     

    6. I make this maternal connection because the mother in “Appearances” “ministered” to her children, though with unforseen and divisive consequences.

     

    7. Kristeva likewise speaks of “the abyss between the mother and the child” in the lefthand column of the split essay, “Stabat Mater.” “What connection is there between myself, or even more unassumingly between my body and this internal graft and fold, which, once the umbilical cord has been severed, is an inaccessible other? My body and…him. No connection. Nothing to do with it. And this, as early as the first gestures, cries, steps, long before its personality has become my opponent. The child, whether he or she, is irremediably an other” Tales 254-55).

     

    8. Or so I now normalize the scene. On first reading, I saw them walking along the tracks, watching “scraps of white paper / blow over the railroad ties” in a way that calls to mind the opening of Elizabeth Bishop’s “Chemin de Fer.” “Alone on the railroad track / I walked with pounding heart. / The ties were too close together / or maybe too far apart” (Bishop 8).

     

    9. Such a heavenly identification may be implicit in forgiveness, which, Kristeva writes in Black Sun, “assumes a potential identification with that effective and efficient merciful divinity of which the theologian speaks” (216).

     

    10. I misquote Creeley’s “The Immoral Proposition” (Creeley 125).

    Works Cited

     

    • Benjamin, Jessica. The Bonds of Love: Psychoanalysis, Feminism, and the Problem of Domination. New York: Pantheon, 1988.
    • Bidart, Frank. In the Western Night: Collected Poems: 1965-1990. New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux, 1990.
    • Bishop, Elizabeth. The Complete Poems 1927-1979. New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux, 1983.
    • Cramer, Steven. Review of Ararat. Poetry (Nov. 1990): 101-106.
    • Creeley, Robert. The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley: 1945-75. Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1982.
    • Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Essays and Lectures. New York: Library of America, 1983.
    • Freud, Sigmund. “Instincts and Their Vicissitudes.” Papers on Metapsychology: the Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works, Vol. XIV. Ed. and trans. James Strachey. London: Hogarth Press, 1953.
    • Gluck, Louise. Ararat. New York: Ecco, 1990.
    • Homans, Margaret. Bearing the Word: Language and Female Experience in Nineteenth Century Women’s Writing. U of Chicago P, 1986.
    • Kristeva, Julia. Black Sun. Trans. Leon S. Roudiez. New York: Columbia UP, 1989.
    • —. “Joyce ‘The Gracehoper’ or the Return of Orpheus.” James Joyce: The Augmented Ninth. Ed. Bernard Benstock. New York: Syracuse UP, 1988.
    • —. “Postmodernism?” Bucknell Review: Romanticism, Modernism, Postmodernism. Ed. Harry Garvin. Lewisburg: Bucknell UP: 136-141.
    • —. Revolution in Poetic Language. Trans. Margaret Waller. New York: Columbia UP, 1984.
    • —. Tales of Love. Trans. Leon S. Roudiez. New York: Columbia UP, 1987.
    • McWhirter, David. Desire and Love in Henry James: A Study of the Late Novels. Cambridge UP, 1989.
    • Mitchell, Stephen. The Book of Job. San Francisco: North Point Press, 1987.
    • Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Birth of Tragedy and The Case of Wagner. Trans. Walter Kaufman. New York: Vintage, 1967.
    • Rich, Adrienne. The Fact of a Doorframe: Poems Selected and New, 1950-84. New York: Norton, 1984.

     

  • Marxist Pleasure: Jameson and Eagleton

    Steven Helmling

    Department of English
    University of Delaware

     

    As reading matter, contemporary Marxist criticism is pretty heavy going. First and most obviously because it inherits a long, rich and adventurous tradition not only of political and sociological but also of philosophical argument–the breadth of Marx’s own interests insured that: he aimed, and so have all Marxisms after him, to synthesize all sciences, to make Marxism the key to all mythologies, or (in Fredric Jameson’s now-famous phrase) the “untranscendable horizon” of all cultural, political, and social inquiry. (Marxism obliges itself to reckon with, say, deconstruction; whereas deconstruction regards dealing with Marxism as discretionary.) But Marxism takes on other difficulties, other burdens besides the intellectual ones; it carries the torch of a moral tradition as well, of concern, even anguish about the plight of the oppressed. And its burdens are “moral” in another sense, too, the sense that connects less with “morality” than with “morale”; for it is the very rare Marxist text that is without some sort of hortatory subtext–though usually, it is true, expressed polemically (often most fiercely against other Marxists). And here, too, Marx himself is the great original: he asks to be read as a scientist, not a moralist, but we do not readily credit any Marxism that is deaf to the moralist (and ironist) in Marx’s potent rhetoric.

     

    So “doing Marxism” is not easy. To join in the Marxist conversation, even just as a reader, requires an askesis that cannot be casual, an experience of initiation that involves extraordinary “difficulty” of every possible kind: difficult texts, difficult issues, difficult problems, a (very) difficult history, difficult political conditions. Yet the initiation into Marxism is not without its pleasures, too: pleasures, indeed, not punctually marked off from, but rather continuous with, the satisfactions of the adept–and even more conflictedly, pleasures somehow deriving from, even constituted precisely by, the very “difficulties,” both moral and intellectual, that Marxism obliges its initiates to shoulder.

     

    I want in this essay to consider Fredric Jameson and Terry Eagleton, the two leading Marxists writing in English, with an eye to the contrasting ways each negotiates the contradictions of this mix of intellectual pleasure with intellectual-moral difficulty. (A salient topos will be “Left puritanism,” with some sidelights from Roland Barthes.) The eminence of Jameson and Eagleton makes them the obvious choices for such an essay in contrasts. Their substantive differences are as well known as the warmth with which they avow common cause, but in what follows I want to shift the emphasis from their “positions” to the ground where the contrasts between them are the sharpest, namely to their prose styles. That a subculture so devout as the academic about splitting fine ideological hairs nevertheless seems agreed on accepting as indispensable two writers so different–Jameson with his aloof hauteur warmed occasionally by erudite despair, Eagleton with his impetuous, energetic hope–attests that their manifest differences as stylists, and in their stances as writers, make them virtually polar terms, “representative,” between them, of the limits, the possibilities and the predicaments, of the rhetorical or libidinal resources available to Marxist criticism in our historical moment. It should go without saying that my focus on “textual” effects intends no renunciation of more substantively “thetic” interests: rather, I hope to stage the contrasts between these two very different prose styles to see how each writer handles “pleasure” as an issue, a problem, desire, or object of critique–to see how (or whether) what each says about “pleasure” squares with the pleasures (or whatever else we are to name the satisfactions) of their writing.

     

    A convenient place to begin, as it happens, is with Eagleton’s essay, “Fredric Jameson: The Politics of Style” (1982), in which Eagleton avows the “profound pleasure” he experiences reading Jameson. Tactically, consider what a very strange move Eagleton makes in speaking this way. Though I no longer find Jameson as vexing to read as I once did, “pleasure” seems a calculatedly provocative word for whatever it is that keeps me reading him–and lest we miss the point, Eagleton even takes care to remind us that “‘pleasure’ is not the kind of word we are accustomed to encountering in Jameson’s texts” Against the Grain 66). Indeed, not. Quite apart from its notorious difficulty, Jameson’s writing is fastidiously pained, “stoic,” even “tragic,” in its evocation of the ordeals Utopian desire must suffer through what he calls “the nightmare of history as blood guilt.”1 Most readers sense from the tone and sound of Jameson’s work, long before they get a grip on the complexities of its content, that the best motto it supplies for itself is the famous “History is what hurts” passage, the often quoted peroration to the opening chapter of The Political Unconscious. The passage begins in reflection on the genre of “dialectical” analysis to which Jameson obviously aspires to contribute:

     

    the most powerful realizations of Marxist historiography . . . remain visions of historical Necessity . . . [and of] the inexorable logic involved in the determinate failure of all the revolutions that have taken place in human history . . . [they adopt] the perspective in which the failure or the blockage, the contradictory reversal or functional inversion, of this or that local revolutionary process is grasped as "inevitable," and as the operation of objective limits.(The Political Unconscious 101-102)

     

    As visions go (and “visions” is Jameson’s own word here), this one–the failure of all revolutionary action as “inevitable” after the fact–is about as bleak as any vision (Marxist or otherwise) could possibly be. (In other Marxist writers, Jameson warns, such a vision risks “post-Marxism,” and this is obviously an anxiety close to the quick for Jameson himself.2) This bleak vision bears a patent family resemblance to many other critically powerful pessimisms–Michel Foucault’s “total system,” Paul de Man’s “aporia,” and Harold Bloom’s “Gnosticism,” to name three whose “defeatism” Eagleton has particularly vilified.

     

    Contempt for “defeatism” is a constant in Eagleton’s work, a gesture (symptomatically) much against the grain not only of Marxist “critique” but of culture criticism generally. So in testifying to the “profound pleasure” of reading Jameson, Eagleton is playing a deep game, seeming to praise Jameson but also, with typically British (not to say Marxist British) puritanism, subtly indicting Jameson in terms that echo Eagleton’s repudiation of the “frivolous” counter-culture (and French!) hedonism of Barthes and the Tel Quel group. Eagleton means it as a sign in Jameson’s favor when he specifies that he derives “pleasure” from Jameson’s work, but notjouissance.”3 Evidently, “pleasure” may be tolerable in contexts of righteous revolutionary effort, but “jouissance” would be going too far. (Insofar as Eagleton’s own pugilistic wit invites us to pleasures that feel distinctly masculine, his aversion to Barthesian “jouissance” might seem almost a residual, unwitting homophobia: the revolutionary band of brothers, apparently, is to enjoy collective pleasures, but not collective ecstasies.)

     

    Perhaps Eagleton’s double-edged praises of the “pleasure” of reading Jameson express the embarrassments of meeting so potent a version of the “defeatist” vision under the Marxist banner. But my point is that Jameson’s peculiar eloquence has been of that ascetic, despairing, facing-the- worst type familiar, and according to some (Leo Bersani and Richard Rorty, as well as Eagleton, and Barthes), over- familiar, in nineteenth- and twentieth-century culture- criticism. It is a rhetoric that cuts across the ideological spectrum: beside Foucault, de Man, and Bloom, whom I have already named, one might place Adorno, one of Jameson’s particular culture-heroes, and T.S. Eliot, one of his particular betes noirs. But what Jameson especially admires in a writer like Adorno, he has said repeatedly, is a “dialectical” quality in the writing: a power to render unflinchingly the awfulness of our present condition, but also to sustain some impulse toward utopian hope.

     

    But this utopian impulse must not offer any solace; to do so would make it liable to a post-Althusserian, Levi-Straussian definition of “ideology”: “an imaginary solution to a real contradiction,” i.e., a kind of “false consciousness”–and the more so in that it here appears as a textual effect, an achievement of style. Yet just this, but (ironically?) as “praise” rather than indictment, is the implication of Eagleton’s judgment that “Style in Jameson . . . both compensates for and adumbrates pleasures historically postponed” Against the Grain 69). Such “compensation,” such “adumbration” of how things will be after the revolution, is for Jameson sheer “ideological” indulgence in “the Imaginary,” and as such a particular pitfall or temptation that Marxist writing must avoid.

     

    On the contrary, what Jameson calls “the dialectic of ideology [the capitalist present] and utopia [the socialist future]” should aggravate, rather than soothe, our discontent with the way we live now.4 Jameson is trying for a rhetoric, a tone, that will not be a profanation of its subject matter, an eloquence appropriate to the plight of capitalism’s victims, and to Marxism’s hour on the cross. In a time (ours) of near-total “commodification” or “reification,” this task gets harder and harder, as you can hear in Jameson’s grim joke that Adorno’s question about whether you can write poetry after Auschwitz “has been replaced with that of whether you could bear to read Adorno . . . next to the pool” Late Marxism 248). The point of such a joke is not “pleasure,” but laceration; you might even call it a moral-intellectual masochism.5

     

    And this seems a model for Jameson’s effect generally. As a writer, as a stylist, Jameson is committed to a bleak “vision” of near-total desperation, and to praise the effects of his prose, as Eagleton does, in terms of “profound pleasure” seems a shrewdly pointed missing of the point. True, Jameson himself earlier commended the “purely formal pleasures” of Adorno’s prose, but Jameson’s language sounds sober–even “purely formal”?–whereas Eagleton’s praise of the “intense libidinal charge” of Jameson’s prose sounds like transport, not to say (the word Eagleton specifically rules out) jouissance.6 And Eagleton’s “defense” (or mock-defense?) of Jameson’s style is couched not only in terms of pleasure, but of Jameson’s own pleasure: “weighed down” as he is with the “grave burdens” and “historical responsibilities” he has assumed, writes Eagleton,

     

    [Jameson] must be allowed a little for himself, and that precisely, is style. Style in Jameson is the excess or self-delight which escapes even his own most strenuously analytical habits. . . . (Against the Grain 66)

     

    I lack the space here to rehearse Jameson’s aversion to all discussion of literary, cultural, social, political, or even psychological issues in terms of “self”; any reader of Jameson will have noticed that after his 1961 book on Sartre, hostility to the category of “the subject” is the most consistent of his presuppositions. So Eagleton’s reinscription of “pleasure” here in terms of a stylistic self-consciousness, and a “self-delight” that is Jameson’s due as a sort of allowance or indulgence (like Lenin’s penchant for Beethoven, or Freud’s cigars) compounds Eagleton’s sly “mis-taking” of Jameson’s point.7 Eagleton is raising issues as ancient as Aristotle on tragedy: how do we derive pleasure (if it is pleasure) from works that visit unpleasure upon us? Eagleton seems “materialist” in the British tradition of Hobbes and Bentham rather than Marx when he unmasks the “pleasure” of reading Jameson in this way.

     

    Eagleton’s remarks originally appeared in a 1982 issue of Diacritics devoted to Jameson. It was in the following year (1983) that Jameson published an essay that not only mentioned the word “pleasure,” but took it as its title, “Pleasure: A Political Issue.” I do not argue that Eagleton’s remarks prompted Jameson’s essay, but reading it “as if” it did makes its centerpiece, Jameson’s elaboration of Barthes’s plaisirjouissance distinction, seem a kind of defense against, correction of, or better, a dialectical out-leaping of, Eagleton’s implied strictures, as well as a tacit program or apologia for Jameson’s own writing as far as its literary “effects” are concerned.

     

    “Pleasure: A Political Issue” argues against what Jameson calls “Left puritanism” of just the sort that I have identified with Eagleton IT2 66-7); and its vehicle is a reconsideration of Barthes, a much more positive one than Jameson had offered, for example, in “The Ideology of the Text” (1976). The treatment of Barthes is, as usual in Jameson, quite unstable; he passes over, for example, Barthes’s wobble over the relation of “jouissance” to “significance” (“bliss” as liberation from the tyranny of “meaning,” versus “bliss” as restoration of a “meaning” utopia); and one of the most simply pleasurable parts of the essay, the opening jeremiad against the commodification of “pleasure” in our mass culture, ascribes this theme to The Pleasure of the Text, where it nowhere appears. (Jameson is conflating plaisir/jouissance with S/Z‘s lisible/scriptible.)8 Eagleton took care to absolve Jameson of any taint of Barthes’s “perversity”; but Jameson mounts a defense of the Barthesian “perverse” that resonates with his homage to Lacan.9 And where Eagleton reviles Barthesian jouissance as a flight from politics into a cerebral-sensual wet dream, Jameson avers that

     

    the immense merit of Barthes's essay The Pleasure of the Text] is to restore a certain politically symbolic value to the experience of jouissance, making it impossible to read the latter except as a response to a political and historical dilemma. . . . (IT2 69)

     

    “Impossible”? As usual when Jameson offers a judgment for or against a writer’s politics, this seems an eye-of- the-beholder situation, Jameson’s construction of a “political” Barthes attesting Jameson’s ingenuity more than Barthes’s politics; but I want to pass to the next, most interesting phase of Jameson’s argument, in which Jameson reads Barthes’s binary of “pleasure” and “jouissance” as a contemporary avatar of Edmund Burke’s “beautiful” and “sublime.” It seems a master stroke, until you reread Barthes. Jameson invokes Barthes’s epigraph from Hobbes about “fear,” and quotes Barthes quoting Hobbes in the section of The Pleasure of the Text called “Fear.” My own reading of Barthes is that by “fear” he means something like “shame”:

     

    Proximity (identity?) of bliss and fear. What is repugnant in such nearness is obviously not the notion that fear is a disagreeable feeling--a banal notion-- but that it is not a very worthy feeling. . . .(Barthes's emphasis; Pleasure of the Text 48)

     

    This unworthiness is a particular in which “fear” resembles “pleasure”; only two pages earlier Barthes protests the “political alienation” enforced by

     

    the foreclosure of pleasure (and even more of bliss) in a society ridden by two moralities: the prevailing one, of platitude; the minority one, of rigor (political and/or scientific). As if the notion of pleasure no longer pleases anyone. Our society appears to be both staid and violent: in any event: frigid.10

     

    But Jameson tilts Barthes’s invocation of “fear” away from the disquiets of prudery and the miseries of a closeted Eros in a very different direction: towards a Burkean sublime of terror, an effect that “threatens, diminishes, rebukes individual human life” IT2 72). Jameson initially treats this as an effect merely aesthetic, and therefore “ideological,” a mystification (Burke, he notes, makes the end-term of the sublime God Himself), and he jeers the hunger for such an effect–“choose what crushes you!” IT2 72)–but the valence changes when he goes on to posit an end-term of his own, namely that “unfigurable and unimaginable thing, the multinational apparatus” of late capitalism itself. Jameson alludes to the work of “the capital-logicians,” who invert Hegel’s providential world-historical metanarrative so that “what Hegel called ‘Absolute Spirit’ was simply to be read as the transpersonal, unifying, supreme force of emergent Capitalism itself”; it is “beyond any question,” he continues, that some such apprehension attaches to “the Barthesian sublime” IT2 72-73). Granted Barthes’s good-leftish politics, an ecriture(“sublime” or not) that “threatens, diminishes, rebukes individual human life” is not only very un-Barthes-like, but actually valorizes Barthes in terms of that very “Left puritanism” Jameson affects to defend Barthes against.

     

    Jameson has remade Barthes’s jouissance, in short, in the image of his own “sublime,” a passion of “fear” prompted by “History,” by “what hurts”: it is not Barthes who has chosen what crushes him; Barthes is willing to confess (or boast) that at least parts of him are not crushed; it is Jameson who insists on being crushed, by a “sublime” villain, late capitalism. The measure of that “crush” is of course the effect of the prose in which Jameson projects his “vision of Necessity” and its inverted Hegelian-Marxist metanarrative in which “the subject of History” proves to be not the proletariat but capitalism. “Pleasure: A Political Issue” invites a redescription of what Eagleton named the “pleasure” of Jameson’s prose as, on the contrary, a type of “the sublime.”

     

    “The sublime” is a theme that has much preoccupied Jameson in the ’80s, a decade in which, it seems to me, his prose has undergone a change. It is as allusive and inward as ever, but its emotional charge is much larger and more accessible than before. Eagleton in 1982 chided Jameson’s “regular, curiously unimpassioned style” Against the Grain 74), and here his judgment is avowedly adverse: he is calling in fact for a more “impassioned” Jameson. But the formula of 1982 no longer fits the Jameson of 1992, as even a cursory reading of, for example, the short meditations on diverse topics gathered as the “Conclusion” to Postmodernism will show. Moreover, “the sublime” is a frequent theme in this writing, and Jameson unfailingly characterizes it (as in the passage quoted above) in terms of unrepresentability, unfigurability, unsymbolizability. To evoke the nightmare of history as beyond the intellect’s grasp is to present a vision of “fear.” But another frequent theme in Jameson is the ambition to write a “dialectical prose,” like Adorno’s, that resists or escapes what Jameson calls “thematization.” Jameson nowhere speaks of this condition “beyond thematization” as a “jouissance,” but insofar as it, too, involves a transit beyond a linguistic-semantic entrapment, this ambition of Jameson’s rewrites the fear of the sublime as a kind of desire, and thus projects the terror of the sublime as a kind of utopia.

     

    I want to mention one more portent in the later Jameson’s evocation of “the sublime”: if “the sublime” is the unfigurable, it must necessarily defeat any project of interpretation. From long before his 1971 essay “Metacommentary,” through The Political Unconscious (1981), with its programmatic opening chapter, “On Interpretation,” Jameson presented his effort as a hermeneutic project, opposed to that of “anti-hermeneuts” from Susan Sontag to Foucault, Barthes and Derrida. In his work since then, “postmodernism” itself figures as the unfigurable, insofar as it is (to use a paleoMarxist shorthand whose terms Jameson disapproves) the “superstructural” concomitant of changes in the “base” wrought by a “late” or (in Ernest Mandel’s terms) “third-stage” capitalism whose modes of production have undergone a decisive world-historical alteration since, roughly, the ’60s. Hence Jameson’s more recent rhetoric in which, ominously, the center does not hold: as if, to use the terms of the eleventh thesis on Feuerbach, our impotence to “change” the world must be expressed as an impotence also to “understand” it, in accordance with (“Left puritanism” indeed) the “vision of Necessity” in which the “failure” of revolution appears as “inevitable after the fact”–and must further entail the “vision” of the “inevitable failure” of “dialectical historiography” itself, along with any hermeneutic labor tributary to it. Hence the agitation of Jameson’s recent prose, particularly the later pieces in Postmodernism, in which “the sublime” is not only a prominent theme, but also a frequent effect.11

     

    I have suggested that “Pleasure: A Political Issue” be read “as if” it responds directly to Eagleton’s ambiguous praise of the “pleasure” of reading Jameson, “as if” it aims to propose another ethos, a literary “effect” (“the sublime”) more creditable than “pleasure” for culture-criticism generally, and for Jameson’s own work in particular. I want now to turn to Eagleton’s writing, which, beyond ideological affinities, seems diametrically opposed to Jameson’s rhetorically, in its effects as writing. Where Jameson enlarges every problem, problematizes every solution, insists on “inevitable failure,” and proposes both for his prose and for his readers an askesis of facing the worst (what Geoffrey Galt Harpham has called “the ascetic imperative”), Eagleton writes a prose full of jokes and irreverences, Bronx cheers and razzberries, polemical piss and ideological vinegar, every clause lighting a ladyfinger of wit, almost as if under the compulsion of a kind of high-theory Tourette’s syndrome. It is a style with affinities to “counter-culture” journalism, as if James Wolcott had gone to graduate school instead of to The Village Voice. With obvious and naughty relish, Eagleton transgresses the decorums of academic prose, setting (for example) a clever bit of baby-talk on Derrida’s name (labelled “Oedipal Fragment”) as epigraph to a chapter on “Marxism and Deconstruction,” or concluding a book of essays with a doggerel busker-ballad in the broadside style (“Chaucer was a class traitor,/ Shakespeare hated the mob,” etc., to be sung to the tune of “Land of Hope and Glory”), or launching his essay on Jameson’s style with a parody of Jameson, or indulging a parody of Empson in his essay on Empson, “The Critic as Clown,” or sending up everything academic-critical in a parody of the academic handbook manner in “The Revolt of the Reader.” (Equally un- or anti-academic, but in the other direction, is the poem at the end of Eagleton’s book on Benjamin; compare the poem dedicating Criticism and Ideology [1976] to his father.12)

     

    As for the pained, mournful, obligatory pessimism of “the ascetic imperative,” Eagleton consistently jeers it as a kind of false consciousness. Here, for example, he is setting the stage for a recuperation of Walter Benjamin (whose “melancholy” he readily concedes) under the sign of “carnival”; and with characteristic brass, he makes the very implausibility of such a move his opening gambit:

     

    the suffering, Saturnine aspects of Benjamin, the wreckage of ironic debacles and disasters that was his life, have been seized upon with suspicious alacrity by those commentators anxious to detach him from the vulgar cheerfulness of social hope. Since political pessimism is a sign of spiritual maturity . . . Benjamin offers a consolingly familiar image to disinherited intellectuals everywhere, downcast as they are by the cultural dreariness of a bourgeoisie whose property rights they would doubtless defend to the death.(Walter Benjamin 143)

     

    Two pages later, enter Bakhtin, and the theme of “carnival,” which the prose not only describes but enacts:

     

    In a riot of semiosis, carnival unhinges all transcendental signifiers and submits them to ridicule and relativism . . . power structures are estranged through grotesque parody, 'necessity' thrown into satirical question and objects displaced or negated into their opposites. A ceaseless practice of travesty and inversion (nose/phallus, face/buttocks, sacred/profane) rampages throughout social life, deconstructing images, misreading texts and collapsing binary oppositions into a mounting groundswell of ambiguity into which all discourse finally stutters and slides. Birth and death, high and low, destruction and renewal are sent packing with their tails in each other's mouths . . . A vulgar, shameless, materialism of the body--belly, buttocks, anus, genitals--rides rampant over ruling-class civilities; and the return of discourse to this sensuous root is nowhere more evident than in laughter itself, an enunciation that springs straight from the body's libidinal depths.(Walter Benjamin 145, 150)

     

    These passages are from the chapter of Walter Benjamin called “Carnival and Comedy: Bakhtin and Brecht,” and I want to consider this essay at length here: it provides the program projected in the book’s subtitle (“Towards a Revolutionary Criticism”), and the place of “pleasure” in this program is large and important–both as an aim proposed by the argument and, more immediately, as an effect of the writing. The energy of these passages is not the only kind of energy to be found in Eagleton–space forbids sampling the rabble-rousing wisecracks, the downright, matey metaphors, the sheer gusto for combat and polemical hurly-burly, the insouciantly highbrow laying about amid Heidegger, Althusser, Hegel, or whomever. But the fluency of Eagleton’s rant makes a sharp contrast with Jameson: while Jameson’s notoriously “difficult” prose enacts the difficult (indeed impossible) position of Marxism today, the sheer brio of Eagleton’s prose in all its guises, its “riot of semiosis,” seems to address a political situation whose solution ought to be as simple as getting everyone to admit what they already know, if only by springing jokes so cunningly as to enable us to catch them laughing despite themselves. “A vulgar, shameless materialism of the body– belly, buttocks, anus, genitals–rides rampant over ruling-class civilities”: is there a straight face to be seen? The transgressions seem a test to see who will laugh and who will scowl–good fun, and pointed, of course, at the latter.

     

    Surely this is Eagleton’s dominant effect: it is why graduate students idolize him, and part of why he is recommended for anyone wanting an introduction to “theory.” He can, quite simply, be fun to read, and in that regard, more than any other contemporary highbrow Marxist, he can remind you of some passages in Marx himself. You can, indeed, almost imagine a coal miner or a factory worker reading him, as, in labor movement myth, some of them used to read Marx. I highlight this effect of Eagleton’s prose because it is an effect of pleasure. Even Eagleton’s darker notes, the moments of righteous anger, generally assume or imply (indeed, they aspire to create) a political situation in which righteous anger can readily find its proper effectivity–a situation, to put it another way, in which righteous political anger is felt as a pleasure in its own right. Eagleton’s prose means to yield such pleasure as an effect, as well as proposing it as a theme or program.

     

    Over the course of Eagleton’s career, indeed, the effect of pleasure is far more consistent than the theme; about the theme, Eagleton has often, especially when younger, expressed doubts–as in the caveat above about Jameson, for example: “pleasure,” yes; “jouissance,” no. Jouissance is a Barthesian word, and although Eagleton does on occasion resort to it as a positive term, his reservations about Barthes remain everywhere in force. Pace Jameson, Eagleton regards Barthes’s plaisir and jouissance as privatistic, apolitical, and corrupted with the (to Eagleton) irredeemably contemptible bourgeois pathology of guilt-as-added-thrill; Barthesian pleasure is “guilty pleasure,” enacted behind closed doors in controlled environments, whereas Eagleton’s rabble-rousing implies gleeful sacrilege in public places, and not with guilt, but with whoops of righteous laughter.

     

    “Carnival and Comedy” proposes such effects, such styles of revolutionary laughter and humor, not only in its practice (in the style of its prose), but also as a program for a “Marxist theory of comedy” Walter Benjamin, 159), which Eagleton sketches out, with Brecht’s help, as properly answering to something like the movement of history itself. For Brecht, the Marxist “dialectic of history” is “comic in principle”: “a source”–quoting Brecht now–“of enjoyment” heightening “both our capacity for life and our pleasure in it.”13 Hence, explains Eagleton, the redemptive move from pessimism to “the vulgar cheerfulness of social hope”: “What for Walter Benjamin is potentially tragic . . . is for Brecht the stuff of comedy.” But what of history’s horrors? Eagleton seemingly bids defiance to all obligatory handwringing on that score: “Hitler as housepainter yesterday and Chancellor today is thus a sign of the comic, because that resistible rise foreshadows the unstable process whereby he may be dead in a bunker tomorrow” Walter Benjamin 161). (Note the verb tenses, and especially the “may” in that last clause: even in this “comic” moment, Eagleton is conjuring with the prospect of future Hitlers, warning that we must not be complacent because the last one was vanquished.)

     

    But against Auschwitz, a paragraph later, Eagleton knows that his comic bravura will not stand, and he acknowledges that there is “always something that escapes comic emplotment . . . that is non-dialectizable” Walter Benjamin 162). This last nonce-word seems a little too impromptu; it would be a mistake to hold Eagleton to all its implications against “dialectic” itself. It is better taken as a symptom of how Eagleton’s improvisational afflatus can tread Marxist toes as readily as bourgeois ones. But Eagleton means the word to acknowledge that the “comic” critique he projects here has its limit, comes up against things in history that can not be “emplotted” in a “comic” mode. If “comedy” can mean Dante, or the Easter Passion, it may seem that Eagleton has confused the “comic” with the “funny”; immemorially august Western conceptions of “the comic” have claimed to encompass brutality, suffering, injustice. Perhaps Eagleton regards these as in bad taste, or perhaps he wants to avoid the assimilation once again of Marxism to religion.

     

    However that may be, what happens next in “Carnival and Comedy” provides a far more surprising tack away from revolutionary laughter toward something like the “melancholy” the essay began by protesting. And it does so, more remarkably still, by way of a reading of a passage from The Eighteenth Brumaire, perhaps the first among Marx’s texts one might have cited as exhibiting just the sort of “carnivalesque” angers and “comic” pleasures (ridicule and mockery) Eagleton had seemed to project. But Jeffrey Mehlman reads the passage this way, and it is as a refutation of Mehlman’s reading that Eagleton stages his own Revolution and Repetition). What apparently prompts Eagleton’s ire is Mehlman’s reference to the “anarchism” of Marx’s prose, which Eagleton finds complicit with “those ruling ideologies that have an interest in abolishing dialectics and rewriting Marxism as textual productivity” Walter Benjamin 162). Mehlman argues that Marx’s rhetorical excesses overflow his supposed thesis; Eagleton scorns such a notion, but goes on to make an argument not much different.

     

    Eagleton’s fulcrum is the first-time-as-tragedy- second-time-as-farce motif, for Marx specifies “Caussidiere for Danton, Louis Blanc for Robespierre . . . the Nephew for the Uncle,” quite as if the Revolution’s giants were first-timers, and did not themselves dress up in Roman togas (conveniently requiring little restyling when the signified changed from “Republic” to “Empire”). Yet precisely this revolutionary repetition–both heroic and farcical– quickly becomes Marx’s main theme. Eagleton interrogates the resulting “semiotic disturbance” (inconsistent metaphors, etc.) over several pages of “close reading,” much too lengthily to quote here; but its surprising premise is that “Marx’s text is symptomatically incoherent” Walter Benjamin 163). But where Mehlman found this carnivalesque, and thus a strength and an interest, Eagleton, avowedly promoting “carnival and comedy,” is pained at Marx’s “unwitting” loss of control over his language, and finds himself talking back to Marx, correcting him, unmixing his metaphors for him. He recovers himself at last by the threadbare critical move of transferring the “symptomatic incoherence” from Marx to his object (bourgeois revolution), thus at the final bell transforming what had been Marx’s unwitting “symptom” into his masterful critical “negation.” But the passage ends weakly, and the essay moves to a coda lamenting Western Marxism’s loss of Marx’s comic strength (as if forgetting Brecht, Eagleton’s initial sponsor). There is irony here, insofar as Eagleton has just (by imposing a monologic of his own on Marx’s figurally dialogic text) sapped the very strength he now professes to mourn; and there is pathos in this wistful statement of irrecoverable loss, since recovering a comic possibility for Marxist critique had been, just a few pages earlier, Eagleton’s boldly stated ambition. The essay ends this way:

     

    Benjamin, like Gramsci, admired the slogan "Pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will," and in what Brecht called "the new ice age" of fascism one can see its point. But Marxism holds out other strategic slogans too. Having taken the point of the first, it might then be possible to say, without voluntarist or Kautskyist triumphalism: "Given the strength of the masses, how can we be defeated?"(Walter Benjamin 172)

     

    Tentative (“it might then be possible to say”), and with the taunts of the shibboleth-meisters (“Voluntarist!” “Kautskyist!”) rising in his inner ear, Eagleton’s final flourish cannot, for once, deliver the pleasurable Eagletonian “triumphalism” that is his usual stock in trade. The final “slogan,” indeed, ending on a question mark, sounds more like a real question than a rhetorical one. Here the “optimism of the will” is too willful to convince, the “pessimism of the intellect” too much more than merely intellectual not to. For once, “pessimism of the intellect” really seems to win the agon in the arena of Eagleton’s prose.

     

    So a guerilla foray into a “Marxist theory of comedy,” driven by “carnival” energies, loses momentum at the name of the eponymous master. This failure tempts the sort of lit-crit “psychoanalysis” indicated when, say, the word “balls” sends Stephen Dedalus’s chastely passionate villanelle off the rails: a gallant defense of Marx turns into a subtle assault on Marx–“anxiety of influence”?–and suddenly all Eagleton’s fight (and fun) have gone out of him. But of course we had better push in the direction of that transindividual “libidinal apparatus” that assigns the “objective limits” (Jameson’s phrase) determining such failures–and in fact to “allegorize” the trajectory of Eagleton’s essay as enacting the fate of pleasure in our present “conjuncture” is to assimilate Eagleton to Jameson. Jameson, as we have seen, makes a “vision” of “necessary failure” an imperative for Marxist criticism, and Eagleton, despite his bravely avowed aim of rebutting all such “pessimism” here ends by bowing to it. Jameson, inscribing a failure imperative, compels from it his tortured, ambivalent, “difficult” success; Eagleton, in brash defiance of all pessimisms and confident of Marxism’s inevitable, eventual success, here “enacts” the Jamesonian “vision” of “necessary failure” the more movingly for all his “optimism of the will” against it. This may sound like scoring points against both of them, especially against Eagleton–but if pressed to admit that Eagleton’s failure, at least, does seem a “symptom” rather than a “negation,” I would want to add that both writers, by putting their expository “mastery” at risk, challenge the whole ethos of “critique” that gives the “symptom”/”negation” binary its significance. The ensuing gain is that we can see how two writers so different, enacting differing consequences of the same “contradiction,” must probe and come up against different reaches of the same “objective limits.”

     

    As for the question how to name the complex satisfaction of reading such writers as Eagleton and Jameson, the very difficulty of calling it “pleasure” raises problems whose force is worth looking into in its own right. What Jameson’s discomfort with “pleasure,” his need to sublimate it into “the sublime,” tells us about the fate of pleasure in our historical moment converges with Eagleton’s seemingly opposed embrace of pleasure (with, nevertheless, his reservations about “bliss” on the one hand and the more obscurely motivated “failure” enacted at the close of “Carnival and Comedy” on the other).

     

    Which returns us to the question of “Left puritanism.” Both Eagleton and Jameson seem shadowed by the “minority (political) rigor” whose affinities with the more majoritarian moralisms we saw Barthes uncovering. Each seems to find some sorts of enjoyment (however they differ on which ones) tainted by (Barthes again) “unworthy [bourgeois] feelings.” Neither, of course, wants to be tarred as a “Left puritan”; Jameson’s embrace of Barthes (and Lacan) bespeaks his desire to escape that label, and Bakhtin serves as a similar alibi for Eagleton. As I have argued above, though, Jameson’s construction of Barthes seems motivated by a very un-Barthes-like, and very “Left puritan,” distrust of “plaisir,” and his reinscription of “jouissance” into “the sublime” sublimates it into something very far from enjoyment (in anything other than, say, the Zizekian sense).14 As for Eagleton’s appropriation of Bakhtin, it is to be read in opposition to, not as a version of, Barthesian “jouissance.” It constructs “carnival” as social, and thus an affair less of Eros than of its collective sublimate, Agape. Sex, in Eagleton’s “carnival,” is comically deflationary–“A ceaseless practice of travesty and inversion (nose/phallus, face/buttocks)” Walter Benjamin 145)–rather than a unique, privileged, grand (or grandiose) access to the transport and exaltation of “the sublime.”

     

    Barthes, I suspect, would see in both of these writers more than a few symptoms of that “frigidity” he protests, “As if the notion of pleasure no longer pleases anyone” Pleasure of the Text 46-7). Barthes writes as one for whom the “promesse de bonheur” that Marxists so frequently denounce as “ideological” has already been in some measure cashed; his superego has apparently fought free of that “categorical imperative” that would have him deny his own pleasure in the name of the possibly counter-revolutionary effects of corrupt ideas of “pleasure” on others. But insofar as the resistance to “pleasure” involves the worry of “false consciousness,” the fear of being falsely consoled by “an imaginary solution to a real contradiction,” it will doubtless remain a potent source of moral trouble for Marxists and others who would direct the energies of “critique” to the tasks of making a more just society. The example, though, of Eagleton’s “optimism of the will” (and, most of the time, of his optimism of the intellect, too) prompts me at least to the pleasurable speculation whether “false consciousness” might not equally involve the temptation of responding to real contradictions with imaginary aggravations.

     

    Notes

     

    1. “Stoic” and “tragic” are terms of praise in Jameson’s essay “Imaginary and Symbolic in Lacan” (1978), in The Ideologies of Theory, Volume 1 (hereinafter IT1), 98, 112; and it is manifest that part of Lacan’s fascination for Jameson is Lacan’s achievement of an ethos at once (“dialectically”) Hegelian and pessimistic, and to that extent a model for Jameson’s own. For “the nightmare of history as blood guilt,” see “Architecture and the Critique of Ideology” (1985), in The Ideologies of Theory, Volume 2 (hereinafter IT2), 43, and “Pleasure: A Political Issue” (1983), ibid, 68.

     

    2. See, for example, Jameson’s account of the Italian architectural historian Manfredo Tafuri in “Architecture and the Critique of Ideology” (1985), in IT2, 35-60; the caution about “post-Marxism” is on 38. See also remarks on Tafuri in Postmodernism, 61. Jameson scorns any suggestion of his own putative “post-Marxism” in the opening pages of the “Conclusion” to Postmodernism.

     

    3. Against the Grain, 68. Eagleton similarly praises Jameson in “The Idealism of American Criticism,” ibid, 49-64.

     

    4. “The Dialectic of Ideology and Utopia” is the title of the last chapter of The Political Unconscious (281-99), but the motif recurs throughout Jameson’s work, from the chapters on Marcuse (83-115) and Ernst Bloch (116-59) in Marxism and Form to the section of the “Conclusion” of Postmodernism called “The Anxiety of Utopia” (331-40).

     

    5. Cf. Jameson’s most unequivocal praise for Paul de Man: that no one has been more “self-punishing” in pursuit of a moral-intellectual askesis Postmodernism 239).

     

    6. Eagleton quotes Jameson on Adorno (from Marxism and Form xiii) in “The Politics of Style” Against the Grain 66); on the same page he quotes himself, on Jameson’s “intense libidinal charge,” from “The Idealism of American Criticism” Against the Grain 57).

     

    7. Compare this move of Eagleton’s with Jameson’s judgment that de Man’s project, despite its avowed ambition to deconstruct “the subject,” is “fatally menaced at every point by a resurgence of some notion of self-consciousness” Postmodernism 245, cf. 258-9).

     

    8. “Commodification” is a frequent topos in both Eagleton and Jameson, as well as in many other Marxist (and not-so-Marxist) writers. (Eagleton even images Jameson’s encyclopedic range of reference as a shopping cart wheeling through “some great California supermarket of the mind” collecting Hegel, Deleuze, Croce, et al., like so many designer-products Against the Grain 70].) Indeed, anxiety about the commodification of highbrow “theory” like his own–Barthes, Lukacs, Macherey, and whoever else as status-acquisitions in some flash-card degradation of intellectual life–frequently appear in Jameson himself, and in just such consumerist terms–as, for example, when he deplores hearing figures like Althusser, Gramsci, et al. turned into “brand-names for autonomous philosophical systems” (“Interview” 78).

     

    9. For Eagleton’s exempting Jameson from Barthesian “perversity,” see Against the Grain, 66; for Jameson on Barthes and Lacan, compare “Pleasure: A Political Issue” IT2 69) with the closing paragraph of “Imaginary and Symbolic in Lacan” IT1 115).

     

    10. Pleasure of the Text, 46-7. One of Jameson’s more dazzling asides is the linkage of Barthes with Lionel Trilling’s Sincerity and Authenticity on the grounds that both associate what they despise with the left–student radicals for Trilling, “Left puritanism,” as in the quoted passage, for Barthes IT2 65).

     

    11. This hermeneutic despair, surprisingly, lightens in work Jameson has published since Postmodernism. See the (previously unpublished, and presumably recent) essay, “The Existence of Italy,” in Signatures of the Visible, 155-248, where hermeneutic satisfactions again compensate for the reifications accounted for; and The Geopolitical Aesthetic: Cinema and Space in the World System, in which third world cinema’s reinvention of narrative and realism and its sense of “totality as conspiracy” offer a prospect of the world system once again rendered intelligible to the terms of a politically committed (mass) art form. See my review of these two books in Kritikon Litterarum (forthcoming).

     

    12. “Oedipal Fragment,” Walter Benjamin, Or, Towards a Revolutionary Criticism, 131; “The Ballad of English Literature,” Against the Grain, 185; the parody of Jameson, ibid, 65; of Empson, ibid, 151; “The Revolt of the Reader, ibid, 181-4. For the homage to Benjamin, see Walter Benjamin, 185. This is also the place to mention Eagleton’s play, Brecht and Company (1979) and his novel, Saints and Scholars (1987).

     

    13. Brecht on Theatre, 277; qtd. in Walter Benjamin, 160.

     

    14. I am thinking, of course, of Slavoj Zizek’s Enjoy Your Symptom: Jacques Lacan In Hollywood and Out, but readers of Zizek know that they will find this and Zizek’s other central themes rehearsed in virtually any of his books.

    Works Cited

     

    • Barthes, Roland. The Pleasure of the Text. 1973. Trans. Richard Miller. New York: Hill and Wang, 1975.
    • Eagleton, Terry. Against the Grain: Selected Essays. New York and London: Verso, 1986.
    • Eagleton, Terry. Walter Benjamin, Or, Towards a Revolutionary Criticism. New York and London: Verso, 1981.
    • Jameson, Fredric. The Geopolitical Aesthetic: Cinema and Space in the World System. Indiana UP/British Film Institute: Verso, 1992.
    • —. The Ideologies of Theory, Volume 1: Situations of Theory. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1988.
    • —. The Ideologies of Theory, Volume 2: The Syntax of History. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1988.
    • —. “Interview.” Diacritics 12.3 (Fall 1982): 72-91.
    • —. Late Marxism, Or, Adorno: The Persistence of the Dialectic. New York and London: Verso, 1990.
    • —. Marxism and Form. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1971.
    • —. The Political Unconscious. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1981.
    • —. Postmodernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1991.
    • —. Signatures of the Visible. Routledge: New York and London, 1992.
    • Mehlman, Jeffrey. Revolution and Repetition. Berkeley: U of California P, 1977.
    • Zizek, Slavoj. Enjoy Your Symptom: Jacques Lacan In Hollywood and Out. New York and London: Routledge, 1992.

     

  • The Excremental Sublime: The Postmodern Literature of Blockage and Release

    Roberto Maria Dainotto

    Dept. of Comparative Literature
    New York University

    DAINOTTR@acfcluster.nyu.edu

     

     

    Once a famous Hellenic philosopher, [Aesop’s] master in the dark days of his enslaved youth, had asked him why it was, when we shat, we so often turned around to examine our own turds, and he’d told that great sage the story of the king’s loose-living son who one day, purging his belly, passed his own wits, inducing a like fear in all men since. “But you don’t have to worry, sire,” he added, “you’ve no wit to shit.” Well, cost him a beating, but it was worth it, even if it was all a lie. For the real reason we look back of course is to gaze for a moment in awe and wonder at what we’ve made–it’s the closest we ever come to being at one with the gods.
     
    Now what he reads in this analecta of turds is rampant disharmony and anxiety: it’s almost suffocating. Boundaries are breaking down: eagles are shitting with serpents, monkeys with dolphins, kites with horses, fleas with crayfish, it’s as though there were some mad violent effort here to link the unlinkable, cross impossible abysses. And there’s some dejecta he’s not sure he even recognizes. That foul mound could be the movement of a hippogriff, for example, this slime that of a basilisk or a harpy. His own bowels, convulsed by all this ripe disorder, feel suddenly with a plunging weight, as though heart, hump, and all might have just descended there: he squats hastily, breeches down (well, Zeus sent Modesty in through the asshole, so may she exit there as well), to leave his own urgent message on the forest floor.
     

    –Robert Coover, “Aesop’s Forest”

     

    For this relief much thanks…

     

    Hamlet, I: i, 8

     

    Dedicatory Epistle to the Reader

     

    The paper hereby presented is, properly speaking, a treatise on evacuation. As such, its ideal location would be between Dominique Laporte’s Histoire de la merde and Pietro Manzoni’s Merde d’artista–works, in other words, secretly dedicated to friendly souls, or, as in this case, to the logorrheic interpreter of postmodernity. The author, but a humble hack, aims at the scholastic fame of having been able, if not to tap, at least to indicate a peculiar gap in postmodern criticism: for it appeared astounding to him that, among so many postmodernisms–“John Barth’s postmodernism, the literature of replenishment; Charles Newman’s postmodernism, the literature of inflationary economy; Jean-Francois Lyotard’s postmodernism, a general condition of knowledge in the contemporary informational regime; Ihab Hassan’s postmodernism, a stage on the road to the spiritual unification of humankind…” (McHale 4)–the one concerned with the sublimity of evacuation had been so absolutely neglected.

     

    To single out a certain sense of the sublime in contemporary literature, it is mandatory to impose severe limitations on and some critical selecting of the otherwise too heterogeneous material at hand. First, this research will be limited to North American fiction. Second, the investigation will focus on one particular theme that seems to have grieved American literature since the fifties–a theme that goes under the name of “the crisis of consciousness.”1 What is intended here by “critical selecting” is that pre-Kantian form of judgement that constitutes the essence and very nature of the author’s critical method: “I like it, or I don’t.” On this basis, I have not the least intention to encompass within this reading the “fast-food fictions” (Pfeil 2) and minimalist melancholies of Jay McInerney or Susan Minot. They do not “fit,” and, moreover, they get on my nerves.

     

    Of this critical scheme, the author is ready to admit that it is what nowadays seems to be the object of ridicule and scorn: it is, no doubt, a dogmatic scheme. It begins with an assumption about what contemporary American literature might be, and therefore it handles exclusively those works which “fit” into the scheme. In defense of this method, the author can only mention the innocence with which he is trying not to impose his assumption on any work.

     

    If the reader finds this preamble to be redundant, or the following to be repugnant, let us make clear that these notes, “neither a defense nor yet another denigration of the cultural enterprise we seem determined to call postmodernism” (Hutcheon, Poetics ix), should be intended as an attempt to single out some strategies of aesthetic, and maybe also moral and political, survival within the limits of what Jameson has so grimly called “logic of late capitalism”–or, in Baudrillard’s more pertinent formulation, the logic of fast-food, anorexia, bulimia, and obesity. Henceforth, dear reader, consider the following as yet one more exercise in survival and digestion–an exercise morally and socially relevant of which the author professes himself to be a persevering practitioner.

     

    Fables of Digestion

     

    The term digestion itself is one of the interfaces between ideas of bodily and mental process. Latin digero meant properly to force apart, to separate…

     

    –R.M. Durling, “Deceit and Digestion in the Belly of Hell”

     

    Inclusion and exclusion, symbolic and material exchange, body boundaries, gender, and other identity factors are systematically and most deeply inscribed in the members of a given group through eating practices.

     

    –George Yudice, “Feeding the Transcendent Body”

     

     

    In this paper, the term “sublime” refers not only to a set of aesthetic practices and transcendental ideals that have manifested themselves in contemporary American literature, but also to certain features of our own life and culture, features that, to paraphrase Geoffrey Harpham, “have survived the loss of the ideological structures within which they emerged” (xi). Loss and survival are two of the most remarkable traits of the sublime: since Longinus, they mark the stages of the individual’s confrontation with a superior force that momentarily marks the disruption of the subject, which is first “scattered,” and then joyfully reconstituted, “uplifted with a sense of proud possession…filled with joyful pride, as if we had ourselves produced the very thing we felt” (Longinus On the Sublime VII, translation mine).

     

    There seems to be general agreement today about the fact that the first epochal horizon within which one can speak of postmodernity coincides with the alleged death of the subject–or, at least, with an “attenuation of the self,” as Lionel Trilling puts it in Sincerity and Authenticity. From the “loss of the self” of Wylie Sypher, through the “divided self” of Ronald Laing, to the “deconstructed self” of Leo Bersani, the identity of the “I” is dramatically scattered.

     

    One can locate the first symptoms of the vanishing Emersonian self in the schlemiel of the literature of the fifties.2 Undoubtedly, there are specific historical reasons that generate this sense of pessimism and loss. The crisis of consciousness in the literature of the fifties may well witness, in Edmund Wilson’s words, the “homicidal and menacing schemes” of McCarthyan policy (Wilson 128). At the turn of the new decade, Ken Kesey’s One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest warns against the clinical suppression of the subject in the political style of Kubrick: “[they] try to make you weak so they can get you to toe the line, to follow their rules, to live like they want to” (Kesey 57). As Hendin puts it, society, as symbolized in Kesey’s asylum, “controls and infantilizes [the subject] in the name of the best interests of the inmates” (Hendin 132).

     

    And yet, the fiction of the sixties muses, with Kesey’s McMurphy, an outside space (“We want to live out of this society,” the king of the Merry Pranksters avows), the revival of the American dream, the fantasy of an ultimate frontier that, once crossed, will open onto the uncontaminated plains of ultimate innocence and freedom. Although the themes of power and suppression undergo some variations, say, from Kesey’s dystopic vision to Kerouac’s beatnik quest, the literature of the sixties traces a neat line between a power reduced to mere symbol of evil and an Adamic individual consciousness outside power and innocently extraneous to it. Curiously enough, the writer of the sixties uses the themes of power and consciousness in a way that resembles Thoreau’s, Whitman’s, and Hawthorne’s more than it resembles any postmodern writer’s: the Walden of literature is still a sacred wood in which I sing myself far from the evil of civilization and far from its scarlet symbols of doom. But is there any such a space of innocence in the coming society of the spectacle?

     

    Postmodern statements on politics and society, from Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow to Coover’s The Public Burning, persistently echo the gloomy tones of Kesey’s Foucauldian clinic–but where is the ultimate frontier of innocence and freedom?

     

    America was the edge of the World. A message from Europe, continent-seized, inescapable. Europe had found the site for its kingdom of Death, the special Death the West has invented. . . . Now we are in the last phase. American Death has come to occupy Europe. It has learned empire from its old metropolis. . . . Is the cycle over now and a new one ready to begin? Will our new Edge, our new Deathkingdom, be the Moon? . . . Gravity rules all the way out to the cold sphere, there is always the danger of falling.(Pynchon 722-23)

     

    Or, as Richard Nixon admits in The Public Burning, some pages before being sodomized by Uncle Sam, “we cannot escape” (Coover 8).

     

    Yet, the theory and practice of postmodernity may recast the question of “the crisis of consciousness,” raised in the fifties and brought to its final “paranoid” conclusions in the sixties, in “a more positive mode of confrontation between subject and power” (Olderman 124); the postmodern answer to this question attempts at producing new and different structures of survival–“new mutants,” to say it with Leslie Fiedler. The argument I want to support with this paper can be summarized as follows: the claim of a death of the subject in postmodern discourse must be understood, pace all those critics who take the “death-theme” in absolute earnestness, as a “radical irony” (Ihab Hassan) which aims at reconstituting what one can call–faute de mieux–the “radical subject”: a subject which stands to represent “the community of disappointed . . . literary intellectuals–and how many of us really stand outside this class?–whose basic need is to believe in the autonomy of self-fashioning.”3 Escape is impossible, since Kesey’s clinic is virtually everywhere, in “the crime labs . . . the records . . . the radios and the alarm system and the TV over the teller’s cages . . . the cells and the jails and the schools and institutions . . . the traffic signals and the alternate-side-of-the-street parking regulation . . . the magnified maps of the city . . . the beats and patrols,” as Elkin’s Bad Man witnesses (70); and yet, the repressive project of society reveals itself inefficient to discipline the postmodern self-fashioning individual.

     

    “I say all this to assure you that it is incorrect to assume that, because I am invisible and live in a hole, I am dead. I am neither dead nor in a state of suspended animation. Call me Jack-the-Bear, for I am in a state of hibernation.” But what can Ellison’s Bear do in the society of spectacle? How can Trilling’s “liberal imagination” survive the mystifications of mass-culture? And how can individual consciousness confront and survive a power disseminated in the most appealing forms of advertising, a power so forcefully obliterating reality with fictive simulacra? If “my life is a kind of simulation,” as the protagonist of DeLillo’s Mao II believes (97), how can the subject reposition itself within a society that transforms everything into simulation, in which even the individual, as Teresa de Lauretis warns, is “continually engaged, represented, and inscribed” (“Alice Doesn’t” 37)? In the last analysis, power is not framed within an inside that allows an outside innocence: power resides in the pre- fabricated notions of “reality” that the subject lives, “a series of overlapping fictions [that] cohere into a convincing semblance of historical continuity and logical truth” (Coover, Burning 122). Power is the ability of mass-media to create “static tableau–The New York Times’s finest creation–within which a reasonable and orderly picture of life can unfold” (Coover, Burning 192).

     

    Once reality and life have lost any ontological arche, and have become the result of a fictive construction, the radical subject, as Coover puts it, must become “cynical about it…learn the rules and strategies . . . [and become] a manipulator” (“Interview” 72); or, as Jerome Klinkowitz suggests, the radical subject must recuperate some sort of “transformative imagination” Disruptions 16) to be able to change plots and life, drive force beyond exhaustion, and transform indifference and its simulacra.

     

    Indeed, the publication of Berger and Luckmann’s The Social Construction of Reality (1967) had to convince a group of American authors, now labelled as “post-modernists,” that the first step towards the Bildung–or rather, a re-membering–of the radical subject was “to destroy the hold which these artificial constructions have on men, typically by forcing the very patterns and mythic structures to undermine themselves” (McCaffery, “Checklists” 112). Robert Coover declares:

     

    Men live by fiction. They have to. Life's too complicated, we just can't handle all the input . . . All of them [fictions], though, are merely artifices-- that is, they are always in some ways false, or at best incomplete. There are always other plots, other settings, other interpretations. So if some stories start throwing their weight around, I like to undermine their authority a bit, work variations, call attention to their fictional nature.4

     

    Thus, the dead “I” opens a breach in the institutionalized mythic structures, a breach in which s/he will find space enough for inventing new plots and new fables of identity: the radical subject survives the attempt of annihilation by virtue of his/her ability to transform social plots, “work variations, call attention to their fictional nature.”

     

    Why, then, does postmodernism insistently repeat the litany of the dead at the same moment in which death is to turn into survival? One reason may be that postmodernism tries to re-enact a drama that takes place in daily life– the risk that the subject could be actually annihilated by his/her inability to confront overpowering social myths. Most important, this dramaturgy allows postmodernism to celebrate an ironically initiatory rite, or “mythotherapy,” as Campbell Tatham suggests (“Mythotherapy” 155), that enacts the drama of a temporary collapse in order to subsequently reconstitute a new subject in a stage of sublime ecstasy: as a ritual, the death of the subject initiates the reader to confront overpowering structures and destroy their hold. “The process is part of our daily life,” Richard Poirier tells us, “and no other novelist predicts and records it with Pynchon’s imaginative and stylistic grasp” V. 5). Indeed, Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow might be the best example to illustrate this kind of ritualistic sublimation of the self. If “They” have transformed the self into a “poor cripple, [a] deformed and doomed thing” GR 720), living in the “master plan” of a continuous alienation; if the self has been ensnared in a plot that is trying to subject both humanity and the Earth to the principle of economic exploitation–then it is “our mission to promote death,” and to become, like Katje and Gottfried, “children who are learning to die” GR 175). As the narrator says, “We must also look to the untold,” to a story different from the “master plan” that has constructed our very idea of identity GR 720). Like Slothrop’s, the human self must first be “broken down” and “scattered” in order to overcome alienation and return as the Benjaminian “bright angel of death” GR 738 ff.). In Pynchon’s novel, Slothrop’s “death” serves the purpose of recognizing fictions and social “master-plans” for what they are, thus liberating the subject from his/her dependency on artificial constructs. As Ihab Hassan argues, “revulsion against the self serves [postmodernism] as a link between the destructive and visionary impulses of modern apocalypse; it prepares for rebirth” Postmodern Turn 5). It administers last rites to all of human life.

     

    Coover’s fictions are no less rich of ritualistic sublimations. Coover, with his proclaimed interest in Roger Caillois’ Eucharistic rites (“Interview” 74), repeatedly stages sacrificial public burnings, regicides, and other executions. In “Aesop’s Forest” the artist/Aesop, who has sinned against Apollo, is, like Orpheus, dismembered by the angry Delphians–“one eye is gone, the other clouded, an ear is clogged with bees, his hide’s in tatters.”5 Aesop’s sacrilege consists in having denounced Apollo’s Truth as a fable.

     

    As Aesop remarks, with a sense of tragic irony, “I told them the truth, they called it sacrilege.” Like the postmodern demiurge, Aesop has de-mystified an absolute Truth, but, in so doing, he has hypostatized his own construction as a new truth, allegedly free from any Dionysian construction. Men live by fictions, they have to. But some fictions, like Aesop’s “deconstruction” of Apollonian Truth, start throwing their weight around. When this happens, fictions can turn against their creator, and Aesop’s moralized animals join the Delphians in the lynching of the author:

     

    they are on him: wolves, boars, apes, moles, toads, dancing camels, plucked daws, serpents, spiders, snails, incestuous cocks and shamming cats, hares, asses, bats, bears, swarms of tongueless gnats, fleas, flies and murderous wasps, bears, beavers, doves, martins, lice and dungbeetles, mice and weasels, owls, crabs, and goats, hedgehogs and ticks, kites, frogs, peacocks and locusts, all the fabled denizens of the forest, all intent in electing him into the great democracy of the dead.("Aesop's Forest" 82)

     

    At once, Coover’s story gives the idea of Aesop-the-fabler’s “radical” (anti-Apollonian) activity, and of Aesop-the-man’s entrapment in his own “eloquent text of the forest.” It is not less amazing to notice how Aesop is dismembered by his own “fabled denizens” than to notice how the Rosenbergs are sacrificed to the fable of American democracy in The Public Burning. To give credit to fictions is to put lives at stake. It is not surprising, in this context, that Coover’s narrative technique continuously aims at constructing “exemplary fictions”–fictions that, in Robert Alter’s formulation, “flaunt their own condition of artifice” Partial Magic x) and that, by so doing, escape any hypostasis onto the plane of myth and absolute Truth:

     

    Ejemplares you [Cervantes] called your tales, because "si bien lo miras, no hay ninguna de quien no se pueda sacar un ejemplo provechoso," and I hope in ascribing to my fictions the same property, I haven't strayed from your purposes, which I take to be manyfold. For they are ejemplares, too, because your intention was "poner en la plaza de nuestra republica una mesa de trucos, donde cada uno pueda llegar a entratenerse sin dao del alma ni del cuerpo, porque los ejercicios honestos y agradables antes aprovechan que daan"-- splendid, don Miguel! for as our mutual friend don Roberto S. [Robert Scholes, in The Fabulators] has told us, fiction "must provide us with an imaginative experience which is necessary to our imaginative well being . . . We need all the imagination we have, and we need it exercised and in good condition"--and thus your novelas stand as exemplars of responsibility to that most solemn and pious charge placed upon this vocation. . .(Coover Pricksongs, 77)

     

    Coover’s self-denouncing fictions, differently from Aesop’s moralities, do not permit “to have their miserable excrement read so explicitly”6–they do not establish any interpretive order. Because, if Aesop was the victim of an Apollonian social order, he has become, quite paradoxically, the grantee for a classical order–think of La Fontaine– which sees in Aesop’s fables the explicit moralities of “avarice, panic, vanity, distrust, lust for glory and for flesh, hatred, hope, all the fabled terrors and appetites of the mortal condition, drawn together here now for one last demented frolic.” Eventually, whether they were guilty or not of a radical and anti-Apollonian statement, Aesop’s fables serviced another artificial but stable moral order. Establishing the tradition of the Aesopian genre tells enough about the institutionalization of fable and the fetishization of narrative constructs, as Chenetier argues: “Aesop[‘s] . . . transformations, a founding gesture for his particular world-view, [have become] a-dynamic and irreversible” (“Ideas” 101). Hence, Coover’s exemplary tale, in order to exercise “all the imagination we have . . . in good conditions,” must dismantle the whole of Aesop’s mythologized apparatus. For reasons antithetical to those of the Delphians, Coover himself must sacrifice Aesop–or his now overpowering plot–on the altar of the postmodern transformative imagination, in the “Temple of the Muses” (“Aesop’s Forest” 81).

     

    Whatever happens to Aesop, and whoever kills him, we know that his is a tragic end. But what happened to the postmodern subject, or, to a lesser extent, whatever happened to Coover in Aesop’s forest? Does the death of Aesop stands to signify the death of the author tout court? Does this coincide with Lyotard’s claimed death of grand narratives? Coover’s allegory is very careful about this: the felicitous announcement of the death of the author can well serve the political agenda of the fox, “that treacherous foul-mouth.” Should we give absolute credit to the wide-spread announcement of the death of narrative (another myth, indeed), the fox may engineer a subtle takeover and make us believe that its realpolitik is the ultimate demystification–we may find ourselves entrapped into Peter Sloterdijk’s “cynical reason,” the belief that, since ideologies are all equally false, one’s behavior should then be absolutely determined by “particular interests.” The problem with Sloterdijk, as with our fox, is that they do not see in their “cynicism” a new fiction, a novel artificial construction: the “particular interest” is not more “real” than what has so far been deconstructed. Interests, to paraphrase Baudrillard, are never “free” from ideological determinations: “there is no basis on which to define what is ‘artificial’ and what is not. . . . No one experiences this [particular interest] as alienation” (“Consumer Society” 40). The grand narratives that have a hold on our life may be easily condemned and unmasked on the assumption that, much like the Socratic “enlightened” rationalism according to Nietzsche, they aspire to Apollonian truth, forgetting that they are bound to the deceptive nature of the Dionysian. However, what is striking is precisely the degree of forgetfulness that accompanies many annunciations of death and unmaskings of grand narratives: the authoritative announcement of the disappearance of authority, and the articulation of a total and comprehensive narrative of a postmodern condition in which it would be impossible to articulate any narration, surreptitiously establish, as Coover suggests, a “foxy” and fraudulent totalizing order. If there is any difference between Aesop’s and Coover’s postmodernism, it is this: the “suspicion” Aesop casts on Apollonian order is recast by Coover on the suspicion itself, with the result that the denunciation of myths does not acquire the status of an Aufklarung, but rather, in Bentham’s formulation, of a “necessary fiction.”7 In other words, the de- mythification itself is the result of another fictive construction that can acquire “exemplarity” only if it recognizes itself as “fictive,” thus avoiding any hypostasis onto the plane of absolute truth and enlightenment. Whoever would execute the myth-maker and fight an order of reality must be fully aware that the logics on which s/he would perform the “de-mythification” are not devoid of a necessary fictional nature–or, in Coover’s own words, “It’s all shit anyway” (“Aesop’s Forest” 83).

     

    More precisely, the death of the author/Aesop prepares for a rebirth: once Aesop’s moralized forest “extinguishes itself around him,” a new, exemplary forest can be created, and a new “self-conscious” author can take Aesop’s place. The execution of the author participates of a tribal ritual of initiation in which “killing the author,” as Frazer would say, “assumes, or at least is readily combined with, the idea that the soul of the slain author is transmitted to his successor.” As in Freud’s “totemic meal,” oral incorporation and its correlates–instalment and digestion of authority within the self–consume a patricidal act that sublimates the subject’s desire for strength, authority, and life. The Gerontion-like loss of sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch that characterizes the narrator of “Aesop’s Forest” must be counterbalanced by a will to eat: “even in such decline, the familiar hungers stir in him still… his appetite for power outlasting his power to move” (“Aesop’s Forest,” 68).

     

    It is the same hunger that saves the characters of Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior in their endless combat against the ghosts of patriarchal culture: “my mother won in ghost battle because she can eat anything…. All heroes are bold toward food…. Big eaters win.”8 In Kingston’s and Coover’s vocabulary, one must introject the myth for reasons of survival; only by following the drive of this appetite can the postmodern subject “learn the rules,” and find alternative plots, “more pathways, more gardens, and more doors” (Coover Pricksongs, 19). In other words, if eating practices and “disorders,” as Julia Kristeva suggests, may be the product of a hysterical resistance to (patriarchal) authority (“Stabat Mater”), it must be noticed that the postmodern resistance is not on the part of the anorexic, but, rather, of the bulimic. As the title (if not the argument) of Sohnya Sayres’s article on “Food and the Agon of Excess” suggests, postmodernism is a tale of bulimic excess, or, as George Yudice puts it, the promise of “transcendence in an age of fake fat and microwavable synthetic meals” (“Transcendent Body” par. 3). As Susie Orbach’s The Anorectic’s Struggle as a Metaphor implies, even the anorectic’s “hunger strike,” a loss at the level of the physical, “replenishes” the body with the metaphors of an excess in respect to social codes.

     

    But is “appetite” enough for the individual’s survival? Cannot eating rather be, as Baudrillard’s discussion on “The Obese” insinuates, a “fatal strategy,”9 or simply produce a blockage? “As a child,” Kingston tells us, “I pictured a naked child sitting on a modern toilet desperately trying to perform until it died of congestion” (86). Cannot the introjection of social structures, literary traditions, and Aesop’s moralities, actually paralyze the childlike postmodern imagination in some sort of congestion? Or into a compulsion to repeat? Indeed, the rather heavy meal can create a digestive disorder, a rampant dyspepsia, and a metabolic chaos. The “urgent message” of the postmodern author is hindered. The author “squats hastily, breeches down. Ah!, what a plunging weight.” Can postmodernism overcome this moment of blockage, this compulsion to cite and repeat–this compulsion to death? One has reason for worrying: the signs shed in Coover’s forest seem to be Aesop’s and La Fontaine’s, rather than Coover’s own– “there’s some dejecta he’s not sure he even recognizes”! For the voracious postmodern individual, blockage is the real threat, and survival coincides with some sort of “digestive capability”–the power to actively transform authorities and traditions into fecal signs, into wastes from which the subject has to separate in order to constitute itself as a subject. It is the ability of forcing apart, separating one’s individuality from that of the slain king. In the next section, I will try to associate the possibility of survival for the postmodern individual with a sublime ability to evacuate. This–it goes without saying–is a topic that the author, who is not free from certain academic scruples, has not the power to censor nor the happiness to approve. It is a topic that has been forced upon me by Robert Coover, for whom evacuation is “the closest we ever come to the gods.”

     

    And so, with a timid “Can I?,” I’d like to move to the second section.

     

    From Citation to Sublimation: Metaphors Of Evacuation

     

    As if it were a game played by the sphincter muscle . . .

     

    –Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing in America

     

    Although several critics have commented on the subject, the key document in defining postmodern American literature remains John Barth’s “The Literature of Exhaustion” (1967). Barth’s radical announcement was that writers were facing “the used-upness of certain forms of exhaustion of certain possibilities” (29). From then on, the author could only cite and repeat old stories and earlier forms. It is evident that postmodern literature seemingly endorses Barth’s aesthetics of exhaustion: Coover’s repetition of Aesop’s fables, Barthelme’s rewriting of Snow White, Kathy Acker’s Borgesian Don Quixote, equivocally suggest a compulsion to cite, quote, and repeat a whole literary tradition that disturbingly crops up in the postmodern literary body. “Nobody had enough imagination,” Barth’s Ambrose muses at the end of Lost in the Funhouse (97). The postmodern author is condemned to cite and repeat old stories, given forms and structures. Or so it seems. Because some questions can still be asked: Is it possible to turn Barth’s aesthetic ultimacy, his entropic compulsion to cite, into a sublime strategy for the survival of the subject? Can the citing subject be “uplifted with a sense of proud possession” above the cited material? And, if so: According to which paradigm can we define this “uplifting” as “sublimation,” and in what terms?

     

    Suzanne Guerlac, in her study on “Longinus and the Subject of the Sublime,” locates the force of the sublime in the humble practice of citation, in which the author takes “proud possession” of the given message (275). Frances Ferguson replies to Guerlac by suggesting that citation rather promotes, to be fair to Longinus, a “suppression of the author” (295; emphasis mine). Despite the different conclusions they reach, both Guerlac’s and Ferguson’s arguments, as Geoffrey Harpham argues (198-199), are essentially correct, since the Longinian sublime, in the last analysis, does not aim to promote auctorial individuality, but instead the unification of the author with a transcendent totality, or with a past re-presented by and in the citation. The author is thus “promoted” (Guerlac) by dispersing him/her self within a “totality” (Ferguson). When the Longinian author recognizes the citation “as something he had himself produced,” s/he is caught in the sublime experience because s/he feels as part of a transcendental creative energy.

     

    From its very outset, postmodernism seems to tell a rather different story: postmodern citation can be more correctly imagined as a moment of blockage, in which the author is compelled to cite, to repeat,10 because a given totality–a literary tradition, a social given to which the author feels belated, or, as Kathy Acker puts it, some “great expectations”–already comprehends him/her. The problem for the postmodern author is that s/he, unlike Longinus, tries to escape that totality, whose overpowering force blocks and paralyzes. Donald Barthelme’s Snow White, trying to narrate her own story, finds herself captured in a plot–Grimm’s Snow White–from which she cannot escape: “Oh I wish there were some words in the world that were not the words I always hear!” (6). Whereas the Longinian sublime contents the subject with a syntactical “sympathy” (the term is Burke’s) between subjective expression and absolute logos, postmodern technique tries to free the subject from the hierarchy of syntax, and hinges, as Hayden White comments, on “a paratactical consciousness: a language of linear disjunction rather than narrative sequence” (“Culture” 69). To put it in rhetorical terms, the organizing principle of postmodern narrative would be metonymy–the succession of unconnected elements –rather than metaphor–the link between the parts. Accordingly, Donald Barthelme breaks syntactic hierarchy to introduce an element of error, a metonymic uncodifiable fragment, in the ordered space of social information:

     

    I have a number of error messages I'd like to introduce here and I'd like you to study them carefully . . . they're numbered. I'll go over them with you: undefined variable . . . improper use of hierarchy . . . missing operator . . . mixed mode, that one's particular grave . . . invalid character transmitted in sub-program statement, that's a bitch . . . no END statement.("Explanation" 79)

     

    The Guerlac-Ferguson debate suggests that Longinus’s holistic sublime may lose its usefulness to describe a postmodern strategy. The ironic tone of postmodern citation implies a different movement, namely, in Paul Bove’s terms, “a radical break or rupture in the genetic pattern,” in which the subject inter-relates dialectically with his/her genetic/historical predecessor, thus instituting “discontinuities” rather than syntheses.11

     

    If Longinus’s sublime and Burke’s “sympathy” do not “fit” postmodernism, Neil Hertz’s “The Notion of Blockage in the Literature of the Sublime” tries to define the postmodern practice of citation in terms of Kantian sublime. The enormous “accumulation of secondary discussion,” the “proliferation of secondary comments,” Hertz argues, brings the postmodern author to face “a point of blockage: he [writes] of the threat of being overwhelmed by too much writing, and it may not be possible to go beyond that” (62 ff.) This “accumulation,” an enormous difficulty to ex-press (etymologically: ex premere, to push out) new signs under “the pressure of the super ego,” produces on the author/subject what Hertz calls a “blockage,” something emotionally similar to Kant’s fear and amazement in facing an overwhelming, “limitless” force. The subject/author feels impotent, constipated, quite dead. Yet, Hertz suggests, after the postmodern author posits this impossibility, after s/he installs such a monstrous accumulation impeding writing–after blockage is posited, writing flows out: a logorrhea, indeed, about the “impossibility” of writing. This process constitutes, according to Hertz, the liberating experience of contemporary sublime–an experience organized on the double “mind’s movement [of] blockage, and release.”

     

    Let us consider, as an example of this mechanism of sublimation, Linda Hutcheon’s The Politics of Postmodernism. The first chapter of this text is entitled “Representing the Postmodern,” and it begins with a subchapter devoted to the discussion of “What is Postmodernism?” That is to say: Can post-modernism have any identity? Hutcheon astutely plays on the oxymoron opened between the notions of “representation of postmodernism” and that of “postmodern impossibility of representation.” How can we possibly represent, in fact, a phenomenon whose first given is that of unpresentability? Impossibility rules the program of Hutcheon’s text, which is to represent the unpresentable. The Politics of Postmodernism may be seen as some kind of allegory–quite literally an anagogic attempt–of postmodernism itself. The entire postmodernist project is re-enacted here as the desire to “project,” and create, that which cannot be pinned down or mastered by representation. The transcendent object of desire is that which, according to Lyotard, moves postmodernism toward the sublime:

     

    The postmodern would be that which, in the modern, puts forward the unpresentable in presentation itself, that which denies itself the solace of good forms, the consensus of a taste which would make it possible to share collectively the nostalgia for the unattainable; that which searches for new presentations.(Postmodern Condition 81)

     

    The entire postmodern “representation” (or “postmodernism represented”) is in it–the “post-modernist project,” or, in other words, that ephemeral, brilliant moment of writing the impossibility of writing that by itself represents an entire era, and transcends the logical and stylistic possibilities of representation in the moment the unpresentable is finally presented:

     

    it seems reasonable to say that the postmodern's initial concern is to de-naturalize some of the dominant features of our way of life; to point out that those entities that we unthinkingly experience as 'natural' . . . are in fact 'cultural'; made by us, not given to us. Even nature, postmodernism might point out, doesn't grow on trees.(Hutcheon, Poetics 2)

     

    The “indeterminate,” the “unpresentable,” is thus transcended, as Kant puts it, in the “representation of the limitlessness.” The question “What is postmodernism?” poses to the reader an apparently unrecoverable “momentary check” (Kant) to the possibilities of representing “an indeterminate reference”12; the feeling of impotence is then “followed at once by a discharge all the more powerful” (Kant) in the moment the unpresentable is finally “connected with the mere presentation or faculty of representation, and is thus taken to express the accord, in a given intuition, of the faculty of presentation, or the imagination, with the faculty of concepts” (Kant). The identity of postmodernism is given, albeit in a negative way, as discrepant from representation itself; or, rather, as ironic (negative) representation, as a representation that takes traditional (positive) representation ironically.

     

    However, we have come a long way from Kant’s sublime. Kant’s was the attempt, once again, to reconstitute the excess of feeling within the notions of “unity,” “integrity,” and “coherence” sanctioned by the “ethical man.” As Hayden White has noticed, Kant’s sublime is some sort of disguised ideology which disciplines the suprasensible by reconciling it with the re-cognition of a social meaning in it. The individual, rather than freeing him/herself from overwhelming totalities, is eventually subjected to the overpowering force–a force of representation, or “faculty of concepts”–of the ethical man.13 By advocating the need for rupture, disjunction, and differance, the postmodern “improper use of hierarchy” might well fall out from any Kantian categorization. In his insightful “Sublime Politics,” Donald Pease implicitly maintains the necessity, for postmodernist poetics, of dropping out any argument about, and tendency toward, the sublime:

     

    Despite all the revolutionary rhetoric invested in the term, the sublime has, in what we could call the politics of historical formation, always served conservative purposes . . . the sublime, instead of disclosing a revolutionary way of being that is other than the ethical, in Kant's rendition, is reduced to strictly ethical duties. Or, put differently, the sublime makes the formation of an ethical character sound as if it is a rebellious task.(275-276; Pease's emphasis.)

     

    Published in boundary 2 in 1984, Pease’s might be seen as a declaration of postmodernist intents. However, Pease’s refusal of the sublime may be contradictorily sublime in itself. What Pease claims, in his elaborate discussion and description of so many theories of the sublime, is the necessity of dropping out, releasing a certain political embarrassment which seems to be the given of the sublime. By first citing an impressive mass of material on the sublime, and then proclaiming a repudiation of all these structures, Pease’s article offers a clear example of what I intend as the postmodern sublime, organized, indeed, on Hertz’s paradigm of blockage and release. Not only does Pease confront something as overwhelming as the sublime, but he also exceeds it, thus “uplifting” postmodernism beyond the possibilities of what is usually known as “the sublime.” In Pease’s epistemological displacement, the “sublime” reaches what Kant’s conservatism represses: namely, the discontinuity between the given structures and the individual effort to transcend that given; Pease’s sublime results in the differance between self and world, present and past, referent (the “sublime politics”) and sign (a discourse exceeding that referent).

     

    Dick Hebdige, in “The Impossible Object: Towards a Sociology of the Sublime,” is more explicit than Pease in affirming the existence of a postmodern sublime based on the ironic rejection of previous theories of the sublime and on the disruption of totalities. Hebdige singles out what he calls “the pull towards the asocial sublime” in contemporary discourse: for Hebdige, the mode of the “asocial sublime” is a celebration of the “camp vision,” the vision of waste, trash, and excrement–an indirect citation of Barthelme’s “digging on the leading edge of the trash phenomenon.” The ironic inversion of the sublime from Kant and Lyotard’s totalizing aestheticizations (a re-engagement of the excess as aesthetic work), to the new “camp vision,” explicitly aims at both resisting unity and locating the force of postmodern sublime within the realm of an anti-aesthetic differance. For Hebdige, one of the most remarkable strategies of the postmodern sublime consists in the simultaneous citation and combination (“double coding,” in Umberto Eco’s or Linda Hutcheon’s terminologies) of texts belonging to high and camp culture. The result of this peculiar citational practice is complexly disruptive and constructive at once: at the same moment in which hierarchy (high vs. low culture) is disrupted, the post-modern subject is “uplifted” with a sense of complete mastery of both fields:

     

    Rather than surrender mastery of the fields, the critics who promulgate the line that we are living at the end of everything (and are all these critics men [sic]?) make one last leap and resolve to take it all-- judgement, history, politics, aesthetics, value--out of the window. . . . The implication seems to be that if they cannot sit at the top of Plato's pyramid, then there shall not be any pyramid at all.(Hebdige 70)

     

    As Fred Pfeil maintains, manipulation and digestion of culture in its entirety, from high to low, coincides with some sort of jouissance, of a pleasure that is, in the last analysis, the constitutive nature of postmodern subjectivity:

     

    [the postmodern subject] finds him/herself an extraordinarily well-rounded, complete cultural consumer and connoisseur, eminently capable of taking pleasure in a spectrum of choices . . . ranging from just a step ahead of mass culture . . . to just a foot short of high.(108)

     

    At this point, we can start defining the specific features of a postmodern strategy of the sublime, which is —on le sait!–an anti-theory, a virtual subversion of all totalizing theories. Hebdige’s sense of metaphoric inversion from art to anti-art, from aesthetics to anti-aesthetics, from the “beautiful” to the sublime “camp vision,” and from “exhaustion” to “mastery,” no longer stresses the drama of “ultimacies,” or the disintegration of identity; instead, it shifts into the strategy for the Bildung of a new subject. This new subject confronts given structures to master them with some kind of Keatsean negative capability.14 In his book on The Art of Excess: Mastery in Contemporary American Fiction, Tom Le Clair argues:

     

    Recognizing their dependence on their culture's system of dissemination . . . novelists have two strategies to counter the homogeneity of mass-produced and institutionally controlled information. One strategy is to collect to excess and thus use against the dominant culture its own information. The other...(16)

     

    . . . But let us stay with the first of Le Clair’s strategies of mastery: the postmodern sublime, to start with, is a strategy of “collection” and ex-cess (etymologically: ex cedere, to give out), in which the givens of an “accumulation of writing” (Hertz), of a political embarrassment (Pease), or of “mass-produced and institutionally controlled information” (Le Clair), lead not so much to a rejection, but rather to an introjection (admission of the problem, commentary, citation, allusion), which poses a blockage suddenly overcome by a release, an ironic “excess” which turns the manipulator against cultural givens. This sublime strategy of ingestion, ironic blockage, and final release, has been defined by Arthur Kroker and David Cook as the privileged strategy of an “excremental culture”: such a culture nourishes itself of the “pestilential spirit” of social and cultural entropic systems, to finally digest and drop out a fairly new message of disruption whose “psychological signs are those of . . . disaccumulation”: “[postmodern art] exists at the edge of ecstasy and decay where the consumer culture of the passive nihilists does a reversal and in a catastrophic implosion flips into its opposite number” (10 ff.). Not altogether differently, John Barth’s metaphor of disaccumulation in Lost in the Funhouse suggests that “The final possibility is to turn ultimacy, exhaustion, paralyzing self- consciousness and the adjective weight of accumulated history … Go on. Go on. To turn ultimacy against itself to make something new and valid” (109).

     

    Ihab Hassan, as far as I know, is the first critic who has defined the postmodern sublime as ironic discharge of the “infinite powers” that impede expression. Hassan’s metaphor is that of defecation overcoming the nausea brought about by constipation:

     

    Nathaniel West, writing at the edge of our contemporaneity, first comes to mind . . . The Dream Life of Balso Snell, mock artist, proves to be a wet dream. More precisely, Snell imagines that he ascends into the bowels of the Trojan horse. This accords with his view of art as "sublime excrement." West seems to endorse this bilious irony: his own repugnance of life touches even his craft. His nausea, which no social dependency of the thirties can entirely explain, conceals itself in black comedy. A world of ugly doorknobs, dead dreams, and distressed loves, burns into the ash of parodic apocalypse. Thus West, turning violence into dubious merriment, is the new satirist laughing at the wound within his laugh. Thirty years after, William Burroughs carries the excremental vision even farther. A devilish mimic, he transposes a world ruled by entropy, waste, and disease into a film of metallic laughter.(Dismemberment 249)

     

    The vision of excremental sublime, as “parodic apocalypse” of a subject opposing “a world ruled by entropy,” certainly emerges in many postmodern works. We might think of Pynchon’s “defecation rites,” or of the narrator of Gass’s The Heart of the Heart of the Country who asserts that “I want to rise so high that when I shit I won’t miss anybody.” Federman’s The Voice in the Closet provides the (autobiographical) example of a thirteen-year- old boy hidden in a closet to escape the Nazis: “I was scared. And on top of that, in the middle of the afternoon I had to take a crap. And why not? So I unfolded one of the newspapers and took a shit on it” (47). After defecation, fear is overcome; the boy finds courage to leave the closet, and embarks to America. Federman charges the scene with almost obvious allegorical implications: the closet becomes the tomb and the womb for the coming-into- life of a new subject; defecation is the ironic release of the fear of death and annihilation. The same allegorical structure is at work in Coover’s Spanking the Maid. The “teacher” of Coover’s story has to realize that his Victorian ideal of Bildung–“feeding with spanking . . . that broad part preferred by him and Mother Nature for the invention of the souls”–is absolutely incorrect. For “that broad part” of the human body “seems more like a place for letting things out than putting things in.” After a moment of apparent death, which is, in truth, only a digestive pause, the “invention of souls,” the epiphany of the subject, happens in a water-closet, in a last heraldic effort to produce “spiritual” signs: “twitching amicably yet authoritatively like a damp towel, down a bottomless hole, relieving himself noisily” (102). Even more explicitly, Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five offers fecal signs as allegorical signs of authorial consciousness and as the epiphany of the radical writer opposing war and its horrors:

     

    Billy looked inside the latrine. The wailing was coming from there. The place was crammed with Americans who had taken their pants down. The welcome feast had made them as sick as volcanoes. The buckets were full or had been kicked over. An American near Billy wailed that he had excreted everything but his brains. Moments later he said, "There they go, there they go." He meant his brains. That was I. That was me. That was the author of this book.(125)

     

    This is the price that the subject has to pay for its survival. Giving up any metaphysical consistency, this sort of subject becomes, quite literally, an excrement, a surplus that cannot be codified and inscribed in the fabricated notions of “reality.” Its “resistance” to codification institutes at the same time its absolute superfluity in relation to the symbolic order. Its manipulation of codes and structures, in other words, cannot have any effectual consistency if not in establishing a topos in which subjectivity may exist, as a digestive process, in a sublime manipulation of pre-existing categories.

     

    Examples of excremental sublime in postmodern American fiction could multiply almost endlessly. However, I should discourage my reader from thinking that the excremental sublime is limited to the (many) cases in which fecal signs explicitly appear in the literary space; rather, excremental sublimity consists of a narrative practice which I have defined as a movement from blockage to release, and from Longinian citation or Kantian re-presentation to sublime digestive transformation. As such, it encompasses a more general postmodern trend: it includes any strategy of incorporating social myths and given plots–we might say: history and/as literary tradition–to finally release new stories and new modes of being. This new mode of being is the postmodern radical subject, who has survived the menaces of death and has “uplifted” him/herself with “joyful pride” in an act of ultimate poiein. In this sense, we might well conceive of the postmodern subject as a sphincter muscle performing its daily activity of retention, manipulation, and ex-pression; Altieri seems to endorse this idea when he argues, rather aphoristically, that “as organ, the [postmodern] ego has its own rhythms of expansion and contraction . . . it is not a place to store experience, but a way of experiencing” (627; Altieri’s emphasis).

     

    However, some mysteries are still unsolved: how can postmodern irony overcome the moment of blockage? And how can a subject be reconstituted–in his/her “way of being”– in spite of a power aggressively trying to “objectify” him/her? The postmodern answer to both questions is that the blockage–the “impossibility”–is not “real”; power is only a fiction. Put like this, the answer may seem too blunt, and it certainly exacts sharpening in order to prevent excessive optimism. It is my assumption that the achievements of Marcuse’s Eros and Civilization (1962) and Norman O’Brown’s Life against Death (1964) must be taken as defining features of the American postmodern sublime. For it is in these works that, through an alliance of Marx and Freud, the inevitable confrontation of subject and power takes place in a radically new fashion. Exemplified (maybe at the excess) by Theodore Roszack’s “The Dialectics of Liberation,” the problem of “making a counter culture” during the sixties could be put like this:

     

    While both Marx and Freud held that man is the victim of a false consciousness from which he must be freed to achieve fulfillment, their diagnoses were built on very different principles. For Marx, that which is hidden from reason is the exploitive reality of the social system. Culture--"ideology" [. . .]--intervenes between reason and reality to mask the operation of invidious class interest. . . . For Freud, that which is hidden from reason is the content of the unconscious mind. Culture plays its part in the deception not as a mask concealing social reality, but rather as a screen on which the psyche projects itself in a grand repertory of "sublimations." [. . .] There we have the issue. Is the psyche, as Marx would have it, a reflection of "the mode of production of material life"? Or is the social structure, as Freud argued, a reflection of our psychic contents?(84-85)

     

    What is power, then? Social super structure, or father figure projected by the unconscious? Philosophically, the issue raises the question of the locus of reality; politically, it poses the question of how liberation is to be achieved: by social or psychic revolution? Marcuse’s answer to these questions is that power is both a reality and a fiction: accordingly, he tries to develop a radical social critique out of the psychoanalytic assumption that power may be, after all, a projection, a myth. Significantly enough, this Freudian turn moves American radicalism away from Marxist de-subjectification and, in a very Emersonian way, puts the accent upon those “tendencies that have been attenuated in the post-Marxian development of his critique of society [Marx’s, in his first writings], namely, the elements of communistic individualism.”15

     

    Marcuse’s social critique hinges on the notion of “alienation.” For Marcuse, “alienation” does not have any of Marx’s (or Hegel’s) connotations. Alienation is no longer a locus between labor and exploitation, but rather a disease that is rooted inside human beings. What the psychiatrist knows is that alienation results from acts of repression: the patient “forgets” his/her own construction of symbolic structures that the analytic anamnesis should re-present. Marcuse emphasizes the primacy of consciousness in social changes: the subject must be conscious of his/her own projections; s/he must recognize, in other words, that “power” is nothing else than the re-presentation of an Oedipal complex Eros viii ff.). The impossibility, or blockage, is only a psychic construction, a story.

     

    I will discuss the Oedipal strategy of postmodern sublime, based on Freud’s notion of “anal character,” in the next section. To bring the current section to a conclusion, let me notice how Marcuse’s social critique bears powerfully on postmodern narrative. Larry McCaffery’s The Metafictional Muse provides a neat summary of how postmodern narrative can produce an anamnesis of the artificial construction of overpowering structures of “reality”:

     

    In examining the concept of man-as-fiction-maker, [postmodern works] deal with characters busily constructing systems to play with or to help them deal with their chaotic lives. Some of these systems are clearly fictional in nature: we observe writers trying to create stories, men struggling to break the hold of mythic patterns, desperate people inventing religious explanations for a terrible catastrophe. . . . Yet, [postmodern narrative] is filled with hints that other, less obviously artificial systems--such as mathematics, science, religion, myth, and the perspectives of history and politics--are also fictional at their core. . . . [T]here exists a tension between the process of man creating his fictions and his desire to assert that his systems have an independent existence of their own. . . . [T]his tension typically results in man losing sight of the fictional basis of his systems and eventually becoming trapped within them.(25-26)

     

    The postmodern subject is thus the locus (maybe all-too literally a rhetorical topos) of consciousness; consciousness of the fictional nature of overpowering structures will finally allow the subject to imagine new plots, new stories, new lives to be told. Let us think, in this context, of Coover’s maneuver in “Aesop’s Forest”: the imaginative power of the narrator is here absolutely impaired by the presence of his grand precursor–Aesop. Facing such an overpowering presence, the narrator can only cite the stories already told by the genius–Aesop. But, as the scholar well knows, “Aesop” is only “a fictional construct . . . [a] biography . . . reconstructed to satisfy the Greek requirement, according to which all genres should have an inventor” (Chenetier 97). The overpowering presence that impairs the subject turns out to be a mere fiction! As Borges would put it, “[t]he fact is that every writer creates his own precursor.”16 The blockage–the death–may be overcome by consciousness, thus uplifting the subject as the true crafter of his/her own narration. In this moment of sublime release, the dejecta membra are re-composed into subjective expression: “Orpheus, dismembered, continues to sing” (Hassan, Dismemberment 45).

     

    …You see, dear reader, how, step by step, singing along, citing, arguing, implying, yawning, digesting what has been already said, apologizing, we go on together from section to section! We are already at the end of the second section, and one hour ago the first one did not even exist yet. You see, this is the mystery and joy of the excremental sublime. There was a great silence, nothing that we could say to each other, no new story we could entertain each other with. In truth, you did not even exist, and neither did I. There was nothing, not even the excremental sublime. Maybe only the embarrassing feeling of something that we wanted to say. And then, in this silence, a voice is heard, a voice that I want to compare to the growling of the bowels after a meal long retained, and the voice becomes stronger, and the story bigger, and nothingness a logorrhea…. Maybe it was in this way that the world we live in was created–from the unintentional digestion of an apple….

     

    … Well, I was happy to find ourselves at the end of the second section, but now I am losing myself in superfluous details. And so, let us jump into our third section….

     

    The Postmodern Subject: An Epiphany Of Sorts

     

    I think of myself as a lyrical socialist,which makes about as much sense, given the world we live in, as being an anal-retentive anarchist with a bomb in his hand.

     

    –Robert Coover, Whatever Happened to Gloomy Gus of the Chicago Bears?

     

    “All aesthetics has its root in repressed anal erotism,” the psychoanalyst says (Ferenczi 325). All writing, on le sait!, engages in some sort of coprophiliac activity. Yet the paradigm of blockage and release that we have followed so far seems to suggest that the process —the movement from retention to release–is far more important, for the postmodern Muse, than the final excremental result. It is this process, after all, that structures the intensity of postmodern narrative–a process of digestion of old and mythical structures that will indefinitely defer the production of an ultimate (fecal) meaning. In this sense, even the postmodern subject will be, as Altieri has already told us, a “process,” rather than a simple excremental left-over of our times.17 It is a subject, as Kathy Acker’s Don Quixote has it, that resists “capitulation to social control. . . . [t]o letting our political leaders locate our identities in the social” (18), and that continually refuses to end its manipulations and digestion into visible social signs. It is a subject, in other words, that finds in the process defined above as excremental sublime its locus and only raison d’etre.

     

    Another way to define this process, and thus identify our subject, is of course through Freud’s notions of “anal retentiveness” and “anal character”:

     

    they [anal characters] seem to have been among those who refuse to empty the bowel when placed on the chamber, because they derive an incidental pleasure from the act of defecation.("Character" 28; emphasis mine)

     

    Anal retention aims at finding “an incidental pleasure” in the moment of eventual defecation. Pleasure is “incidental” to actual defecation, since it belongs more properly to the process of retention and release. Such process is also, as the quoted passage suggests, an Oedipal strategy, that is, a refusal of the Law imposed by authority. If defecation is a pleasure, this pleasure cannot accept any external imposition or constraint: the subject must decide when, where, and how, this pleasurable activity shall take place. Freud supplements the passage quoted above with a footnote which better highlights the Oedipal refusal of a super-imposed Law (i.e., the wish of the nurse) which tries to regulate defecation according to social (i.e., non-pleasurable) norms; the footnote runs like this:

     

    It is one of the best signs of later eccentricity or nervousness if an infant obstinately refuses to empty his bowel when placed on the chamber, that is, when the nurse wishes, but withholds this function at his own pleasure. Naturally it does not matter to the child if he soils his bed; his only concern is not to lose the pleasure incidental to the act of defecation.("Character" 29; emphasis mine)

     

    The fact that Freud confers on the anal character the quality of an “obstinacy [which] may amount to defiance, [and] with which irascibility and vindictiveness may easily be associated” (“Character” 28) should not pass unnoticed. The most distinctive traits of the anal character seem therefore to be those of a rebellious, almost anarchic energy; its main qualities, much more than “parsimony” and “order,” seem to be, as Freud’s essay on “Character and Anal Erotism” has it, “obstinacy,” “vindictiveness,” and “eccentricity.” Dispositions, in other words, which defiantly refuse social order. It is worth noting that Freud, in Civilization and its Discontents, singles out in anal retention a “most remarkable” strategy for the “sublimation” of a particular kind of subjectivity, that is, an “original personality, which is still untamed by civilization and may thus become the basis . . . of hostility to civilization” (43). Thus, an “anal character” is the sublimation of an anti-social impulse, and the anal-retentive character might well be identified with Coover’s “anal-retentive anarchist with a bomb in his hand”: s/he who survives a repressive society by disrupting its order, and by transforming its Law into pleasurable fecal signs.

     

    In this ironic negativity, in this reduction to a metabolic process, Lentricchia’s “radical subject” and “disappointed intellectual” seems to have been re-membered and brought back to life after a digestive nap; social reality has been redeemed from Debord’s consumer conformism, Jameson’s schizophrenia, and Habermas’s indifference.

     

    “But,” the fairy-tale reads, “there’s always a ‘but’”. . . . Like Barthelme’s “angel,” my reader might be overtaken, at this point, by some fundamental questions (the question of angels in postmodern discourse has a considerable history, from Barthelme to Wim Wenders): Is redemption a mere narrative practice? Is the sublimation of the subject a mere narrative freedom resulting from the disruption of notions such as “essence,” arche, and “representation”? Furthermore: what kind of hopes can we draw from a narrative that resolves any signification to excrementality? Will digestion resist the inevitable commodification of our lives? Will we prevent society from reducing our selves to excremental left-overs? Henry Kariel, in The Desperate Politics of Postmodernism, woefully remarks that “we resist . . . by telling a story, by producing narratives that elaborately depict the drift of events as the sublime unfolding of the inevitable” (117). But what besides these stories and ephemeral resistance? What changes in “real life,” or in the real life of our postmodern subjectivities–those wonderful entelechies of creation? However puzzling the term “real” may sound in the context of a postmodern condition, the doubt cannot be repressed; the angel, unaccustomed to doubt, falls into despair: “Redemption is a fucking fiction anyway,” Gravity’s Rainbow admonishes us; “It’s all shit anyway,” Coover’s forest resounds. Maybe Cornelius Castoriadis is right in his jeremiad on “Post-Modernism as Generalized Conformism”: even this allegory of the postmodern subject as excremental practice may be the, albeit sublime, manifestation of “the pathetic inability of the epoch to conceive of itself as something positive” (14). Moreover, as Yudice admonishes, it is difficult to discern any political relevance–if not Coover’s anal-retentive “anarchism”–in these narratives of subjective redemption:

     

    The aesthetics accompanying current analyses of eating disorders tend to celebrate the individual body, thus not posing any challenge to the Right or Liberalism. We need an aesthetics that instills the values of the social body.("Transcendent Body" par. 36)

     

    Undoubtedly, angels should start looking forward for a more “concrete” strategy of survival, a radical praxis that does not act only in the sacred wood of literary theory and in the groves of subjectivity, but also in the doomed world of production. Until then, postmodern theory and narrative will play the role of praxis while praxis has no more role to play.

     

    Today that postmodernism, as Hassan pontificates (in Selves At Risk) is at its dusk–or is it an ironic dusk preparing for another rebirth? Today that postmodernism seems on the verge of its ultimate exhaustion, it is likely that we should surrender to the ultimate impossibility of reconstituting radical politics according to excremental practices. Probably, the postmodern sublime is today an untenable strategy even for real subjects’s survival. Linda Hutcheon, among many, advocates the necessity of going beyond postmodernism, of “using” it to “exceed” it: “Postmodernism manipulates, but does not . . . (re)construct the structures of subjectivity . . . [we] may use postmodern strategies of parodic inscription and subversion in order to initiate the deconstructive first step, but [we] do not stop therePolitics 168; emphasis mine). Postmodernism is dead! Long live postmodernism! (But isn’t there a sense of deja vu in Hutcheon’s forest? What is this initiation about?). Today, failure faced, one feels that new doors must be open, new strategies found, new steps taken, new paths trodden. Let us finally digest postmodernism!

     

    . . . With a sense of deep elegy, a feeling of nausea and an unbearable burden in my constipated stomach, I conclude this paper with Robert Coover, postmodern Virgil, with whom my own quest begun:

     

    THIS ACT IS CONCLUDED
    THE MANAGEMENT REGRETS THERE WILL
    BE NO REFUND.(Pricksongs 256)

    Notes

     

    1. See Max F. Schulz, Radical Sophistication, esp. 198 ff.

     

    2. See Franco La Polla, Un posto nella mente: il nuovo romanzo americano.

     

    3. Frank Lentricchia, Ariel and the Police: Michel Foucault, William James, Wallace Stevens (Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1988), 96-97; on the notion of postmodernism as “aesthetic of self-formation” see also George Yudice, “Marginality and the Ethics of Survival.”

     

    4. Robert Coover, “Interview with Larry McCaffery,” 68. In a slip of the tongue Coover seems to echo Sigmund Freud: Life, as we find it, is too hard for us; it brings to us too many pains, disappointments, and impossible tasks. In order to bear it we cannot dispense with palliative measures. “We cannot do with auxiliary constructions,” Theodor Fontane tells us. . . . But one can do more than that; one can try to re-create the world, to build up in its stead another world in which its most unbearable features are eliminated and replaced by others…. (Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents 22 and 28)

     

    5. Robert Coover, “Aesop’s Forest” 82; see also Hassan’s metaphorization of postmodernism in the terms of the Orpheus’s myth, in The Dismemberment of Orpheus.

     

    6. Coover’s active participation in Aesop’s lynching cannot pass unnoticed in the shift from “They’ll be here soon,” (75), referring to the Delphians, to the final “We set him [Aesop] on his bendy legs and stepped back, blocking any possible escape” (81).

     

    7. On the centrality of Bentham’s notion of “necessary fiction” in American narrative, see Guido Carboni, La finzione necessaria; see also Fred Pfeil, Another Tale to Tell.

     

    8. Maxine Hong Kingston, The Woman Warrior: Memories of a Girlhood among Ghosts (New York: Vintage, 1989), 88 and 90. For the symbology of the ghosts as essence of patriarchy, see Sidonie Smith, “Maxine Hong Kingston’s Woman Warrior: Filiality and Woman’s Autobiographical Storytelling.” Notably within feminism, “big eating” seems to counteract what Kim Chernin has called “the tyranny of slenderness” imposed on women by patriarchy; on this issue, see Kim Chernin, The Obsession. Reflections on the Tyranny of Slenderness, and Susan Bordo, “Reading the Slender Body.”

     

    9. Jean Baudrillard, “The Obese,” Fatal Strategies; on the way food industry may re-code gastronomic excess into consumerism, see Warren Belasaco, Appetite for Change: How the Counterculture Took On the Food Industry. 1966-1988.

     

    10. In postmodern narrative, “[c]haracters become the passive receptors of phenomena from outside; they become all ears, listening to the sounds of voices, noises from the street, literary parodies and emulations, music . . . compulsion to repeat” (Poirier 9); anticipating for a moment, I would like to paraphrase Lacan, in order to individuate in the “repetition compulsion” an ironic (“reversal”) mode of affirmation of the subject in history but as difference from history: [the repetition compulsion] has in view nothing less than the historizing temporality of the experience of transference, so does the death instinct essentially express the limit of the historical function of the subject. This limit is death–not as an eventual coming-to-term of the life of the individual, nor as the empirical certainty of the subject, but, as Heidegger’s formula puts it, as that “possibility which is one’s ownmost, unconditional, unsupersedable, certain and as such indeterminable (unberholbare)” . . . This limit represents the past in its real form, that is to say, not the physical past whose existence is abolished, nor the epic past as it has become perfected in the work of memory, nor the historic past in which man finds the guarantor of his future, but the past which reveals itself reversed in repetition. (“The Function and Field of Speech and Language in Psychoanalysis” in Ecrits 103; emphasis mine).

     

    11. Bove, Destructive Poetics 37. Examples of this break with genealogy: the abortion at the beginning of Kathy Acker’s Don Quixote; the illegitimate child at the beginning of Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior.

     

    12. References are to Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Judgement 90-94.

     

    13. See Hayden White, “The Politics of Historical Interpretation: Discipline and Desublimation.”

     

    14. Charles Altieri, in “From Symbolist Thought to Immanence,” stresses the importance of Keats’s notion of “negative capability” in the context of American postmodern poetics; he traces a genealogy from Keats to Olson.

     

    15. Herbert Marcuse, Reason and Revolution, 294-295; another exemplary case of the psychoanalytic turn of Marxism into “Marxist Humanism” is certainly Erich Fromm, Marx’s concept of Man.

     

    16. Jorge Luis Borges, “Kafka and his Precursors,” 201; Borges’s own emphasis. Also Tony Tanner: “[postmodern writers suggest that] the plots men see may be their own inventions” City of Words 156).

     

    17. Charles Altieri, “From Symbolist Thought to Immanence”; but is this idea of self-as-process a novelty of postmodernism? Identity as a process of self-creation is, after all, a Jungian idea. James Olney confirms: “Like the elements, individual man never is but is always becoming: his self, as C.J. Jung will say some twenty-five hundred years after Heraclitus–nor did man change much in the interim–is a process rather than a settled state of being” (James Olney, Metaphors of Self 27). And so, postmodernism is once again repeating the old, isn’t it? And yet, John Paul Russo comments on Olney’s passage, “[i]t is hard to reconcile the two sides of this sentence: on one hand man is ‘always becoming.’ On the other, man has not changed ‘much’ in two and a half millennia” (John Paul Russo, “The Disappearance of the Self” 22).

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